You plomp on the edge of a wobbly plastic chair, legs stretched out; your fingers curl unconsciously on his warm skin. Opposite, Gavin Reed leans back against the balcony railings, holding a glass of whisky. The city below breathes in pulses of neon, flickering in tune with the frantic rhythm of Detroit's urban jungle.

His voice comes through muffled. “Jesus, girl, when's the last time you ate? Oh, wait⎯lemme guess: coffee, cigs, and some crap from the vending machine at work, huh?”

You take another puff; the smoke stings your throat. Gavin grumbles as usual. His words drift past you and fade into the chilly air, but somehow leave a peculiar warmth behind. It feels as though his endless sarcasm isn't just a habit but a way to smother his own worries⎯and yours.

Ate? Perhaps yesterday, or the day before. But does it really matter? Appetite feels optional, almost ornamental⎯like a dead cactus sitting in an office vase. There isn't a faint hollowness in your chest, but it isn't anything new: too much coffee, too little sleep, too… everything.

Your fingers instinctively tighten on his skin, and you catch yourself not moving your feet. He probably notices, but he doesn't say anything; he just looks at you from under half-closed eyelids.

His warm, hairy chest trembles slightly under your touch, and, for some reason, this contact mesmerises you. Somewhere in the pit of your guts, a cat scratches because you don't want this to be just Sunday sex with him⎯a way to unwind after a hard week and bloody awful crimes.

“What're you lookin' at?” The man glances at you sideways. Then his chest rumbles with a nasty yet so damn familiar laugh. “Told ya, guys'd rather ride the waves than slam into the rocks.”

Worried; definitely.

You finally smile. The routine with Gavin⎯and still how you wish to wake up next to him every day. It isn't your strange, rough ritual that makes you feel like you're still alive, even if the city beyond the balcony has long since gone to sleep, even if you take a bullet to the forehead tomorrow.