Justified Touch

Uniforms and Undoing

The wreck was cleared. The rookie was sent home. The report was logged in.

And now it was just them.

Harley slid into the passenger seat of Beau’s truck, boots heavy with mud and gloves still stuffed in her back pocket. She didn’t speak as she buckled in. Just stared straight ahead like the road was going to save her.

Beau climbed in beside her.

Closed the door.

The silence settled like dust.

He didn’t turn on music.

Didn’t fiddle with the radio.

Just started the engine and pulled onto the highway, the sun bleeding over the horizon in burnt-orange slivers.

Fifteen miles of open road.

Fifteen miles of silence.

Harley shifted in her seat.

The cab felt smaller than she remembered. Hotter. The space between them tighter.

She could still feel his breath from the trailer.

Still feel the press of his palm on her waist.

She exhaled, hard. “You didn’t need to come with me this morning.”

Beau didn’t glance over. “Wasn’t about need.”

“Then what was it about?”

He let that sit.

Long enough to make her regret asking.

Finally, he said, “You’re not bulletproof, Harley.”

“Neither are you.”

“I never said I was.”

She looked out the window. “You act like you are.”

He let out a low breath. “You act like you don’t need anyone.”

“I don’t.”

He shot her a glance, quiet and sharp. “Then why did you let me in that bed?”

That landed.

Hard.

Harley stared ahead, jaw tight.

“I didn’t let you in.”

He hummed. “You didn’t stop me either.”

The silence snapped again—louder this time.

Beau’s hand flexed once on the wheel, knuckles white against the leather.

“I was right there,” he said, voice low. “Your back against my chest. Your thighs open. Breathing like you couldn’t decide whether to fight or pull me closer.”

She turned slowly, eyes narrowed. “You think you get to throw that in my face now?”

“No,” he said, meeting her gaze for a split second. “I think you’re scared it meant something.”

“It didn’t.”

His voice dropped.

“Then why the f**k are your legs pressed together like you’re trying to hold something in right now?”

Her breath hitched.

He looked back at the road.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “I’ve already felt what the truth feels like.”

She didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

The rest of the ride passed in silence—except it wasn’t silent at all.

It was vibrating.

Burning.

Filled with every word they weren’t saying and every breath they couldn’t take without remembering the other’s skin.

And when they pulled into the station lot, Harley was the first to get out.

But Beau?

He stayed behind the wheel.

Watching her.

Knowing this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Harley didn’t speak when they pulled into the station lot.

She didn’t look at him.

Just grabbed her gear bag, slammed the door behind her, and beelined through the side entrance like her boots were on fire.

She made it to the bathroom with her breath tight in her throat and her pulse hammering against her ribs. The overhead light flickered. The air was cold.

She gripped the sink, knuckles white, and stared at herself in the mirror.

“You’re fine,” she whispered. “You’re fine.”

But she wasn’t.

Not even close.

Because she could still feel the heat of him beside her in the truck. Still hear his voice in her head—Don’t lie to me. I’ve already felt what the truth feels like.

The door opened behind her.

Then closed.

Soft.

Deliberate.

Click.

She froze.

Turned.

And there he was.

Beau.

He slid the lock into place behind him.

Didn’t say a word.

Just stood there, jaw clenched, eyes dark, chest rising slow under the tight black of his shirt.

Harley backed up instinctively until her spine hit the sink.

“I needed a minute,” she said, voice raw.

“You’ve had one,” Beau murmured.

“I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

“No,” he said. “But you didn’t stop me either.”

He stepped closer.

One pace. Then another.

Harley’s breath caught.

“You can’t do this here.”

“I’m not asking.”

His hands planted on either side of the sink, caging her in.

Close. Too close.

“You’ve been running from this since the first time I touched you on that mat,” he said, voice low. “Since the barn. Since the trailer. And every time you try to lie to me, you shake like your body knows better.”

“Beau—”

“No,” he snapped. “You don’t get to say my name like that unless you’re going to moan it next.”

Her knees almost buckled.

“You don’t want this,” she whispered, desperate.

His voice dropped to a growl.

“Sweetheart, you’re soaking wet with it.”

She flinched.

Because she was.

And he knew it.

Because he could smell it.

Feel it in the air between them.

Beau leaned in, his mouth hovering just above hers. Not kissing. Not touching.

Just owning the space between.

“I’ve waited long enough,” he breathed. “You’re mine, Harley. You’ve always been mine.”

Then—

His lips brushed her cheek.

Her jaw.

The edge of her mouth.

Not a kiss.

Just a warning.

A promise.

And then?

He stepped back.

Unlocked the door.

And left her shaking against the sink…

Wanting everything he didn’t take.

Harley didn’t breathe right the rest of the day.

Every hallway she turned, she expected to see him.

Every voice behind her, she swore it was his.

Every damn second, she felt that bathroom—his body caging hers, his mouth hovering just shy of her lips, the way he said you’re mine and then had the audacity to walk away.

She couldn’t focus.

She mistyped three intake logs. Dropped her keys twice. Snapped at Jr for nothing.

By the time the rest of the department thinned out for the night, she was running hot enough to boil over.

She didn’t think.

She didn’t knock.

She stormed down the hallway and threw the evidence room door open, boots heavy on the tile.

Beau was already inside.

Of course he was.

Standing at the terminal, gloves on, half turned toward the shelf with a case log in hand.

He looked up the second she entered.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Just watched her come apart.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snapped.

He didn’t answer.

She shut the door behind her. Hard.

“You don’t get to do that,” she growled. “You don’t get to say things like that—look at me like that—and then just walk away.”

Beau said nothing.

Her hands shook.

“You want me to admit it? Fine,” she said, voice cracking. “You’re in my head. You’ve been there for weeks. Since the second you walked into this goddamn department.”

Still nothing.

“I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’m on edge every second of the day waiting to see if you’re going to touch me again or leave me high and—”

She stopped herself.

Too late.

The words hung there.

Heavy. Wet.

She turned away fast, hand bracing on the counter. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Silence.

Then his voice, low and even.

“Yes, you do.”

She shook her head.

Beau stepped in behind her.

Not touching.

Not pressing.

Just there.

“The question’s not what you’re doing,” he said. “It’s what you’re ready to let happen.”

“I don’t—”

“Look at me.”

She didn’t.

He stepped closer.

Close enough for her to feel his breath again.

Close enough for her skin to wake up.

“I said look at me.”

She turned.

Slowly.

Tears threatening at the corners of her eyes—not fear. Not weakness. Just too much.

Beau reached up.

Cupped her face.

Softly.

Thumb brushing her cheek like she might break.

“You don’t have to know what to do,” he said. “You just have to stop running.”