Between the Pages and the Badge 5
Previous // Next
When plus-size bookseller Emilly Hart agrees to one drink with friends, her ordinary night in L.A. spirals into danger-and an unexpected rescue by stoic LAPD officer Tim Bradford. As their worlds collide, Emilly learns that sometimes the bravest chapter starts with letting someone in.
The morning was quiet. Too quiet.
Sunlight slipped through the bookstore window in soft streaks, settling on the shelves like dust that didn’t want to be noticed. The radio played softly—something jazzy, more felt than heard.
I opened the door as usual, a mug of tea in my hand, my hair still damp from the shower.
The little bell rang lightly.
And then I saw it immediately.
On the counter, right in the middle, lay a book.
It didn’t belong there. I had left the counter clean the day before—I remembered that far too clearly.
I stepped closer.
Man’s Search for Meaning.
The same one I had recommended.
My heart beat a little faster.
Beside the book lay a note—folded in half, unsigned, unadorned. I opened it slowly, as if it might fall apart.
“You said a good story helps you breathe. I’m checking.”
That was all.
No name. No see you later. Nothing obvious.
And yet I knew.
I smiled despite myself, tracing a finger along the edge of the note. The paper was slightly rough, as if torn from a notebook.
“Bradford…” I murmured under my breath.
I closed the book and held it to my chest for a moment. Not because it was special. Only because someone had chosen it… because I had recommended it.
It was more than a gesture. It was trust.
The day in the bookstore passed differently than usual.
There was nothing extraordinary about it—customers, questions, the sound of turning pages. And yet everything felt somehow warmer.
As if an invisible thread were moving between the shelves, one I couldn’t see but could clearly feel.
Every now and then I glanced at the book lying beside the register. I didn’t put it away. I didn’t want to.
As if it were proof that it hadn’t just been a moment.
That evening I closed the bookstore a little later than usual.
The city was quieter now, the lights softer, the air cooler after the long day. I walked slowly, the book tucked under my arm, letting the silence between my steps fill my head.
At home, I made tea.
Lemon again. The same ritual again.
I sat on the bed and opened the book.
The pages were slightly worn—not new, but not old. As if someone had already moved through them and left a trace behind.
Had he read it?
Or had he only bought it?
I turned a few pages.
And then something small slipped out.
A bookmark.
I stopped breathing.
It was simple—a piece of thick paper, with one sentence written in the same slightly slanted handwriting:
“Breathing doesn’t always come naturally. Sometimes someone has to remind you.”
My fingers trembled slightly.
This wasn’t a random note. It wasn’t something left there out of obligation.
It was… for me.
I sat even more quietly, as if any movement might disturb something.
My phone lay beside me. Black screen. Silence.
He hadn’t texted.
And that… was okay.
Because suddenly I understood something simple—something that had been slipping past me before.
He wasn’t someone who came in like a storm. He didn’t leave traces that forced anything. He didn’t push.
He had only left a book. And a choice.
I looked at the bookmark again.
“Breathing doesn’t always come naturally. Sometimes someone has to remind you.”
I picked up my phone.
For a moment I only looked at his number—saved in such an ordinary way, with no description.
Tim.
My heart thudded harder.
It’s just a message, I thought. And yet… something more.
I typed:
I found it.
A moment of silence.
A dozen seconds that stretched into whole minutes.
Then the screen lit up softly.
Good.
That was all.
I smiled faintly, resting my head against the wall.
I didn’t need more.
Because this time, I was the one who had taken the first step. And the world hadn’t fallen apart because of it.
Quite the opposite.
It had become… a little calmer.
I put my phone down and reached for the book.
Outside, the city still moved at its own pace—lights, cars, voices.
And I sat in the quiet, with a mug of tea and a story that was only just beginning.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt that I didn’t have to rush.
He didn’t reply right away.
And that was good.
Because if he had answered too quickly, I probably would have dismissed it as coincidence. As something light. Casual.
But like this…
Every minute of silence carried weight.
