Chapter 59: NOT THE KIND THAT PULLED YOU TO BED

Jake’s POV

The door clicked softly behind her.

And like that, she was gone.

Jake stood there, his hands still warm from where they had touched her skin, his heart still echoing with words she didn’t say. The scent of her was still there — wild jasmine and something darker, something sadder.

He hated this part. The silence and the aftermath.

He ran his hand through his hair, letting out a slow breath, then reached for his phone almost instinctively. A ping vibrated against his palm before he even unlocked it.

Marianne (5:44 a.m.):

Couldn’t sleep. Still going through the archive. Found something weird in the 2019 tapes.

Marianne (6:46 a.m.):

Jake? You awake?

Marianne (6:51 a.m.):

You’d better not be ghosting me. That’s unprofessional.

He smirked faintly, even through the emotional hangover of Anise’s departure. Marianne had a way of popping into his space with all the grace of a freight train — unapologetically smart, blunt, and persistent as hell.

But as his eyes trailed over her messages, something strange happened — his chest tightened, just slightly.

He didn’t want to open another thread of distraction. Especially not tonight. Especially not now. But still…

His thumbs moved.

Jake (6:57 a.m.):

Meet me at the office in the morning. Let’s go over what you found.

It was harmless.

Professional.

So why did he hesitate before pressing send?

Morning came faster than expected.

Jake rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he stepped out of the elevator and into the bullpen. The city was just waking, but the precinct buzzed — quiet, tired tension in every corner. As he rounded the corridor toward his office, he stopped short.

Marianne was already there.

She was leaning against his desk like she owned the place, a paper coffee cup in each hand. She looked… good. Too good for this hour.

Her v-neck top dipped low over a sleek blazer, her hair loosely tied back, her smile too easy for someone who’d probably been digging through surveillance files all night.

“Morning,” she said, holding out a coffee with a wink. “Black, no sugar. Like your soul.”

Jake smirked, taking the cup. “Thanks. What, no donut?”

“You’re pushing your luck, detective.”

He laughed softly and motioned for her to sit. She didn’t. Instead, she stood there, letting her eyes move over him, her expression unreadable.

“What?” he asked.

“You look… tired. But also like you haven’t fully come back from wherever you were last night.”

Jake paused.

She wasn’t wrong.

Anise’s absence still hung on his skin like a second shadow. He hadn’t fully shaken her off — didn’t know if he even wanted to. But here Marianne was, all sharp lines and warm coffee and soft perfume, looking at him like she could read every line of regret on his face.

“Did you sleep at all?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“Rough night?”

Jake looked away. “Something like that.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Marianne tilted her head slightly, her tone casual — too casual.

She didn’t press. But something passed through her face — just a flicker, gone in an instant.

Jake sat down heavily in his chair, sipping the coffee like it would anchor him to the moment. It didn’t. It just made him more aware — of Marianne standing close, of her perfume drifting between them, of how long it had been since he looked at her and saw something beyond the case.

“You okay?” she asked again, quieter this time.

He looked up at her.

She looked… beautiful.

Not just because of the V-neck. Not just because her lips were perfectly glossed or her skin glowed. But because, for the first time, he actually saw her. Not the journalist. Not the assistant on the case. But Marianne — the woman who’d stayed up digging through old footage, the woman who brought him coffee without asking, the woman who had been texting him casually for weeks now and somehow slipped into the spaces Anise left behind.

And he hated himself for noticing.

He swallowed.

“Yeah,” he lied. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t believe him. But she didn’t call him out either. Instead, she placed the second coffee on the desk and turned to the files stacked in the corner. “Let’s go through what I found. There’s something in the footage from Camilla’s visit to the East Side branch two weeks before she died. I think there’s a connection to Dowen.”

Jake welcomed the change of subject. Dived in. Let the case swallow him whole.

But when Marianne finally left — giving him a slow wave over her shoulder and a half-smile that felt a little too soft — Jake stayed frozen.

Something gnawed at him. A guilt he couldn’t place. A confusion that clung to the corners of his thoughts.

Because he still loved Anise.

But why did watching Marianne walk away make him feel… hollow?

