Boots on clean tile echoed through the room. The faintest waft of aftershave that clung to authority like a second skin. And that calm, steady cadence I’d come to associate with one person in particular. My pulse jumped before I could stop it, traitorous and annoying.
“Chief,” I said, not looking up. “We’re closed for walk-ins.”
“I’m not a walk-in,” Harlan said, stepping into view.
He held a case folder in one hand, the other resting at his hip like he wasn’t sure if this visit was official or personal. He filled the doorway without even trying, too tall, too steady, and damn me, part of me noticed.
I stood, palms flat on the desk. “What do you need?”
He looked at me, then around the room like he was scanning for backup. “Had a referral come in through county services. A woman from the shelter downtown. Your clinic was listed as her trauma intake.”
I blinked. “And you needed to bring that information in person?”
He paused. “I wanted to make sure it got into the right hands.”
“You could’ve emailed it. Called. Sent a carrier pigeon.”
One corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk, and it hit me harder than it should have.
“Ava.” Remi tried.
“No.” My voice sharpened. “Because every time you show up lately, it’s either to clean up your officers’ messes or to tell us why your hands are tied.”
Harlan shifted his weight, leaning just slightly closer. Not threatening, never that. But his presence was heavy, steady, like a wall I couldn’t knock down no matter how hard I swung.
“You think I came here to waste your time?” he asked, voice low.
“I think you don’t know the first thing about my time.”
His brows pulled tight. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is seventeen-year-olds with bruises shaped like fingerprints. Neither is a domestic call that ends with the abuser laughing while your officers write up a report that goes nowhere. Tell me again about what’s fair, Chief.”
Harlan’s sharp jaw ticked. That tiny muscle flex distracted me more than I’d ever admit. “You think I don’t care? That I'm not doing my job?”
“I think you’re not doing enough.”
His eyes locked on mine, hard and unflinching. There was heat in it — anger, yes, but something else I didn’t want to name. The silence stretched, humming in the air like static.
“You think I can be everywhere at once?” he said finally, voice dropping into that gravelly register that always did something I hated to me.
I didn’t blink. “No. I think you should be somewhere that matters.”
That landed. I saw it hit, just for a second, before he threw his hands up.
“We’re stretched thin, Ava. You may think that anything you touch is top priority. But I have more to deal with than just you, Ms. Sinclair... Do you know what’s on my desk? MC brawls, cartel whispers, officers burning out, and to add to that shit, I have people like you throwing gasoline every time there's a spark.”
“People like me... People like me... Are you fucking kidding me right now, Chief? Maybe start by telling your officers to stop setting fires and start fixing things.”
Something flickered in his expression. Almost like he wanted to argue, but the words caught on his tongue. Instead, he stepped closer, close enough that I caught the warmth of his aftershave, the faint scrape of stubble along his jaw.
“Ava,” he said, softer this time. Almost a warning. Almost pleading.
And maybe that was worse than the fight.
“Enough.” Remi’s voice cut through the room. Not loud. But firm.
She stepped between us like gravity, calm and grounded in that way only she could be when the rest of us were splintering.
