Later, once I’d gotten to know Teresa a little better, she said to me, half-jokingly:  “If we’d known Elliott Lin was hiding someone like that, the squad would've milked it for all it was worth.”

That’s when I learned that Elliott’s whole lone-wolf, zero-attachments, reckless-as-hell lifestyle had been a long-standing headache for the major crimes unit. They’d even tried setting him up on blind dates—more than once—hoping that if he had someone waiting at home, maybe he’d stop throwing himself into danger like a walking insurance write-off.

“Tsk. We spent years trying to sort him out,” Teresa said, tossing me a can of Coke. “And turns out, he just handled it all quiet-like. Didn’t say a damn thing. Not that I blame him—I mean, where’s he gonna find someone who looks like you, so—”

She cut herself off mid-sentence. Froze.

Then, clearly flustered, she spun around and started aggressively pressing buttons on the vending machine with a little too much enthusiasm.

“Someone who looks  like you, so—”
She never finished the thought. But between that drawn-out tone and the way she’d stared at me the first time we met, it wasn’t hard to guess what she wasn’t saying.

And it definitely wasn’t a compliment.
No one’s ever called me “good-looking.” Not seriously.

I raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. I had a hunch about what she meant—but I pushed it down fast. Whatever it was, it wasn’t my business. And even if it was, I knew better than to open that door.

As for what happened that day… we never talked about it again. It was like some quiet pact had been made.
I’m not even sure Elliott remembers.

He recovered fast—almost too fast, really.

Two days after the surgery, they moved him out of observation.

Two weeks later, the doctors cleared him to go home with a cast. Just like that.

The day he was discharged, Teresa showed up. She helped him out of the wheelchair, shoved him into my passenger seat, then leaned in through the window and locked eyes with me.

“Doctor’s orders,” she said slowly. “Mr. Daredevil here is to rest at home for a full month. If I so much as catch a glimpse of him near the unit before then, you’re both dead.”

Elliott looked like he wanted to argue.

One warning glance from Teresa shut him right up.

She gave me a smug little grin, clearly pleased with herself, then turned and walked away.

Elliott didn’t say a word the whole drive home. The only thing breaking the silence was the GPS chirping out directions every now and then.

It wasn’t until we parked that he finally muttered,
“Thanks… for all the trouble.”

He looked kind of stiff.

And maybe it was the neck brace, but he suddenly reminded me of a Labrador wearing one of those ridiculous plastic cones.

I couldn’t help it—I laughed.

He really was… kind of a weird, endearing human being.

======

After Elliott was discharged, our “home” gradually started to feel… lived-in.

How should I really describe it?
It’s like you’ve been living alone for thirty years, and one day you accidentally bring home a Husky that specializes in tearing up the place.

The next morning, before dawn, I was jolted awake by a deafening crash.
Still half-asleep, I stumbled into the kitchen—and found Elliott standing there, frozen in the middle of a glittering mess, looking sheepish as hell.

I blinked.
Don’t ask me how, but he’d managed to knock down an entire row of cups. The floor was covered in shards—glass, porcelain, all colours and patterns—a real masterpiece of destruction.

He stood stiffly in place, neck brace locking his head in an awkward position, clearly too scared to move.

He looked up at me and gave the most strained little smile I’ve ever seen.
“…Sorry.”

He couldn’t even see the glass on the floor, let alone move his foot safely. I started walking toward him to help, but he instinctively stuck out his arm to stop me.
“Wait—” he began, but maybe he moved too fast. The arm in the cast jolted, and he gasped sharply from the pain.

“Okay, okay, stop—” I rushed over, gently pushed him back, and used my foot to sweep some of the shards away. Then I slowly helped him out of the mess.

“Come on, you walking accident. I am not doing another ER run.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, speechless.

“What do you need?” I asked, crouching to gather the broken pieces.

He hesitated, pressing his lips together. His expression was so complicated it was hard to read. After a moment, he muttered, very quietly,
“…Could I have a glass of water?”

When I turned around to hand it to him, I noticed his ears were completely red.
He said “thanks,” then immediately followed it with another “sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” I said, exasperated. “You’re my legal spouse—I should be looking after you, shouldn’t I?”

“—I… no!”
At that, Elliott practically jumped in protest.
Only then did I realize I’d said the wrong thing. I rushed to clarify:
“No, I didn’t mean it like that—”

God.
Who has the brainpower to be logical at four in the morning?

I ran a hand through my hair and tried again.
I just meant—we’re sharing a place now, whatever the label. Even roommates help each other out. That’s normal, isn’t it?”

He sat rigidly on the sofa, silent for a long time.
The kitchen light cast a pale glow across the side of his face.
It looked like he was trying to find the right words.

“…What I meant was,” he said slowly,
“I’ve been on my own for a long time. I shouldn’t be troubling you like this…”

“…I’m sorry.”

I let out a long sigh.