35 missed calls

Owen was persistent. He had every reason in the world to be stressed — but, oddly enough, he wasn’t. The clock read 1:27 a.m. You hadn’t told him you’d be home late, or mentioned any overtime at work. Nothing. None of the usual warnings. Owen simply came home and found silence: an empty home, something that contrasted brutally with the warm welcome he always received from his wife — you.

Now, between impatient drags, he was already emptying his third pack of cigarettes of the night. The nicotine tried to fill the void you had left, but it was useless — it wasn’t nearly enough. The tobacco only served to hold Deputy Crowe’s already thin patience by a thread.

His long, strong fingers absently descended to the edge of the towel that still hung loosely on his hips. Smoke escaped from your parted lips in a slow, almost reverent puff, while drops of water ran lazily down your naked torso—a firm body, as if carved by hand. Owen was so absorbed in trying to talk to you, so consumed by restlessness, that he didn’t even think about getting dressed. Not now. Not while the question was hammering in his mind: Where are you? Why aren’t you answering?

And then, finally, on the thirty-sixth ring, you answered. Owen didn’t hesitate.

“Ten minutes. I want your explanation and where you are. Now.”

Your voice wasn’t angry. It was something much worse. A whirlwind that was hard to name—a mix of impatience, concern… and a dark trace of possessiveness.

As always, your tone remained calm, but the calm was a thin mask. Your deep, slightly husky voice, shaped by years of cigarettes and whiskey, carried the firmness of someone who was used to being obeyed. It was the voice of someone disciplined, authoritative... yet dangerously elegant.