The rest of the day drags on for what feels like forever. It's an endless flood of paperwork, quick meetings, discussions, shadowing autopsies, and brief meetings in the conference room hosted alongside Pete. I didn't get the short stick, but it sure wasn't the most favorable one. We didn't even finish half of our scheduled autopsies.

As the town grew exponentially over the last few years, so did death and crime rates, and the demand for a larger investigation team rose. I missed my days in the autopsy room, but I'm glad I don't have to feel my nose get set on fire every time I go to work. Now that's someone else's problem, and that someone else started using Vick's way before I did, and he also bought a deodorizing spray. Pete is twice as smart as I am and he still has all five senses.

The driver had no head, and nobody could find it. Nobody could determine what made the cut and where it came from. There were no weapons in either vehicle, and no personal possessions in the minivan. The mustang had suitcases and duffel bags, which belonged to the two people beside it. They were heading out for a relaxing weekend, but they never made it.

I can't stop thinking about it. Not in a bad way, not like I'm spiraling into obsession, but because it's so strange. Of course I've come into contact with weirder things that are impossible to be upstaged, but this is in the top ten.

I don't have to go in tomorrow, even if there's a break in the case. Everyone I ran into insisted I take an impromptu vacation this week and cash in some of the free days I'd saved up. I don't think I can. I'm missing dozens of pieces to the puzzle. It's comforting to know it's not just me that can't find the pieces, but it's frustrating all the same.

The driver had no head. The driver had no head. The driver had no head. The driver —

"Hey. Are you going to sit in the car for another half hour, or are you going to come inside and have some dinner?" Brendon taps at the window. His phone flashlight shines through the glass and directly into my eyes. "If you aren't going to eat it, I will. And I will not make you anything else."

I feel like I just woke up from a nap. "What's for dinner?"

"I made pasta."

"Pesto sauce?"

"Yeah."

"For me?"

"No. It's for your evil twin that we keep chained up in the attic. You know, the one that the doctors had to surgically remove from you when you were a baby? He can still taste things properly. And he appreciates the smell of my cooking."

"Oh, yeah. I don't know how I forgot about that. God, he's so much better than I am."

I blink a few times to clear the light from my eyes. He turns off the flashlight and jiggles the door handle. It takes a second for me to find the button to unlock the car.

The door swings open and he grabs my arm to pull me out. He's impatient, as usual, and it's cold outside. He's wearing sweatpants but has unfortunately chosen a short sleeved shirt to wear in thirty degree weather.

"I'm so sorry. Work took forever." I mumble and follow him inside. He grabs my badge and keys out of the cupholder for me, leaving the rest of my junk tucked under the passenger seat. Nobody would want to steal anything in my car anyways. "I think I'm going to get a third arm attached to my body so I can fill out paperwork quicker."

Brendon nudges the front door open with his foot. I'm hit with a wall of warm air that feels like everything right in the world. "Is that what took you so long? I thought you were the master of paperwork."

"I am," I shut and lock the door behind us, "it was the autopsy shadowing that held me up. All six of 'em. My paperwork skills were hindered."

Brendon drops my badge and keys in the glass bowl we keep on the shelves mounted to the wall. Picture frames are scattered across the levels, spanning back almost a decade in time. There is also a sculpture of a fish I made when I was fourteen. It's out of place, but it is there.

"That is disgusting," he says and scrunches his nose like Taylor, "but at least you weren't the one performing the autopsies, right? I hope? I think that's what it means to shadow an autopsy. I don't know. I should probably know by now."

We pass by our cat Sushi sleeping on the dining room table and into the kitchen. A white bowl sits on the marbled countertop, filled with pasta. The only lights that are on are above the main counter, leaving the kitchen table and the pantry in near darkness. I can barely see the calendar and coffee machine from across the room.

I finish half the bowl before I even think about responding. Lunch was so long ago. "No, but it was a pretty gnarly scene, so I needed to stick around and watch in case anything happened. I only watched the external analyses. Haven't even started on a few."

He rests his elbows on the counter and sticks around while I try to eat as much as I can as fast as possible so I can finally sit down and not have to worry about discussing anymore dead bodies. Couch time is relaxing time. "That's pretty crazy. What else did you do today?"

"Talked with the new officer, Josh. He asked why I haven't accepted any promotions yet."

"I remember who he is. And you told him...?"

"I told him that I was happy here. With my job. With my life. With you." I shrug it off but he smiles. "Got to eat the lunch you packed before I went to see the autopsies. It was very much appreciated."

"That's good. I hoped you would like it."

"Loved it, as usual. I also made post-it note paper airplanes while I was waiting for Taylor to bring me the first wave of paperwork. It was kind of fun."

"That certainly sounds like it was fun."

