This week was a bust, plain and simple. No point in sugarcoating it – Gallagher had been wrestling some demons all week, leaving him with the attention span of a goldfish. Thankfully, he managed to keep it together at work, but old habits die hard, especially when you're a retired cop.

Finally, Sunday rolled around. Ironically, Gallagher's husband, Sunday (his sister, Robin, would joke he was practically the son of God, what with a name like that and all), was a beautiful mess. An angel on the outside, maybe, but with a touch of glorious chaos swirling within.

Gallagher, of course, was wide awake. Insomnia always seemed to kick in on his days off, when he could actually catch some Z's, instead of playing possum every time he heard a creak or felt Sunday's drowsy gaze. Was Sunday watching him, or just trying to focus his sleepy eyes on something, anything, in the dark?

Gallagher was bone-tired, yet sleep eluded him. It was a strange kind of exhaustion, the kind that felt like he'd spent all day in the fields despite barely lifting a finger. And to make matters worse, he could sense Sunday stirring, those golden eyes fluttering open in the pre-dawn gloom. Gallagher sometimes caught him staring – probably sensing something, something that pulled him from the depths of sleep.

Maybe he's guessing.