❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ THE IMPORTANCE OF A HEARTBEAT ❞

「𝜗𝜚 . ❝ the first lesson he taught her was to keep emotions off the job. the hardest lesson was realizing he couldn't follow his own advice. ❜

𝑁𝑌𝐿𝐴 𝐴𝑁𝐷 Charlotte moved down the halls of the police station with an ease born of familiarity, their steps steady, boots scuffing faintly against the tiled floors. The air smelled faintly of old coffee and cleaning supplies, mingled with the metallic tang that always seemed to cling to places like this.

It was quieter than usual—just the hum of computers and the occasional murmur of voices in the background. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, casting a stark, clinical glow that did little to soften the harsh lines of the space.

They turned a corner, sidestepping a desk cluttered with files, Nyla's posture relaxed but her arms crossed in thought, a slight furrow creasing her brow. Charlotte walked beside her, her hands gesturing occasionally as she spoke, the rhythm of her words quickening as she got to the heart of her frustration.

"I was in college when they found the first victims," Charlotte said, her tone sharp but edged with something quieter—anger, maybe, or disbelief. "It was all anyone talked about—"how could a woman be so barbaric?""

She mocked the words, her voice taking on a bitter edge as she mimicked the commentary she'd heard too often. "Instead of making it about the victims, it became a sexist issue. Like the fact she was a woman mattered more than the lives she ended."

She shook her head, her ponytail swaying slightly with the motion. The memory left a sour taste, and it showed in the way her lips pressed into a tight line, her jaw working as if she wanted to bite back the frustration she felt all over again.

Nyla's gaze flicked toward her rookie, assessing, before she responded. Her voice was measured, calm, but laced with an undercurrent of her own bitterness.

"My colleague worked one of the scenes," she said, her tone steady but heavier now. "Fourth victim—Lisa Cruz. Homicide detectives warned me not to look at the body. Should've listened."

The weight of her words hung in the air between them, the silence punctuated only by the faint buzz of a copier spitting out papers somewhere down the hall.

Charlotte visibly cringed, her shoulders hunching slightly as if trying to shake off the image that Nyla's words painted in her mind. She shivered, rubbing her arms absently, though the chill was entirely internal.

They rounded another corner, and as they did, Charlotte's steps faltered slightly. Her gaze snagged on something—or someone—just ahead. Her heart gave a small leap, and her breath hitched for the briefest moment. Matthew.

He was standing near the edge of the bullpen, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking around as if searching for her. The sight of him sent a rush of relief through her, quickly followed by a mix of warmth and nervous energy that made her palms tingle.

Nyla caught the shift in her rookie almost immediately. Her lips quirked into the faintest of smirks, and she gave Charlotte a subtle nod, a silent encouragement to go to him.

Charlotte murmured a quiet, "Thank you," her voice barely more than a whisper, and with that, she quickened her steps, weaving through the maze of desks and people until she was standing right in front of him.

"Matthew," she breathed, her voice soft but carrying a slight tremor. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. The hug was brief but firm, her fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket before she stepped back just enough to look at him. Her eyes searched his face, taking in the lines of worry etched into his features, the faint stubble along his jaw, the slight downturn of his lips.

"Where'd you go this morning?" she asked, her voice a little quieter now, tinged with a concern she couldn't quite mask.

Matthew exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly under her touch. He leaned down just enough to press a quick kiss to her forehead, the gesture comforting but rushed, as if his mind was elsewhere. "Work," he said simply, his voice low and gravelly. "They called in the middle of the night—short-staffed. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I didn't want to wake you."

Charlotte tilted her head slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line, a small hum escaping her in response. It wasn't exactly an answer, but it was enough for now. Still, something felt off, and the tension in Matthew's posture didn't go unnoticed.

"What's up?" she asked gently, her tone softening as she studied him. "Did you come here to tell me that?"

Matthew hesitated, his eyes flicking away for a moment as he licked his lips nervously. His hands fidgeted in his pockets, his weight shifting from one foot to the other as if trying to find the right words.