I sat on the bed with the book open to the first page, but I didn’t read a single sentence. My phone lay beside me, the screen lighting up now and then with notifications I didn’t care about.
Not his.
I caught myself listening.
As if his reply would have a sound.
Ridiculous.
I sighed and set the book aside.
“Get a grip, Emilly,” I muttered to myself. “It’s just a message.”
Only it wasn’t.
He texted back late that evening.
Just when I had almost convinced myself I shouldn’t be waiting for it.
My phone buzzed briefly.
That’s good. Not every book lands.
I smiled a little.
Typical.
Always just a few words. Always exactly as many as needed—no more, no less.
I replied before I could think it through:
This one did. Or someone recommended it well.
This time the answer came faster.
Maybe.
I rolled my eyes.
“Seriously?” I whispered to the phone. “‘Maybe’?”
But before I could set it down, another message appeared.
And you? Are you breathing?
I froze.
That wasn’t a careless question. It wasn’t a joke.
It was… precise.
As if he knew.
I looked at the bookmark lying beside me.
At the words I had read only minutes earlier.
I took a slow breath.
I’m learning.
Three dots.
Silence.
And then:
That’s good.
I tightened my fingers around the phone.
I could feel something growing under my skin—something warm, but dangerous at the same time.
Because this was no longer an ordinary conversation.
It was… something more.
A moment passed.
Maybe a minute. Maybe five.
I had no idea.
And then he wrote:
I have tomorrow off.
My heart beat harder.
It wasn’t a direct invitation.
But it wasn’t an accident either.
I stared at the screen, feeling my thoughts begin to race.
What does that mean? Why is he telling me that? Does he…
Before I could stop myself, I wrote back:
That sounds like either information or a suggestion.
Silence.
Longer than before.
Too long.
I started regretting it.
Maybe it was too much. Too direct. Too…
My phone buzzed.
I’m not sure yet.
I held my breath.
It depends.
My fingers hovered over the screen.
On what?
This time the answer came more slowly.
As if each word were being chosen carefully.
On whether you’ll have time.
My heart did something strange—as if it stopped for a second and then started again faster.
That was close.
Too close.
I stared at the message, feeling everything suddenly become more real, heavier.
Because this wasn’t coincidence anymore. It wasn’t some random turn of events.
It was an invitation.
Almost.
I took a deep breath.
Depends what I’d be finding time for.
The three dots appeared at once.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
I tightened my fingers around the phone.
And then the answer came:
Coffee.
Simple.
No embellishment.
But everything was there beneath that one word.
I smiled… and at the same time felt something else.
Fear.
Not the big, dramatic kind. Just the quiet kind that appears when something starts to matter.
I looked at the book.
At the pen.
At the bookmark.
And suddenly everything was a little too real.
This time I typed more slowly:
Maybe I can make time.
Not yes.
Not I want to.
Not yet.
Silence.
Then:
I understand.
It hurt more than it should have.
As if I had just taken a step back when something was trying to step forward.
I bit my lip.
That doesn’t mean no.
The reply came almost immediately:
I know.
And then, a moment later:
It means not now.
I closed my eyes.
He understood.
Too well.
That was… even worse.
Because I couldn’t hide from that.
I put the phone down beside me and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
My heart was still beating too fast.
Too loudly.
Too much.
Because for the first time in a long while, something had been so close… that it was terrifying.
And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t know whether I wanted to step back.
Or… take a step forward.
Two days passed.
Two days that were exactly as they always were— books, customers, the smell of paper, and soft radio in the background.
And yet something was wrong.
Nothing specific had happened. No one had said a cruel word. The world had done nothing that could be called a problem.
There was just… one sound missing.
Messages.
The phone lay beside the register, its screen lighting up from time to time with notifications, but none of them were from him.
Not one.
At first I didn’t even notice.
Then I started glancing at it. Then checking. Then… waiting.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered under my breath, shelving books. “It’s been two days.”
Two days is nothing.
