If No One Else

ᶜʰᵃᵖᵗᵉʳ ⁵

５.   u n s p o k e n   t r u t h s
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"Can I ask you something?"

I turn toward her, irritation still fresh on my face until I catch the sight of her wiping at red, puffy eyes.

The feelings in my chest leave with an exhale as I give her my attention.

"Depends on what you're asking, Miss Donovan." I say, giving her the chance to figure out that I would most likely not respond.

She scowls. "Will you ever stop calling me that?"

"It's the professional thing to do." I say with a shrug.

"You're an as—" She exhales, catching herself mid-curse. "That's not what I wanted to ask anyway."

"You didn't say you had follow-ups, Chandler," I mutter, shifting my gaze to the dark TV screen.

I swallow hard— I shouldn't have said her name. It stuck heavier than my regret of staying the night.

"Don't be a dickhole about it," she shoots back without thinking. Before muttering, "Sorry."

The silence that follows feels heavier than her words. Normally I'd welcome quiet, but with Chandler, silence doesn't mean peace—it means she's scheming.

And her thoughts? Those are always louder than her voice.

"You wanna watch a movie?" she finally says, casually brushing aside the previous tension.

I let out a small breath I didn't know I was holding. "Sure."

I hate movies. But tonight isn't about me.

She tosses the blanket off and reaches for the remote. "You seem like an action guy, right?"

It's more of a statement than a question. She does that a lot—speaks like she already knows the answer. Truth is, she doesn't. Not about me. But I'm not the type to correct people, especially people I'll probably never see again.

"I'm fine with anything."

"Action it is," she declares, even as she scrolls straight to Netflix and selects a glitzy series instead.

The opening credits of a show called Dynasty roll, and she shoots me a sheepish grin. "Sorry. It's my favorite. There's drama, though—so it counts, Officer."

"Gael. Or Herrera," I remind her, ignoring the way the title Officer makes my chest feel tight.

Officer hadn't felt right since the title had been given to me when I stepped down from my FBI role, and I'm sure it never would. I wasn't sure I ever wanted it to.

She rolls her eyes but corrects herself. "Gael."

She burrows under her blanket, and the show plays, but I'm not watching it.

I'm watching her. I'm watching the time pass by.

I should be doing something—filing a report, chasing down leads, securing her house better than a simple sweep. Instead, I'm sitting on a couch next to the girl who trashed my car and called in what I thought was a fake break-in. Now she's curled up beside me like nothing happened, and I'm just... here.

What the hell was I doing?

"Chan—"

"I'm sorry about your car," she blurts.