Finally, he met her gaze, his expression a mix of worry and apprehension. "I found your brother at our doorstep when I got home," he said, his voice careful, almost hesitant, like he was bracing for her reaction.

The words hit her like a physical blow. For a moment, everything seemed to tilt—her stomach churned, her knees wavered slightly, and a rush of cold swept over her skin. She felt like she might puke, or faint, or simply collapse under the weight of what he'd just said. Her breath hitched, her chest tightening as her mind raced to catch up with the reality he'd just dropped into her lap.

Charlotte froze, her breath catching in her throat as Matthew's words hung heavy in the air. The police station's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above them, casting harsh, pale shadows over their faces. The distant hum of phones ringing and the occasional chatter of officers seemed to recede into an overwhelming silence. For a moment, it felt like time itself had stalled.

"What?" she managed, her voice cracking slightly. A bitter laugh bubbled up, almost involuntarily, as though her body rejected the sheer absurdity of what she'd just heard. It wasn't humor—far from it. Her expression twisted between disbelief and dread, her wide eyes locking onto Matthew's face like he might suddenly reveal it was all some cruel misunderstanding.

"I know," Matthew said gently, his voice steady but his gaze uncertain, as though he were bracing himself for a storm. "But he's in our room, Charlotte. I gave him a fresh set of clothes, got him to drink some water. He seems... okay."

"Okay?" she repeated, her voice rising, laced with a frantic edge that made Matthew wince. "Matthew, my brother hasn't been 'okay' since he was twelve. You think a clean shirt and some water fix that?" Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, as though trying to hold herself together. "He's sick. You don't know what he's capable of. He could be trying to—" Her voice broke. "He could be trying to hurt himself. Right now."

Her words came out like bullets, rapid and sharp, each one landing squarely on Matthew's growing frustration. His shoulders stiffened, and he took a step back, jaw tightening as he looked down at her. "Are you seriously getting mad at me for this?" His tone wasn't angry, exactly—more incredulous, wounded. "I didn't call you because I was handling it. I thought you'd be glad to know he's alive."

Charlotte's mouth opened, then shut. Her brow furrowed, and her lips pressed into a tight line. She looked away, her gaze darting to the polished tile floor beneath their feet. She could see her faint reflection staring back, her face pale and stricken.

The sharp scent of disinfectant clung to the air, mingling with the faint aroma of coffee brewing somewhere nearby. It felt suffocating, her mind spiraling as she replayed his words.

"I'm sorry," she said finally, her voice quieter now, though it trembled with barely contained emotion. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she turned back to Matthew, her expression softening just a fraction. "I just—this—" She let out a shaky breath, trying to form coherent thoughts through the whirlwind of panic and guilt. "It's a lot. My brother showing up out of nowhere, after everything... it's a lot."

Matthew's face softened too, his defensive posture easing as he stepped closer. "I get it," he said quietly.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I should've called you. But, Charlotte, he's not going anywhere. He's alive, and he's waiting for you." He paused, searching her face for a sign she might calm down. "Take a minute, okay? Breathe."

She nodded stiffly, though her breathing remained uneven, shallow. Her thoughts raced—memories of her brother as a kid, the first time he'd been hospitalized, the nights she spent waiting for a call that he'd been found safe.

And the day they told her he was gone, presumed dead, lost to the chaos of his own mind. It had been a grief so sharp, so final, that hearing he was alive now felt like tearing open a wound that had never fully healed.

"I need to see him," she whispered, more to herself than to Matthew.

"Can someone drive you?" Matthew's voice was gentle, but it snapped her out of her spiraling thoughts. She blinked up at him, her lips parting as if she hadn't quite heard the question.

"I'm sorry, baby, you know I would," he continued, his tone apologetic, his brow furrowed with regret. "But they want me back in thirty minutes for another shift. It's absolute chaos back there."