I have to pause mid-bite because I think he's being sarcastic, but he really isn't. I'm face to face with a look of absolute adoration for investigating crime scenes, analyzing dead bodies, and folding little paper airplanes in my downtime. "Don't look at me like that."

"You amaze me." He sighs like he's caught in a dream.

"You amaze me." The empty bowl clatters on the counter. "This was really good. What's for dinner tomorrow?"

It doesn't taste like anything groundbreaking, but he doesn't have to know that. Nothing tastes outlandishly different since I lost my sense of smell, but he doesn't have to know that. He really doesn't have to know that.

He takes the bowl, sets it in the sink, and we head upstairs together. Three blankets are nearly folded on the bottom step, and there's a new potted plant sitting on the landing shelf. Now we have a total of six plants, six more than we need. The carpet had been vacuumed earlier today based upon the patterning, but the picture frames tacked up the staircase are still coated in a thin layer of dust.

"I think you mean breakfast. Taylor called the house phone an hour before you got back." He crosses his arms. "You're clocking out for a few days."

"No, I'm not. I should go back tomorrow." Great. Now that Brendon knows I'm not supposed to be going back out, there is no way in hell I'll be able to leave the house on my own. He's hidden my car keys once and my access badge twice, and I wouldn't doubt he would do either again.

The picture frames on the mantle are clean and have been dusted for the first time in a long time. I can tell even with the dim light shining from the bedroom.

"No." Brendon says. I wait for an explanation or a lecture, but that's all.

"What happened to me being amazing? My job is cool. I bring home the bacon. I come back with cool stories I'm legally not allowed to talk about but I do anyways because I love you."

Brendon sighs and goes digging through the dresser. He throws an old olive green shirt over his shoulder for me, followed by a pair of grey sweatpants. "You can tell me every detail of today over breakfast tomorrow. Please take the day off tomorrow?"

Before I can reaffirm that I'm going back in the morning, he grabs my wrist and yanks me down on top of the covers. "I still have a mound of paperwork the size of Mount Everest."

"That can wait. Everything you're telling me about can wait."

I try to roll out of bed but I just get pulled back in. "No, it can't. Can you let me change? I'm ready to sleep."

Brendon shakes his hand and puts all of his weight down on me. I guess I'll be sleeping in jeans. "I missed you so much."

"Love, I was home yesterday." An attempt to push him off brings no relief. Resistance is futile. "You're going to crush me."

"Home for two hours," he mutters into the crook of my neck, "gone for four days before that. Did I ever tell you that I hate your schedule? Who's bright idea was it to make your precinct layout like a college sorority house? I hate your schedule."

I manage to hook one arm around him to flip him off of me, but I can't bring myself to get up anymore. "Only a thousand times a day."

"God," he sighs, "I wish you didn't have to leave for such a long time. Fuck you for being so smart."

"Hey, Taylor did tell you she would look into getting you a job at the front desk if you wanted it. Then I could stop by and see you all the time."

He rolls his eyes. We both know well enough that he can't even stomach to watch the news some times, let alone have the guts to work a day job around death. "Fantastic. I have a college degree and that will get me a luxurious job as a receptionist."

"Shouldn't have gotten a journalism degree."

"I know, right? What a waste of time, money, and brain cells." He rolls over on to his back and shakes his head. "I knew I should've studied chemistry."

"No offense, but you aren't good at science."

"Nobody is good at science except for you. Literally nobody."

"...Stephen Hawking. Bill Nye. The people from Forensic Files. Whoever invented instant ramen cups. Marie Curie was pretty important."

Brendon purses his lips to suppress a smile. "You no longer amaze me. You annoy me."

Just before he can turn away and pretend to sulk, I grab him and pull him back on top of me. He doesn't fight against the hug. "Naw, c'mon. I know you love me. I love you."

He breaks into a sly grin and leans back into me, locking my arms together around his waist. "Prove it."

"I don't have to prove what you already know," I pull him closer regardless of the tension, "besides, I'm exhausted. Too tired to do anything tonight."

He tilts his head back and rests his temple against my neck. Thank you, god.

"You know that isn't what I meant. I'm thinking about what you can prove to me tomorrow." He says. Never mind, god. I had my hopes up with the idea he'd let my impromptu vacation slip out of sight and out of mind.

"I'm not staying home tomorrow."

He lets out a discontented sigh. "Can I come into work with you then?"

"You? Coming with me to examine corpses as if you'd be allowed to be there in the first place? Funny joke." Just when we had strayed away from the topic weighing heavy on my mind, we returned.

"What do I have to do to convince you to stay?" Brendon's fingers trail lightly across my forearms. "Please? I'll do, like, anything."

"No you won't. I know exactly what you would never do." The vague argument does nothing to compromise our position. I assume he's not actually upset, just persistent and demanding.

"Oh, really? Like what?"

