"Why are you looking at me like that?" Love's eyes are too, too wide. Her face is warped behind the glass—almost unrecognisable, if you hadn't seen that spark behind her eyes before. You know it. You've ignored it. That manic little flare that had her hand squeezing yours in a crushing grip when that waitress had winked at you. (The way she took you in the backseat, fast and hard and rough). How her face shuttered at the mention of Delilah the same way it did when she told you the story of her au pair—glint in her eye too frenzied to acknowledge.

"You lost faith. You were gonna give up on us. Our little family in the making." She rasps, palm pressed against the glass. Her breath ghosts a puff along the pane.

There's nothing you can do. You know that. Even if she gave you your phone, let you out and you turned tail and ran—the Quinn family practically owns the LAPD. There's nothing you can do other than what she's begging you to do.

To see her. To love her.