And why, when he closed his eyes, did he see two women standing in the same room — one holding his heart, the other holding something dangerously close to it?

He didn’t know.

But he knew this: it wasn’t just the case that was complicated anymore.

It was everything.

Jake hadn’t expected her.

It was past noon when she knocked on his door—not the hesitant knock of a subordinate or the sharp rap of a professional. No, it was light. Almost playful. And when he looked up and saw her, something shifted.

Marianne.

No notepad, no tablet. Just her.

She stood there in a white blouse tucked into high-waisted jeans, a loosely tied trench coat draped over one shoulder. Her hair was up, but soft strands had come undone around her face. She looked nothing like the no-nonsense journalist who’d followed leads with the precision of a scalpel. She looked... real.

“I figured you haven’t eaten,” she said, lifting two brown paper bags. “And I owed you one. For pulling that report for me last week.”

Jake blinked. “Lunch?”

“Yeah.” Her smile was teasing. “You remember what that is, don’t you?”

He smirked, pushing his chair back. “Barely.”

They didn’t talk much on the way out. But Jake noticed the way her fingers kept brushing the side of the paper bag, like she was calming herself. Maybe she was nervous. Maybe she just didn’t want to say something too soon. And for a moment, he realized he didn’t know much about Marianne outside of late-night phone calls and case files.

The café was quiet, hidden between two aging buildings that still bore the scars of forgotten protests. She’d picked it, she said, because the coffee was terrible and the silence was perfect.

They sat near the window. Sunlight framed her hair in gold. Jake took a sip of black coffee, waiting for her to speak first. He’d never seen her like this before—stripped of the sharpness. Her body was here, yes, but it felt like her mind had wandered somewhere else. Somewhere heavy.

She set her sandwich down after a single bite.

“I’ve been thinking about… failure,” she said suddenly.

Jake looked up. “That’s a heavy lunch topic.”

She smiled faintly. “It’s been my whole meal plan lately.”

He didn’t press. Just listened.

“I was engaged once,” she said, voice quieter now. “To a man named Lucian. He was brilliant. Made everything feel like it would make sense in the end. We were five months out from the wedding when he left a note on the fridge.”

Jake’s brows drew in, but he didn’t interrupt.

“He said he couldn’t marry someone who loved work more than love. That I was married already—to ambition.”

Silence.

Marianne blinked quickly and looked out the window.

“I guess I deserved it,” she added. “But it doesn’t make the ghost of it any quieter.”

Jake leaned forward. “You don’t deserve to carry that ghost forever.”

Her eyes darted to his.

He continued, “You care. Deeply. About the people you help, the stories you chase. That isn’t a flaw, Marianne. That’s rare.”

She didn’t answer right away.

But when she did, it wasn’t with words. It was a small laugh. Not mocking—more like disbelief. Like someone hearing something they didn’t know they needed.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she said after a while.

“Maybe because I’ve never judged you,” Jake said. “Or maybe you just needed to stop holding it in.”

They talked about more than relationships. About the war that journalism had become. About his regrets with Anise—though he never said her name. Marianne never asked.

But she noticed the way his eyes dimmed whenever the subject turned to “trust” or “loss.”

Eventually, she asked gently, “Do you think we’re too broken to want something normal?”

Jake thought for a moment. “Maybe. But sometimes broken people make the strongest bridges.”

Marianne nodded. “That’s a quote worth stealing.”

The meal ended slowly, like neither of them really wanted to leave. And when she stood to go, he walked her to her car.

She hesitated at the door.

“Thanks for today,” she said.

“For the terrible coffee and sad confessions?”

“For seeing me,” she corrected, more serious now. “Not the workhorse. Not the journalist. Just… me.”

Jake didn’t know what to say.

So he just nodded.

As she drove away, something gnawed at the corner of his conscience. It wasn’t attraction. It wasn’t guilt. It was something much quieter.

Connection

Not the kind that pulled you into bed.

But the kind that made you wonder what could happen if life gave you different odds.

Still, as he walked back to his office, he pulled out his phone. And though it lit up with a dozen work notifications, his fingers hovered over one name: Anise