The air between them felt heavy, though neither spoke of it. Alastor shifted uncomfortably, his hands in his coat pockets, eyes tracing patterns in the gravel path of Prospect Park.
"So… about earlier," he began, his voice hesitant, the usual sharpness dulled.
Rachel turned to him, her lips parting slightly, but the words seemed to get stuck. She exhaled sharply and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, glancing at the trees swaying softly in the afternoon breeze.
"It was—" she started, then laughed nervously. "I mean, it wasn't anything. Right?"
"Right." Alastor nodded too quickly, his mouth quirking into a tight, fleeting smile. "Not a thing."
For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the distant bark of a dog and the chatter of a passing jogger. Neither dared meet the other's gaze too long.
Rachel's watch beeped softly, pulling her back to reality. She glanced down, then winced. "Damn. I'm on duty in thirty minutes."
"You should go, then," Alastor said, stepping back as though he had suddenly realized how close they'd been standing.
"Yeah." Rachel slung her bag over her shoulder, adjusting the strap with deliberate care. "I guess I'll see you around?"
"Yeah, see you," he replied, his voice quieter now, his words tinged with something neither could name.
She started walking, her boots crunching against the gravel. Alastor stood still, watching her figure retreat into the park's winding paths. His gaze lingered, his brow furrowing slightly, as if he were trying to decipher a puzzle in his own head.
What was this feeling that knotted his stomach and left a strange warmth lingering in his chest? He shook his head, muttering under his breath as though scolding himself, and turned sharply, forcing his legs to move forward.
Rachel, meanwhile, slowed her pace after a few steps, her mind a storm of half-formed thoughts. She stole a glance over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of Alastor's retreating back.
She frowned, her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Get it together," she whispered to herself, turning forward again. But the thought lingered, unspoken and unresolved, as she continued toward the subway.
Both walked away, hearts heavy with words left unsaid, each step pulling them further apart but somehow tethering them closer in their thoughts.
Alastor's footsteps echoed against the pavement as he left the park, the vibrant sounds of Brooklyn dimming as he entered quieter streets. His mind wrestled with the lingering awkwardness of his conversation with Rachel. By the time he reached the apartment, the sky had begun to blush faintly with the approaching evening.
Pushing open the creaky front door, Alastor stepped into the dim hallway. The smell of old wood and faint cologne wafted through the air. He slipped his coat off and tossed it onto the couch before collapsing into his usual spot. He leaned back, rubbing his temples.
After a long moment, he pulled out his phone, his fingers hovering over Jack's name in his contacts. With a sigh, he hit the call button and waited, the ringing sound filling the silence.
The call went unanswered.
He frowned, staring at the phone as the screen returned to his home menu. "What's he up to?" Alastor muttered under his breath, drumming his fingers on the armrest.
Meanwhile, at a grocery store a few blocks away, Jack clocked out of his shift, letting the scanner beep as he punched his ID card. The shoplifting fiasco earlier still replayed in his mind, but his exhaustion faded the moment he stepped outside and saw Hannah waiting for him.
She was leaning against the lamppost, scrolling through her phone. Her loose jacket fluttered in the breeze, and her face lit up when she saw him approach.
"Took you long enough," she teased, slipping her phone into her pocket. "What, did you have to wrestle another shoplifter to the ground?"
Jack smirked. "Nah, just spent ten minutes in the back looking for my dignity after you completely showed me up today."
"Oh, come on," she said, nudging him playfully with her elbow as they started walking down the street together. "You had your heroic moment too. Like, five seconds of it. Tops."
"Five seconds? I'd give myself at least ten."
They both laughed, the sound easy and warm, matching the rhythm of their steps. Their banter continued, neither rushing the conversation or their destination.
"You're ridiculous," Hannah said, shaking her head but grinning all the same.
"Takes one to know one," Jack retorted, his tone light but his eyes soft as they glanced toward her.
The two came to a stop near the edge of a small park. A faint blush rose to Jack's cheeks as the playful energy between them gave way to something quieter, something charged. He shifted his weight, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands.
Hannah tilted her head slightly, her smile fading into something softer. Her gaze flicked briefly to his lips before meeting his eyes again.
"Well?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jack opened his mouth to respond, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, pulling it out to glance at the screen.
"Alastor," he muttered, his brow furrowing slightly.
Hannah raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smirk. "You gonna get that?"
