Page 48 of Beckett
But the careful distance he maintained felt like a wall between us. Every time I tried to catch his eye, he found something urgent that needed attention elsewhere.
I understood PTSD. Todd had carried his own shadows after his military service, though his had been quieter, more controlled. Late-night pacing. The occasional nightmare that lefthim sitting on the couch at three a.m., staring at nothing. The way certain sounds—backfiring cars, sudden loud noises—made him go rigid for just a second before forcing himself to relax.
But Todd had talked about it. Not often, not easily, but he’d let me in enough to help when I could. Made sure I knew it wasn’t about me when he needed space. Beckett, though—Beckett had locked himself away completely since yesterday’s episode, and I was done pretending it didn’t matter.
And at this point, hell, I definitely had PTSD of my own. A year of being chased by a stalker would do that to you. It wasn’t the same as what Beckett and Todd had seen or gone through, but my own trauma was definitely there.
The chicken breast flattened under my mallet with satisfying thuds. Each strike released the scent of raw meat and the memory of Todd teaching me to tenderize properly. “It’s therapy,” he’d said, grinning. “Cheaper than a shrink and you get dinner after.”
Oil crackled in the pan, hot enough to sear. Through the window, Beckett’s training session ended. He’d be in soon and wasn’t expecting me here in the guest house, but I wasn’t going to let that cause me to chicken out. Literallyorfiguratively.
Jet pressed against my leg, a warm, solid weight that anchored me to the present. His tail beat a steady rhythm against the cabinet, while drool pooled on the linoleum.
“Not for you, buddy.” But my hand found his ears anyway, needing the comfort of his fur between my fingers. “Though you’d probably appreciate it more than Beckett will.”
Sure enough, a few minutes later, heavy boots sounded on hardwood, that measured stride I’d memorized despite myself. Jet’s tail went into overdrive, but he stayed pressed against me—torn between his trainer and his person.
“Audra?” Surprise colored Beckett’s voice, chased by a warmth he immediately suppressed. “What are you doing here?”
I kept my back to him, sliding the last piece of breaded chicken into the oil. The sizzle and pop filled the silence. “Making dinner. Hope you’re hungry.”
The floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight. I could feel him calculating escape routes, searching for polite excuses. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I wanted to.” I turned, meeting his gaze directly. He’d showered off outside. His hair was still a little damp. Those gray eyes—not storm-colored today but more like river stones, worn smooth by too much pain. “This was Todd’s favorite meal. His reset button, he called it. Figured you could use a reset after yesterday.”
His expression cracked, just a hairline fracture in all that control. Grief, recognition, and that devastating tenderness he rationed out like water in a drought.
He stepped fully into the kitchen, and I caught his scent. “Todd never mentioned he could cook.”
A laugh bubbled up, unexpected. “He couldn’t. Man once burned water. Literally. Let the pot boil dry and scorched the bottom so bad we had to throw it out. The apartment smelled like melted metal for a week.”
Beckett moved closer, drawn by the normalcy of shared memory. “He never mentioned that in Afghanistan.”
“Of course not. He had a reputation to maintain.” I flipped the chicken, golden crust sizzling. “But he mentioned you. Said you made the best coffee in the unit. Said it was so strong it could wake the dead and strip paint in equal measure.”
“Still do.” His voice had gentled, lost that careful distance. “Though now I mostly use it to wake myself up, not the dead.”
The joke fell flat between us, too close to yesterday’s demons. I focused on layering marinara and mozzarella over the chicken, letting the domestic ritual fill the awkward silence.
“Can I help?”
The question surprised me. I’d expected retreat, not participation.
“Maybe get out plates and set the table?”
We moved around each other like dancers who’d forgotten the steps but still remembered the rhythm. He reached above me for glasses; I ducked under his arm to grab the salad. Our bodies never touched, but the air between us sparked with awareness. Every near miss sent heat skittering across my skin.
“Beer?” He held up two bottles from the refrigerator.
“Please.”
Our fingers grazed during the handoff. That single point of contact shot straight through me, electric and undeniable. His pupils dilated, just for a second, before he turned away.
We settled at the small dining table, the domesticity of it making my chest ache. When was the last time I’d shared a meal without looking over my shoulder? Without checking exits and looking for escape routes?
“This is incredible.” His surprise after the first bite made me smile.
“You sound shocked.”
