It's still surreal that someone actually lives in the house across the street from me. I can't walk by the living room window without glancing out and imagining it empty and hunkering, the windows dark and the rooms empty.
But all it takes is for me to close my eyes for an instant, and I can imagine those lights coming on and shadows behind the curtains. Images of a person who shouldn't have been there. Who no one believed was. Now the house is home to a family just getting started, and the pristine lawn is studded with toys. When the father notices me he waves. Smiling past the still trembling beat of my heart, I wave back and turn to open the back door of my car.
My mind sizzles angrily as I scold myself for the intense reaction. Grabbing everything out of the seat, I head into the house and close the door behind me. It's a relief to hear the click of the deadbolt.
These walls know me, and I know them.
An hour later, I'm in the kitchen, stirring a thick combination of onions, ground beef, tomatoes, and seasonings. On the back of the stove, a pot works on building up to a boil so I can blanch the prepared green peppers waiting on the counter. My front door opens, and I know it's Sam. I expect him to come directly into the kitchen like he always does, but he doesn't. He's moving around in the front of the house. Curiosity brings me to turn down the temperature on the stove and go into the living room to find out what he's doing. I gasp as I step through the arched entryway.
Sam stands up from where he's lighting candles lined up along the coffee table. Several more have already been clustered on either end table. A potted rosebush sits on the windowsill, and I can see the golden glint of a box of chocolates sticking up from a shopping bag sagging on the couch.
He looks up at me.
“It isn't ready yet,” he tells me.
“What is all this?” I ask, taking another step closer to him.
Sam grins and reaches into the bag for the box of candy. He gives me a kiss, then holds it out to me.
“Happy Valentine's Day,” he says.
The greeting twists in my chest and strikes me as odd.
“But it's…”
“I know,” Sam says. “Valentine's Day was a week ago.”
“And we agreed not to do anything,” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yes,” he tells me. “I know. So, I didn't do anything on Valentine's Day. But I wanted to do something special for you. I knew this time of year was going to be especially hard for you, and I just want you to know how important you are. I love you.”
He kisses me again, and I rise up on my toes just enough to press my lips against him a little harder, so the kiss lasts longer. He presses back, and I kiss him again.
“I love you, too. Thank you for all this. Even if I did spoil your preparations a little.”
Sam smiles.
“That's alright. I rarely get to slip anything past you, so just getting the candles lit feels like a victory,” he says.
“It will be perfect for a drink before dinner,” I tell him. “I just need to add the rice to the filling, stuff the peppers, and put them in the oven.”
“Let me help,” he says. “That way we can get to that drink faster.”
Chapter Six
We don't make it to that drink until almost an hour later. I'm still reclined on the couch wearing Sam's t-shirt and curled up under a blanket when he comes back into the living room in the bathrobe that started out living at his house but migrated over here. Our nights together have started outnumbering our nights apart. He finishes pouring a glass of wine and hands it down to me, then pulls another glass from where he has it tucked under his upper arm and pours another for himself.
“The peppers look good. Just a few more minutes for the cheese to melt and get brown,” he tells me.
“Good. I'm hungry,” I say.
Sam sits at the end of the couch and takes a sip of his wine.
“Did you really pull your gun on the family across the street?” he asks.
I shake my head as I swallow my own sip.
"I didn't actually pull it. But I reached for it. All the little boy did was yell 'catch me', and I went into full-on defense. It's not even my service piece. I would officially be one of those people."
"One of those people?" he asks.
"Those armed civilians who freaks the hell out and waves their guns around to look impressive if someone sneezes," I say.
"That's not exactly a valid analogy. You are still a special agent. Just because you are stationed in Sherwood rather than near Quantico and you don’t go into Headquarters every day doesn’t diminish that. Not being on an active investigation at the moment doesn’t make you a civilian. Even if you weren’t an agent, you are still a member of the Sherwood Police Department. And even if you weren't even that, that isn't the reaction you had. You have PTSD, Emma. You're working through it. Honestly, I admire the hell out of you for being able to be as put together as you are right now. But you're still going to have moments that get to you. There will be things that set you off. It’ll take time, but eventually, it will get better," he comforts me.
I look down at my glass and swirl my wine around for a