Charlotte nodded, the motion quick and mechanical, her lips pressing into a tight line. "I—I'll find someone," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Before she could say more, she leaned in, pressing a brief, almost desperate kiss to his lips. The contact was fleeting, and then Matthew was gone, striding out through the glass doors with a hurried wave.

The door swung shut with a soft hiss, leaving Charlotte standing there, alone with her thoughts again. Her chest felt tight, her breath uneven as she stared blankly at the desk in front of her. The weight of the last twenty-four hours was crashing down on her, and she felt like she might shatter under it.

Across the room, Nyla stood near the corner, arms crossed as she watched the exchange. Her sharp eyes flicked to Tim, who was moving with purpose, his usual stoic expression cracked just enough to reveal the concern beneath it.

"You shouldn't talk to her right now," Nyla said quietly, her voice calm but firm as Tim brushed past her. He stopped mid-step, turning back to her with a questioning furrow of his brow.

"I wasn't planning on it," he muttered, though his tone lacked conviction. His gaze drifted toward Charlotte, lingering on the way she seemed to fold in on herself, her shoulders trembling faintly as if she were barely holding back tears.

Nyla raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a knowing smirk. "You still care for her," she said matter-of-factly. "I see how you look at her whenever you're training in the gym."

Tim's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as he turned fully to face her. "You always seem to be at the gym when we're there," Nyla continued. "Even when your shift ends early."

The male officer visibly tensed, his mouth opening to protest.

"Save it," Nyla simply said, before her expression softened slightly. "Seriously, Tim. She's barely keeping it together right now. If you're going to talk to her, don't screw it up."

He let out a low sigh, running a hand through his short hair as his gaze flicked back to Charlotte. There was a pause, heavy with indecision, before he squared his shoulders and started toward her.

"She needs this," he muttered under his breath. "Needs... me."

Tim crossed the room in a few long strides, his boots scuffing against the floor. When he reached Charlotte, he didn't speak, didn't give her a chance to refuse him. Instead, he gently grasped her arm, his fingers firm but not forceful as he steered her toward the hallway. Charlotte stumbled slightly, startled, but she didn't resist, her wide eyes searching his face for an explanation he didn't give.

He led her into one of the empty interrogation rooms, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. The room was dimly lit, the fluorescent bulb overhead casting a stark, cold light that made everything feel more sterile and uninviting.

The faint scent of stale coffee lingered here too, mingling with the faint metallic tang of something harder to place—maybe the faint remnants of gun oil or cleaning supplies.

Tim stood in front of her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, his presence steady and grounding in a way she didn't want to admit she needed.

His fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, his hands quick but not rough. Each button undone revealed more of his chest, the familiar sight of his scarred, muscular torso breaking through her chaotic thoughts.

"Tim, what—" she started, her voice shaky, her brows furrowed in confusion.

He didn't answer, at least not with words. Instead, he reached for her hand, his grip firm but gentle, and guided it toward his chest. Her fingers brushed against his warm skin, and she felt the steady thud of his heartbeat under her palm.

The rhythmic pulse was solid, calming, and she instinctively matched her breathing to it, inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, until the tightness in her chest started to loosen just a little.

"Will you tell me what's going on?" Tim asked softly, his voice low and rough around the edges. It wasn't commanding, but there was a weight to it, a quiet insistence that somehow made her feel safe enough to speak.

Charlotte chewed on her bottom lip, her gaze dropping to where her hand rested on his chest. She didn't pull away. She couldn't. The warmth of his skin against her palm was the only thing anchoring her in the moment, keeping her from spiraling completely.

"My...my brother," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. She kept her eyes down, unable to meet his piercing gaze just yet. Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out, each one heavier than the last. "He's been presumed dead for the past five years."

Tim didn't move, didn't say anything, but his hand shifted slightly, his thumb brushing lightly against hers in a subtle gesture of reassurance. She took another shaky breath, the air catching in her lungs before she could steady herself again.