And yet…
The bell above the door rang.
I looked up automatically.
Not him.
An older man in a hat who always bought crime novels and paid in exact cash.
I smiled automatically.
But something inside me sank.
On the third day, it was worse.
Not because anything had changed.
Only because I had started to understand.
He had stepped back.
Not suddenly. Not dramatically.
He had simply… stopped taking a step toward me.
And it hurt more than it should have.
Because I couldn’t even be angry with him.
He hadn’t promised anything. He hadn’t said anything that could bind me to anything.
He had only left space.
And I… had stepped into it on my own.
After work, I didn’t go straight home.
Instead, I turned toward the same café.
The Quiet Bean.
As if something were pulling me there.
As if… maybe the answer would be there.
I ordered tea.
Sat at the table by the window.
The same view. The same lights.
Only I… was different.
I took out my phone.
Screen.
Silence.
I opened our conversation.
Read it from the beginning.
Every word.
Every pause between them.
And suddenly I saw it clearly.
I was the one who had stopped.
I was the one who had said maybe.
Not yes.
Not I want to.
Maybe.
I swallowed.
“Brilliant, Emilly,” I whispered to myself. “Absolutely brilliant.”
The phone in my hand suddenly felt heavier.
I could write.
One word.
One sentence.
That would be enough.
And yet…
I didn’t do it.
Because if he had stepped back, maybe that was what he needed.
And if he hadn’t…
Then maybe I was afraid of what would happen if this time I was the one who took a step.
By the time I got home, it was dark.
I kicked off my shoes, set my bag on the chair, and leaned back against the door.
The silence was louder than usual.
I looked at the table.
The pen was still there.
The same one.
I hadn’t given it back.
Maybe because it was the only proof that all of this had really happened.
I picked it up.
Turned it between my fingers.
“Really?” I murmured softly. “So what now?”
As if it might answer me.
As if it might tell me what I should do.
But of course it said nothing.
Just like him.
My phone vibrated.
I froze.
My heart jumped into my throat.
I looked at the screen.
Unknown number.
Not him.
Something inside me dropped even lower.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Emilly?”
I went still.
The voice was familiar.
Too familiar.
Too… from the past.
“Michael,” I said quietly before I could stop myself.
The silence on the other end was brief.
“I didn’t know if you’d pick up,” he said after a moment.
I stared at the wall in front of me.
Breathed slowly.
Deliberately.
“How did you get my number?”
“I always had it.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course he did.
“What do you want?”
There was no point pretending.
Not with him.
He sighed.
“I just… wanted to see how you’re doing.”
I smiled without an ounce of joy.
“Seriously?”
“Em…” his voice softened. “I know this isn’t the best time, but—”
“It never is,” I cut in calmly. “Tell me what you want.”
Silence.
Longer.
“To meet,” he said at last.
My heart… didn’t react.
And that was the most surprising thing.
Because once, that one word would have turned me upside down.
And now…
Nothing.
Almost nothing.
I looked at the pen in my hand.
At the book on the table.
At the messages that no longer came.
“No,” I said quietly.
Short.
Certain.
“Emilly…”
“No,” I repeated, stronger this time. “That’s not something I want to go back to.”
The silence on the other end was heavy.
“I understand,” he said eventually.
But he didn’t sound as if he truly did.
I hung up.
And for a moment I just stood there.
Breathing.
Slowly.
The phone was still in my hand.
One tap would have been enough.
One decision.
I opened my conversation with him.
With Tim.
My fingers hovered over the screen.
My heart started beating faster again.
This time differently.
Not from fear.
From choice.
I typed:
Hey.
Stopped.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Do you still have that day off?
I hesitated.
It was… clear.
Too clear.
But maybe that was exactly what I needed.
I took a deep breath.
And hit send.
I set the phone on the table.
Beside the pen.
Beside the book.
And sat down on the bed, feeling everything in me wait.
For an answer.
For anything.
For a step.
This time from his side.
The phone didn’t vibrate.
