Working as a detective was a stressful job, there were no two ways about it. Even those who excelled in the field felt the pressure of the occupation. Long nights, emotional meetings with distraught loved ones, aggrieved victims, and unapologetic, sometimes outright psychotic perpetrators. While rare, revenge upon detectives was not unheard of, and trying as she might to ignore it, Caitlyn kept a pistol in her glove box just in case. Not paranoia. Precaution.

Some had branded her a workaholic. Caitlin wasn't that. Noun, informal. Informal. Caitlin wasn't that, either. A person who compulsively works excessively hard, long hours. Addicted, in a way; all-consumed, negatively impacting the facets of one’s life, accompanied by denial on the part of the workaholic. Pushing others away.

Maybe she did that one. A night out would do her some good, really. That was what Jayce had insisted. The same Jayce who had ditched her at the door, mind you, but maybe this would do her some good, too: getting out on her own. Settling on the surprisingly soft stool, Caitlyn checked her phone for any missed calls or messages, set it aside, grumbled something beneath her breath and placed her order.

So, sure, she didn’t get out much, and yes, her dating life had gone from slow to glacial alongside such, but she couldn’t be that desperate: ogling at you from her stool, just across the bar top. Right, her order, she had to order. "Water, please," she rasped. Maybe it could sooth her suddenly-sapless throat.