"And now he's...he's in our...my apartment," she continued, the words tumbling out before she realized her slip. Her chest tightened again at the correction. It was Matthew's and hers now, but saying that out loud to Tim felt like crossing some invisible line she wasn't ready to acknowledge.

Tim didn't react to the slip, his expression unreadable, but his thumb stilled, and she swore she felt his heartbeat quicken slightly under her fingertips.

"Jordan," she said after a long pause, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. Her voice cracked slightly as she spoke his name, the sound of it unfamiliar on her tongue after so many years. "He's...he's very mentally ill. Extremely street smart, but..." She hesitated, her brows knitting together as her throat tightened again. "But he's also very, very ill. A danger to himself most of the time."

Her voice broke on the last word, and she bit down hard on her lip to keep herself from crying. Her fingers twitched against Tim's chest, but his hand over hers kept her steady, his thumb resuming its soothing motion. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, heavy and unflinching, as if he were willing her to keep going.

"He escaped from the mental hospital five years ago," she said, her voice barely audible now. "And they...they said he was probably dead. Said he wouldn't survive on his own for this long." Her lips trembled, and she pressed them together, trying to hold herself together. "But now he's...he's just there. In my apartment. Like nothing happened."

Her words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, and the room felt even smaller than before. She closed her eyes, her head falling forward slightly as if the weight of her confession had drained her completely. Tim's hand shifted, his fingers wrapping gently around hers, grounding her once again.

"I don't know what to do," she admitted, her voice breaking completely now. A single tear slipped down her cheek, and she let out a shaky breath, her shoulders trembling. "I don't know how to help him. I don't know if I can."

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, low, and deliberate, cutting through the oppressive quiet like a lifeline. "I'll drive you to your apartment," he murmured, his words measured, his tone soothing in a way that made her feel like the ground wasn't quite so unstable beneath her feet.

"You'll see him, talk to him. But Charlotte..." He hesitated, his eyes searching hers, his brows furrowing slightly. "You can't help him."

His words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Charlotte felt her stomach twist, her throat tightening with a wave of emotion she couldn't quite name—grief, guilt, frustration, all tangled together in a suffocating knot.

Her jaw tightened, and she turned her gaze away, focusing on the floor as if the cracked linoleum could offer her some kind of answer. But she knew he was right. Deep down, she'd always known.

Tim's hand tightened ever so slightly around hers, not enough to hurt, just enough to draw her back to him. She lifted her eyes reluctantly, meeting his gaze. His expression was calm but serious, his blue eyes steady and unwavering, holding hers as if daring her to look away. There was no judgment there, no condescension—just an understanding so deep it made her chest ache.

"You can't put that on yourself," he whispered, his voice even softer now, barely more than a breath. The words weren't harsh or accusing; they were a quiet plea, a gentle nudge to let go of the burden she'd been carrying for far too long.

Charlotte's lips trembled, and she pressed them together, willing herself to stay composed. But the weight of his words was like a dam breaking inside her, releasing everything she'd been trying so hard to hold back. Her shoulders shook as she let out a ragged breath, her free hand coming up to cover her mouth as tears stung at the corners of her eyes.

Tim didn't move, didn't rush her. He stayed rooted in place, his hand still on hers, his thumb still tracing that slow, steady rhythm. She could feel his warmth, so starkly different from the cold, sterile air around them. It grounded her, reminded her that she wasn't alone in this, no matter how much it felt like it.

"I just..." Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, trying to steady herself. "I just wanted to believe—" She broke off, her breath hitching as the words caught in her throat. "I wanted to believe I could fix it. That I could fix him."

Tim exhaled quietly, a soft sound that felt more like an acknowledgment than a sigh. He didn't offer empty reassurances or try to tell her she was wrong. Instead, he waited, his silence speaking volumes, letting her say what she needed to say.

Charlotte shook her head, her gaze dropping again as fresh tears spilled over her cheeks. "I don't know how to face him, Tim. I don't know how to look at him and not see... everything I failed to do."