"Cook me steak, you fucking vegetarian."

"Lovely nickname. Besides, I can cook steak, I just won't eat it. I am an excellent chef. My main point of concern is that you wouldn't be able to smell it and fully appreciate it, you... you fuckin'... wonderful human being."

Excuses, excuses. "What if I asked you to go to Paris with me? Tomorrow morning?"

"Pft," I can practically feel him roll his eyes, "I would totally do that. I've always wanted to go to France."

"On an airplane?"

"I didn't say that. I don't want to talk about that." His fingers slide up my arm into my hair, a distraction from the distraction, all while attempting to stray away from his irrational fear of flying. "But I know what we can talk about..."

"Our student loan debt."

"Oh, you know just what to say," I can feel his breathy laughter and captivating smile against my jaw, "tell me more."

"We're in so much fucking debt, it'll take another decade to pay it off, maybe even more. I spent more on my degree than what I make in five years. Every time the cat claws apart the couch and we have to replace it, we fall further into the rabbit hole of debt."

"Oh, yes, keep talking."

"The government is monitoring us to ensure we don't cheat on our payments. The FBI agents assigned to watch over us are terrified by the size of the checks we write." 

"That's hot."

"So hot," I agree and lean over to whisper in his ear, "so hot, that I might just go to work tomorrow."

He stops playing with my hair, draws his hand out of mine, and peels himself halfway off my chest to shoot me the dirtiest look known to man. "I am going to flush the car keys down the toilet and wait until tomorrow to even think about replacing them."

I know he's not kidding. I have no choice but to tighten my grip around him and pray he doesn't try to bite me. "And put us further into debt? I'd like to see you try."

I brace myself for a tussle, but nothing comes. Brendon sits there, holding on to my wrists, staring at the wall. It's eerie, but I believe he's just stuck in contemplation.

I sit up but he doesn't make an effort to move or fight back. "Love, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

"If I win," he says slowly, "then you stay home tomorrow, and the day after that. If you win, then you can go to work for the next few days and I won't pester you about it."

I rest my chin on his shoulder. "We don't have to wrestle over it. We aren't fighting about something like this."

"Well, we do have to argue about it because you obviously don't want to stay home and spend time with me. You know I'll always be supportive of whatever you choose to do, even if it is investigating dead bodies and crime scenes." He shudders just at the thought of my job. I wish he would take up a job at reception, but I know he couldn't do it. No matter how fascinated he pretends to be, I know my job freaks him out.

"And I'll always be supportive of what you do, Brendon. I'm sorry if my job is so demanding, but you know I make the time for you when I can. Right now, I just can't. There are six bodies sitting in the morgue right now. These are special circumstances."

"Look, really, I don't mind when you're gone for so long because you always come back, and you're always helping people in some weird, backwards way. I just miss you, okay?"

I'm not angry, in fact I'm the furthest thing from angry, but I can't help the annoyance seeping into my voice. I know he misses me, but there's nothing I can do when there's a decapitated corpse sitting on a metal table. "You don't think I know that? What, do you think I go to work every day just to get away from you?"

"No, I don't. I didn't fucking say that, okay? I just miss you. Like, a lot. I miss you a lot. And I know you love me because you tell me every five minutes even if you don't say it aloud, but sometimes it doesn't feel like you miss me like I miss you."

I turn my gaze away from the wall to the bedside table. The digital clock has an alarm set for seven in the morning, the usual time for me to roll out of bed and prepare to head in for work. Brendon watches out of the corner of his eye when I reach to turn it off.

"I have fourteen photos of you and I in my office," I mutter lowly, just loud enough so that he can hear, "I keep all the notes you pack with lunch and stick them in a little notebook. You're my desktop wallpaper, even though we get in trouble if we change it. I keep your favorite chips in a bag behind my file cabinet in case you ever drop in for a surprise visit. If I could still smell, I'd probably steal whatever cologne you wear so I could spray it on everything I own."

"I don't wear cologne anymore because you burned the receptors in your nose to a crisp. There is no longer a significant use for it."

"I burned the receptors in my nose trying to make some money to go towards paying off our debt."

He cracks into a smile again, and I suddenly feel a lot better. "Most of that is yours. I had a scholarship."

"So did I. My scholarship was better than yours."

"No, mine was. Granted I was still paying a shit ton of money, but I had the bigger scholarship."

I tighten my arms around him again and fall backwards on to the bed, taking Brendon with me. A wave of exhaustion hits me like a train. "Can't we argue about this tomorrow?"

"We can do anything you want tomorrow."

"Anything?" I ask.

"Anything." He curls into me and lets out a soft sigh. "Absolutely anything."

"I don't want to do anything tomorrow. Or the day after that."

"That sounds perfect." He says.

"But can we have tacos tomorrow night? I want tacos."

"That sounds even better."