A minute passed. Then another.
I sat on the bed, staring at the screen as if the force of my gaze alone could make it answer.
Nothing.
I set the phone on the bedside table.
“All right,” I whispered to myself. “Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe…”
I didn’t finish.
Because every maybe was starting to sound like an excuse.
I got up, walked through the apartment, turned on the kitchen light, then turned it off. Made tea. Didn’t drink it.
My thoughts kept circling back to that one message.
Do you still have that day off?
Too direct. Too late. Too much.
“Perfect, Hart,” I muttered, leaning against the counter. “Impeccable timing.”
My phone stayed silent.
And just when I was starting to convince myself that no answer was coming…
There was a knock.
I froze.
One knock.
A short pause.
Another.
My heart leapt into my throat.
I wasn’t expecting anyone.
Not at this hour.
I walked to the door slowly, as if every step mattered. My hand hovered above the handle.
“Who is it?” I asked, though I already knew.
Silence.
And then his voice.
“Me.”
That one word was enough.
I opened the door.
He was there.
Tim.
No uniform. That same calm version of himself I knew—but something in his expression was different.
Tighter.
As if he had come here with a decision, not by accident.
“You didn’t text back,” I said before I could stop myself.
“I know.”
Short.
No apology.
No excuses.
And that… only heightened the tension.
“So…” I swallowed. “Does that mean no?”
He looked at me carefully.
For too long.
“It means yes,” he said at last. “But not over the phone.”
The air between us grew heavier.
I could hear my own breathing.
Too fast.
Too loud.
“You could have texted.”
“I could have.”
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t defend himself.
Just stood there.
“But you came,” I said.
“Yes.”
He stepped a little closer.
Not much.
Enough.
The warmth of his presence hit me faster than I should have let it.
“Why?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Silence.
Longer this time.
His gaze moved over my face as if he were searching for the right words—or a reason not to say them.
“Because…” he started, then stopped.
His jaw tightened.
“Because this isn’t something I want to start through messages.”
My heart did something strange.
As if, for a moment, it forgot how to beat.
“What is this?” I asked.
I should have stayed silent.
Really.
But it was already too late.
We took another step toward each other.
Or maybe it was only me who moved.
I wasn’t sure.
“What’s happening,” he answered quietly.
He stopped.
Close.
Too close.
I could feel his breathing.
Steady.
Controlled.
Unlike mine.
“And what is happening?” I whispered.
And that was the moment.
That one.
The one in which everything could change.
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
For one second.
Maybe two.
It was enough.
I felt the tension rise, as if the air between us had become too dense to breathe.
“I don’t know yet,” he said at last.
And stepped back half a pace.
As if he had just broken something inside himself.
As if he had to.
That hurt more than it should have.
“Then why are you here?” I asked more quietly.
There was no anger in it.
Only… something raw.
Real.
He looked at me.
Straight on.
“Because when you texted…” he stopped for a moment, “I didn’t want you to think I had disappeared.”
I went still.
“But you did disappear,” I said.
Softly.
He didn’t deny it.
“I had to slow down,” he said after a moment. “This isn’t something I walk into lightly.”
My heart tightened harder.
Because neither do I.
“Neither do I,” I whispered.
The silence returned.
But this time it was different.
Full.
Charged.
Almost…
“Coffee,” he said suddenly, as if he had remembered why he was here. “Still on?”
I smiled faintly.
Uncertainly.
“Now?”
“Now.”
I looked past his shoulder.
At the night.
At the world, which suddenly felt closer than usual.
Then back at him.
“Give me five minutes,” I said.
He nodded.
He didn’t come inside.
He didn’t push.
He just waited.
As always.
And I closed the door for a moment, leaning my back against it.
My heart was pounding like mad.
“What are you doing…” I whispered to myself.
But I already knew.
I opened my eyes.
And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t want to back away.
The café was almost empty.
The Quiet Bean looked different at night—softer, more intimate. The lights were dimmed, as if someone had deliberately turned down the world and left only what mattered.