Tim's grip on her hand tightened slightly, his other hand coming up to rest lightly on her shoulder. The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of her shirt, and she felt herself leaning into it, drawing strength from his steadiness.

"You didn't fail him," he said quietly, his voice firm but not unkind. "You did what you could. What anyone could. But some things... some things aren't ours to fix."

Charlotte closed her eyes, the truth of his words sinking in, as painful as they were. She let out a shaky breath, her fingers twitching against his. The room was quiet again, the only sound the faint hum of the overhead light and the soft rhythm of their breathing.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she nodded, her movements slow and hesitant. "Okay," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Okay."

Tim's hand shifted, his fingers brushing lightly against Charlotte's cheek. The roughness of his touch felt grounding, steady, like an anchor keeping her from drifting away in the storm of her emotions. He wiped away a stray tear that clung stubbornly to her skin, his thumb lingering for a moment as if to silently tell her that she wasn't alone.

"One step at a time," he murmured, his voice low and steady, a quiet reassurance in the sterile silence of the precinct. His eyes, a shade of blue that carried its own kind of storm, held hers with a patience that made her throat tighten.

"Can I drive you to your apartment?" he asked gently, his tone soft but tinged with unspoken understanding. He wasn't pressuring her; he was giving her a choice, a moment to breathe, to decide if she needed more time here or was ready to face what waited for her at home.

Charlotte swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to where his hand still rested lightly against her cheek before flicking back to his. She nodded once, but it wasn't enough, her voice barely above a whisper as she answered, "Please." The single word came out like a breath she'd been holding onto for far too long, and her shoulders slumped slightly as if finally allowing herself to give in.

Tim nodded, pulling his hand back but staying close, his presence as steady as the earth beneath her feet. He moved toward the door, pausing to glance over his shoulder at her. "Take a minute if you need it," he said, his voice calm, the kind of calm that soothed frayed nerves but didn't deny the weight of what was coming.

Charlotte shook her head, her hands brushing against her thighs as if trying to scrub away the tension that clung to her. "No, I'm okay," she said, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. She wasn't okay, not really, but she couldn't afford to crumble now.

The walk to the car felt like a blur. The buzz of fluorescent lights overhead, the murmur of conversations from other officers in the station, the rhythmic click of her boots against the floor—all of it faded into the background as she focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Tim walked beside her, his stride slow and measured, matching her pace without a word.

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑊𝑂𝑅𝐿𝐷 felt quieter outside, the chaos of the station left behind as they made their way to his car. The distant hum of traffic filled the silence, punctuated by the occasional bark of a dog or the chirp of crickets hidden in the shadows. The scent of rain lingered in the air, sharp and earthy, as though the city itself was holding its breath.

Tim unlocked the passenger door, opening it for her without a word. Charlotte hesitated for half a second, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag as she looked at him.

His expression was steady, but there was something in his eyes—something unspoken, like he was carrying her burden with her, even if just for a little while.

She slid into the seat, the leather cold against her legs as she buckled her seatbelt. Tim shut the door gently before rounding the car and climbing in beside her. The engine purred to life, and for a moment, they just sat there, the dashboard lights casting a faint glow over their faces.

As he pulled out of the lot, Charlotte let her head rest against the window, her breath fogging the glass as she exhaled slowly. The city lights blurred into streaks of color, the world outside rushing by like a painting smudged with too many emotions. Her thoughts felt tangled, each one fighting for dominance, but none of them clear enough to grasp.

Tim's hand rested on the gear shift, his fingers tapping absently as he navigated the quiet streets. His presence filled the car, a silent strength that she clung to even though she couldn't bring herself to say it.

Every so often, his gaze flicked toward her, but he didn't push her to speak. He let her sit with her thoughts, with the heaviness that hung between them.

it has started.

please feel free to engage with the story !!
– comment, like, & interact. your participation keeps me motivated! thank you!!

❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ 11.12.24 ❞