Jack looked at the phone, then back at her. His fingers hovered over the screen before he pressed the decline button, shoving the phone back into his pocket. "It can wait."
Hannah's smirk softened into something more genuine. "Good call."
Jack leaned in, the world around them fading as their golden retriever energy stilled into something more focused. The distance between them closed until—finally—their lips met, tentative at first, then warmer, more certain.
The kiss broke after a moment, and Jack couldn't help but grin as he looked at her. "So… Friday night," he began, his voice still light but tinged with nervousness. "You wanna go on a date with me? Dinner. Just the two of us."
Hannah blinked, her eyes briefly widening in surprise before a smile spread across her face. "Took you long enough to ask." She nudged his arm gently. "Yeah, I'd love to."
Jack let out a soft laugh, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Okay, good. Friday. It's a date."
Hannah nodded, still smiling as they resumed walking. The air between them felt lighter now, even as their hands occasionally brushed against each other.
On the other side, Rachel adjusted her patrol belt as she strode down the familiar stretch of streets in her precinct, her mind drifting to the awkward farewell with Alastor. The sharp crunch of boots on pavement jolted her back to the present. She turned to see a tall figure approaching, his shadow stretching long against the asphalt.
Detective Marlowe.
He was an imposing presence, even in his advancing years. His broad shoulders carried an air of authority, and though his face bore the lines of time and countless cases, his sharp, penetrating eyes seemed to dissect everything in his gaze. The salt-and-pepper beard framed a stern expression, and his weathered hands rested casually in his coat pockets, the dark trench coat swaying slightly with each step.
"Officer Thompson," he greeted, his voice a rich baritone with a gravelly edge.
"Detective Marlowe," Rachel replied, her tone measured.
Marlowe stopped a few feet from her, his keen eyes studying her face as if reading a book. "Thought I'd find you here. Needed to have a word."
Rachel frowned slightly, masking her unease. "Something wrong?"
Marlowe tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. "You tell me."
Rachel crossed her arms, bracing for whatever was coming. Marlowe's hands left his pockets as he took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough to sound personal yet authoritative.
"That old warehouse we raided a few weeks back. You remember?"
Rachel's heartbeat quickened, but she maintained a calm exterior. "Vaguely," she lied.
Marlowe raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as though he'd already caught her. "Right. Vaguely. Well, during the sweep, we found something interesting. A weapon." He let the word hang in the air.
Rachel blinked, her pulse pounding. "A weapon?"
"Not just any weapon," Marlowe continued, his tone casual yet deliberate. "A handgun. Customized. Serial number etched off, but the model was unique. Looked... familiar. Real familiar, Officer Thompson."
Rachel swallowed hard, her mind racing. She kept her face neutral, her voice steady. "Can't say I know anything about it."
Marlowe's eyes narrowed slightly, the way a lion might size up prey. "Funny thing about this gun—it was specifically modified. Grips, trigger sensitivity. Almost like it was made for someone. Someone like you."
Rachel stiffened, her fingers tightening over her arms. "I don't see how that's possible," she said, her voice flat.
Marlowe stepped closer, his presence looming, though his tone never wavered. "You sure about that? I mean, I get it. Cops have their fair share of secrets. But a custom firearm linked to an organization like the Eclipsed Order?"
Rachel felt the ground beneath her shift. The warehouse. Her captivity. Flashes of that nightmare clawed at her memory, but she shoved them down.
"I don't have any ties to them," she said firmly, her eyes meeting his.
Marlowe tilted his head, his gaze piercing. He said nothing, letting the silence gnaw at her composure. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost like a warning. "You're lying."
Rachel flinched but held her ground. "With all due respect, Detective, I have nothing to do with that cult."
Marlowe studied her for a long moment, his sharp eyes catching every flicker of her unease. Then, to her surprise, he took a step back, his expression unreadable.
"Alright," he said, almost too easily. "We'll leave it at that... for now."
Rachel exhaled quietly, her shoulders easing.
"But let me give you some advice, Thompson." Marlowe's tone darkened, his sharp eyes locking with hers. "The truth has a way of coming out, whether you like it or not. I'll be watching."
He turned and walked away without another word, his coat billowing behind him, leaving Rachel standing frozen in place. Her hands balled into fists, her mind swirling with the weight of his words.
She took a shaky breath and forced herself to move, her steps deliberate as she tried to shake the encounter. But even as she walked, she couldn't escape the gnawing feeling that Marlowe wasn't going to let this go.