The barista looked at us with mild surprise, but said nothing. We ordered coffee.
Black for him. With milk and a lemon note for me.
We sat at a table by the window.
The same one I had sat at a few days earlier.
Only now… I wasn’t alone.
At first we said nothing.
And it wasn’t awkward.
The silence between us was… dense, but calm. As if each of us knew that what truly mattered would happen anyway—without rushing.
He set his cup down on the table.
The same motion I remembered.
Controlled. Quiet.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.
I looked up.
“For what?”
“For pulling back.”
I hadn’t expected that.
Not from him.
“You could,” I answered after a moment. “You had every right to.”
“That doesn’t mean it was okay.”
I held my breath.
He was watching me carefully, as if he didn’t want to miss a single reaction.
“Why?” I asked softly.
I didn’t have to be more specific.
He knew.
He leaned back slightly in his chair.
“Because…” he paused, as if choosing his words, “this isn’t something I want to ruin by rushing it.”
My heart trembled.
“You think we could ruin it?”
His gaze was steady.
Too steady.
“I know we could.”
That hit harder than it should have.
Because it didn’t sound like fear.
It sounded like experience.
I took a sip of coffee.
It was warm. Slightly bitter.
Soothing.
“I pulled back too,” I said at last.
He raised a brow slightly.
“When?”
“When I wrote maybe.”
A shadow of a smile crossed his face.
“I noticed.”
“And what did you think?”
Silence.
Brief.
But meaningful.
“That you needed time.”
I bit my lip.
“And you?”
“Me too.”
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t pretend.
And that… was the most disarming thing of all.
Outside the window someone hurried past, car lights cut across the glass, then vanished.
Inside, there was only the two of us.
And the coffee, slowly growing cold.
“It’s strange,” I said quietly.
“What is?”
“That with you, I don’t feel like I have to hurry.”
His gaze softened slightly.
“That’s good.”
“But also…” I hesitated, “it scares me a little.”
I don’t know where it came from.
It just came out.
The truth.
He didn’t judge me.
Didn’t contradict me.
“Me too,” he said after a moment.
I froze.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
It was the first time he had said it that plainly.
Without distance.
Without that controlled layer of his.
And suddenly…
It wasn’t just a conversation anymore.
I set my cup down.
My fingers were trembling slightly.
“So what do we do?” I asked softly.
I hadn’t meant to ask.
But it was too late.
He looked at me for a long time.
Too long.
As if he were truly thinking about it.
“We go slowly,” he said at last.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning…” he leaned slightly forward, “we don’t run.”
My heart sped up.
“But we don’t throw ourselves into something we don’t understand.”
He was close.
Again.
Not like before.
Calmer.
But more deliberate.
“And if I want to understand faster?” I whispered.
That was risky.
Too risky.
His gaze dropped to my mouth.
Again.
The same moment.
The same mistake.
Or… not a mistake.
His hand moved across the table.
Stopped right next to mine.
He didn’t touch me.
Not yet.
“Then…” his voice was lower than before, “you have to tell me when it’s too much.”
I didn’t move.
I didn’t pull away.
My fingers trembled.
A centimeter.
Maybe less.
It was enough.
Gently.
Almost imperceptibly.
He touched my hand.
As if checking whether he could.
I didn’t pull away.
My breath stopped.
The world slowed.
“Tim…” I whispered.
And that was enough.
He pulled his hand back.
Immediately.
As if he had crossed a line he wasn’t sure of.
The warmth remained.
On my skin.
Under my skin.
Through my whole body.
The silence came back.
But now it was different.
Louder.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be.”
He looked at me.
Surprised.
“You don’t want me to?”
My heart thudded harder.
“I do,” I said.
Too fast.
Too honest.
Too much.
Silence.
Again.
But this time… there was no going back.
Outside, the night was calm.
The city breathed at its own pace.
And I sat across from him, with a heart that for the first time in a very long while was no longer trying to run.
Only… to stay.