After taking the inevitable call from the DA and agreeing to show up for the trial, I spent most of my shift fighting the impulse to check my phone.

Hard to do when you're so used to pulling it out whenever boredom strikes. Especially if your entire job consists of babysitting some cameras and waiting around for somebody to need you. I take it seriously when something's going on, but Hamilton County Hospital's not known for its crime, so I spend a large part of every shift being ready for nothing.

I can't grab my phone and scroll through Twitter or Facebook, though, because every time I look at the lock screen I see my email notifications. They got up to twenty-four before I left. Most of those are spam, but at least one of them's from Parker, giving me more files associated with Maria Cortez's case.

As I head out to my car after a dead shift, I make a promise to myself: I'll go to Gracie's, get something to eat, bank on some good vibes from Eric, and then I'll open the damn files in the privacy of my own home. Surrounded by the beer bottles I still haven't thrown out from yesterday.

It's a fucking sad existence to strive for, but at least it's a plan. I cling to it as I make my way to Glen Springs. The drive's so familiar and the streets so empty for most of it that I zone out, living in this blissful space where I'm not thinking about much of anything aside from how hungry I am.

But when I pull into the parking lot, that peaceful tranquility is broken.

There's hardly anyone here, for starters. This place is always packed in the mornings, with cars on the grass because there aren't any parking spaces left. I'm able to pull in right up front, and it only takes a quick glance to tell me why.

There's a huge fucking hole in one of the windows, like somebody threw a chair out of it.

I'd expect this sort of thing from a dive bar. Rednecks getting up in each other's faces, shoving and punching and throwing their weight around. Eventually something—or somebody—goes flying out a window. Saw it a few times when I was a beat cop in Lexington.

But it wouldn't happen here. Glen Springs has Stepford levels of low crime to start with, and I can't imagine anybody coming to blows at Gracie's Place.

That most likely means some asshole came in here looking to rob the place. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I close my car door, and for a second, it feels like I'm arriving on scene, the first to respond. There's this energy you can feel when you go to a crime scene. It's raw and restless and sometimes chaotic, and as the responding officer, you have to keep your shit together long enough to figure out what's most important.

Even after a year away from the force, it's hard for me to approach this in any other way. My muscles tense as I walk up to the doors of the diner, and my senses are on high alert. I take note of the broken window, spotting glass on the sidewalk. I look at the door handle, too, and the door itself for any signs of damage. Whoever did this, they must have used a different entrance. Either that or the place was unlocked, but I can't imagine Eric being that absent-minded.

Eric.

A scene flashes across my consciousness: Eric at the mercy of some guy who's got a gun pointed right at him. I can feel anger building in me over a guy I barely know, and I reach for the door handle without thinking.

The door rattles, but stays put. Of course it's locked. The one thing I didn't notice in all of this is the fact that the closed sign is still out. Not like they'd be open after a robbery.

Bringing my hand up to shield my eyes from the morning sun, I look inside the building. There's somebody in there sweeping the floors like it's any other day. Only they're not just sweeping up dirt. When they hold the dustpan steady, I can see light glinting off huge shards of glass.

Movement catches my attention, and I let out a breath of relief as Eric comes out into the diner. This isn't any of my business. I should just leave it be. But I can't stop myself from tapping on the glass.

He looks over, his face an odd mix of relief and dread in the split second he sees me. As he walks over to the door, though, the Eric I've talked to almost every day for the past few months is firmly in place.

"Don't break my heart and tell me you've just been coasting by on your good looks all this time," he says, glancing none-too-subtly at the closed sign.

"What happened?" I ask through the thick glass door.

"Just a couple of kids getting their rocks off," he says dismissively. "The sheriff's station is already on it; nothing to worry about."

There's a weird tone to his voice when he says it. Normally, Eric's got this way of speaking that makes him sound like he's letting you in on some private joke. That's gone today, and when I look at him—really look at him—I see little trace of the man I'm used to seeing.

The bags under his eyes are faint, but definitely there. He's paler than he should be, and his smile is as forced as I've ever seen it. A muscle in his jaw is tense, like he's trying to consciously pin it in place until I fuck off and leave him alone.

Which you should fucking do. This isn't your deal. Just walk away.

"What kids?" I ask, defying that voice inside of me that I'm going to guess is my better judgment.

That muscle in Eric's jaw twitches and he lets out a beleaguered sigh that I think is supposed to sound dramatic. It just sounds exhausted.

The locks click and he pushes open the door.

"My kitchen's not in the best shape right now, so I can't offer you anything."

"I'm not here for that," I tell him, letting myself in and getting a look at the place.

It's a fucking mess. Big plastic tubs lined with industrial strength trash bags tell me Eric and his employees have cleaned up a lot already, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out how it used to look.

