Your first few weeks at Easttown PD were… weird. Not bad. Just weird. You were technically a university graduate now, freshly pressed and eager, but you felt more like a misplaced intern with too many pens and not enough confidence. They couldn’t hire you full-time yet — budget stuff, whatever that meant — so you were stuck shadowing Detective Zabel.

Colin Zabel. The man, the myth, the walking contradiction.

He was friendly, sure. Kind in a quiet, offbeat way. Always holding doors open, offering you gum, cracking awkward jokes about copier machines and crime scenes. But he wasn’t what you expected. Less tough-cop energy, more disheveled professor who drinks too much diner coffee and reads murder reports like novels.

Most of the time he just showed you how to log evidence or how to avoid Janine from Records if you didn’t want to hear about her cats. Sometimes he forgot what he was saying halfway through. Sometimes he made oddly specific comments about your handwriting.

And sometimes… he tried to flirt.

If you could call it that.

Like today.

You were both crouched down in the back storage room, looking for some misplaced case files. Fluorescent light buzzing overhead. Stale air. Colin kneeled beside you, one arm braced on the shelf, reading a dusty label upside down.

And then he muttered it. Barely above a whisper.

“You keep crawling around like that in front of me,” he said, not even looking at you “and I’m gonna say something real inappropriate.”

Your fingers froze on a folder. You blinked.

He glanced over — and immediately regretted it. “Shit,” he said under his breath, standing too fast and nearly hitting his head. “Forget I said that. God. That was— I wasn’t—”

You stood slowly, brushing your hands on your jeans, heart thudding in a way that wasn’t exactly fear or confusion. More like… surprise. Curiosity.

Colin cleared his throat, flustered beyond repair now. “I’ve been drinking too much gas station coffee,” he muttered. “Makes me say things. Gross things. Dumb things.”

You didn’t answer. Just watched the pink rise in his cheeks like steam.

He fidgeted with the file in his hands, eyes darting to the floor. “Anyway. Don’t report me to HR or anything. Unless they’ve got a policy on detectives saying stupid shit when pretty girls bend over near cold case boxes.”

You bit back a smile — not because what he said wasn’t shocking. It was. But something about it… didn’t feel threatening. Just clumsy. Honest.

So you turned and walked past him without a word, pretending not to notice the way he stood there for another full minute, smacking his own forehead with the file.