However Do You Want Me... || Chenford / The Rookie

Part 15

He leans down, shifting his hand to tangle into the hair at the back of her head and pull her in closer, and then the exit door from the club is banging open behind them, and they are scrambling apart from each other, the moment broken as the other cast members and crew pour out of the bar and head toward the shuttle in a cloud of drunken chaos.

And as much as he wants to finally kiss her, to reassure her that she is and has been more, much more, than just his rookie for a very long time, Tim is deeply relieved for the interruption.

Deeply relieved that they aren't going to have this moment in an alley that stinks of piss and garbage. Deeply relieved that they aren't going to have this moment when he's not even sure they'll both remember it in the morning. Deeply relieved they aren't going to have this moment when he's not entirely certain it's a moment they should be having at all.

He grabs Lucy's hand as they walk to the shuttle, giving it a quick squeeze, still grateful that he's managed to escape the unexpected interrogation, but not wanting her to feel like he hasn't heard her, doesn't care about how she feels.

And for as bogged down as Tim feels by their exchange, Lucy seems to have put it behind her, back to being happy and giggly and drunk on the shuttle ride back from the club — fingers wrapped around his bicep as she leans her head on his shoulder, head buried in his chest as she laughs, and hand casually resting on his thigh as she chatters away with others on the bus — acting almost... almost like they're together, a couple.

Not behind closed doors, not under the cover of darkness, but out here in the open for everyone to see.

And despite the fact that he's spent the day acting very much the same — being unabashedly affectionate and playful and flirty with her — Tim can feel himself withdrawing, shutting down, not because he doesn't love every second of being close to her, but because he's suddenly hyper-aware of how it looks to the people around them, of how it will look on camera, and of how things have gotten so upside down between them that the justification for their choices has lost all meaning.

And then there's also the inconvenient fact that her pointed questions — still playing over and over in his head like a broken record on repeat, her wake-up call from this pseudo-reality they've been living in — have managed to confirm one very real and very scary truth for him.

He loves her.

He is head over heels in love with her. He loves everything about her.

He loves her smile; the way she sasses him; those moments she catches him completely off guard, looking up at him with such complete and total trust when he is least expecting it.

He loves the way her hair waves, silky soft under his fingers; the sound of her laughter, even when it's at his expense; the endless reservoir of kindness and compassion that is woven into the very fabric of her tiny little person.

He loves her quick wit; the bold fearlessness with which she lives her life, even if that means leaping before she looks like she did tonight; and the ferocity with which she unapologetically loves.

He loves her.

He swallows, not filled with the light, airy feeling of falling in love that's had him floating for most of the day, but instead weighed down with a sinking feeling of dread.

Because he is not supposed to love her.

This was never supposed to be about love. Love is not what either of them signed up for.

And love might actually be the only thing worse than all of America thinking he hooked up with his rookie.

Because, beyond the damage it will do to them both professionally, love means real feelings, real pain, real heartbreak when whatever this is comes to an end. And he has no doubt that it will come to an end.

Because Lucy, who makes him think of sunshine and bubbles and joy and everything in this world that is too good to last, simply isn't meant to be his.

***

Lucy catches him alone in the shared changing area just as he's finished scrubbing his face later that evening, her hand coming to rest on his bare chest as she corners him, laughing, "What are we doing to further the cause for drought-resistant vegetation tonight, Tim?"

Tim grabs hold of her hand, "Lucy. The cameras," he warns.

The light in her eyes dims slightly as she drops her hand from his chest and takes a step back from him, "Right. Sorry."

Tim swallows, aching with the need to pull her into his arms, to not ever be the reason that any of her joy is diminished.

"Don't be sorry. It's not that I don't want to. It's just — we've both been drinking. Plus, I think the crew may be catching on to us. Maybe we should just focus on getting some actual sleep tonight?" he says softly, hoping it's low enough to be inaudible to the mics in the room.

Lucy stares at him, a brief flicker of hurt flashing in her eyes before she nods, "Of course. Yeah. That makes sense."

Deep down, Lucy knows that he is looking out for her, protecting them both, but somehow that knowledge doesn't make his words sting any less, doesn't make them feel any less like a rejection.

And so when he reaches for her later that night, hand outstretched in the same way he had sought to comfort her that very first night, Lucy turns away, too overwhelmed and too confused to accept the gesture.

And the instant she does, she is certain nothing has ever felt more wrong in her life.

The idea of pulling away from him when all she wants to do is get closer, the idea of possibly being the one to hurt him when all she wants is to protect him, the idea of ever turning her back on him when all she wants is to be the one that will always be there for him, rips through her center with an intensity that she has never felt for anyone before.

And it's then that she knows, with absolute certainty, that she loves him.