I know what a random act of vandalism looks like, and this ain't it. There's purpose in this. I can feel it all around me, as sure as I can feel the anger simmering in my blood.

Who would come in here and fuck with Eric? Who would do this to a place—to a family—that's as much a part of this town as anything else?

"What kids?" I ask again.

"Just a couple guys who were in here a few days ago," he says tersely. "As much as I appreciate this badass alpha protector routine, it's already being handled."

A retort is on the tip of my tongue. I want to press him for information, find out who these guys are and track them down. God knows if the sheriff's office handles it, it'll take weeks. They could skip town by then. Then there's the fact that this place looks like it was smashed up by somebody who knew exactly what they were doing, and that Eric is putting on this show makes me think they threatened him before. And—

And the way he's looking at me now, I shut my damn mouth. Those blue eyes are big and pleading, and I just want to wrap him up and make him feel safe. Right now, I'm doing the exact opposite of that.

It's none of your business anyway, I remind myself, letting out a heavy breath.

"Sorry," I manage, my voice strained. "Sorry. Old habits, you know?"

He arches a brow at that. Right. I've never actually told anybody here that I used to be a cop. Thankfully, Eric doesn't ask about it.

"Hey, I appreciate the concern. It's not every day a big, sexy guy goes all Papa Grizzly on my behalf."

He flashes me a toothy smile that just feels hollow. It's missing the spark, that light he normally has in his eyes. It makes me realize just how fucking devastating it is not to see Eric acting like… Eric.

Yeah, maybe it's a little selfish. Getting attention from him—even just talking with him—has always been a bright spot in my otherwise shitty days. It was like plugging myself in when my batteries are almost drained and getting just enough juice to make it through the rest of the day.

But I know it wasn't just me who benefited from that. The world's lost something today, even if it doesn't know it. Eric's lost something, too, and that's what gets to me most of all.

I rein in the urge to offer to patrol this place. It's not my job, and it's not like I could do anything if those bastards showed their faces again. Instead, I offer something a little more reasonable.

"You need a hand here?"

Eric blinks at me, obviously surprised. He looks around, like he's seeing the place through new eyes. I wonder if he's still in shock.

"Didn't you just get off a shift?"

"A shift where I sat on my ass for seven of my nine hours," I tell him.

His hand comes up to his chin, fingers stroking at shaved skin. I look past him, to where his gaze is directed now. The kitchen's even worse off than the rest of this place.

"I could use a little extra muscle, if you're willing," he says, finally looking back at me.

"Just tell me what needs to be done and I'll do it."

I spend a couple of hours at Gracie's Place helping Eric, his mom, and everybody else clean up the mess. Mostly, he has me move anything that isn't bolted to the floor so the place can be properly cleaned. Stoves, fridges, a dishwasher, and a shit ton of boxes that feel like they're filled with about fifty pounds each of government-issued cheese.

When there's nothing else to move, Eric beckons me out to the front of the diner. Shit's still busted up, but it looks better than it did. The window's even been fully knocked out, and they sent somebody to get the replacement glass from Lowe's.

"Thanks for the help, Reeve," he says, seeming genuinely grateful. "Next meal's on me."

"I don't need to be paid for my services," I answer gruffly. "I offered to help because—"

"Because you're a good guy. And not just a pretty face."

His lips quirk upward and a glint of mischief lights in his eyes, like a spark trying to catch. It's not the wattage I'm used to getting from him, but it still stirs a bit of warmth in me.

Until he can't keep hold of it. Even as I'm watching him, I see that spark just go out, not managing to kindle.

Again, I'm struck by how much that fucking hurts, and it's impossible not to think about what that means. Eric's not the kind of guy I'd expect to see unsettled. I've been in the diner when people have been dicks to him, and he's always kept his composure.

This is something else, and I have a feeling it's not going to let me rest unless I do something about it.

"Give me your phone," I tell him.

His brow furrows. "What?"

"I want you to have my number. In case you ever need it."

He looks genuinely shocked by this. So much so that he even rocks back on his heels a little, like I've knocked him off balance. "That's sweet of you, Papa Bear, but I'll be fine."

"If you take my number, I won't bug you about this the next time you're open… and I'll take your damn pity meal."

Eric's lips twitch upward, but those worry lines are still etched into his forehead. After a moment, he pulls out his phone, swipes past the lock screen, and hands it over.

"How do you know I'm not just going to sell you out to some nine hundred number?"

I snort at that, inputting my number. "Do they still have those?"

"Okay. How do you know I'm not just going to call you pretending to be a nine hundred number?"

He's trying so hard to act like normal, everyday Eric that I feel like I have to play along. Just to set him at ease.

"Guess I don't." I hand him back the phone and wait until he meets my gaze. "If you need me, call me."

There's no quip this time; no comment about how I phrased that after what he just said. He just nods, and I force myself to leave before I volunteer to stay there for the rest of the day.