// DALIA
3 MONTHS LATER
The precinct buzzes with the kind of energy that comes with Friday afternoon and an excuse to celebrate.
Someone has ordered far too many sheet cakes from the grocery store's bakery. The banner stretched across the bullpen reads “Good Luck Dalia & Elias” in slightly crooked letters, and I can’t help but smile at the sight.
Three months. Three months since that night in the field when I thought my world had ended, only to discover it was actually beginning. Three months of healing, of learning how to be part of something bigger than myself, of remembering that strength doesn’t always mean standing alone.
The transfer came together faster than anyone expected. Detective Locke, in what I can only assume was an attempt to make amends, called in favors with contacts in Caven County. The Ruth Quinn case had been suspended pending new leads for years now, but with the cult connection now established and Wren presumed alive but still missing, the FBI wanted fresh eyes on it. Eyes that understood the psychological profile of Vale’s organization and had first hand experience with their methods.
When Captain Everett approached us with the opportunity, I didn’t hesitate. Elias, of course, didn’t hesitate either. When I asked him if he was sure about leaving, about uprooting his entire life for a case that might not even have answers, he just looked at me with that steady gaze I’ve come to rely on and said, “Wherever you go, I go.”
Simple as that. No drama, no grand gestures, just the quiet certainty that we’re better together than apart.
The Caven County Sheriff’s Department is smaller, more personal, with the kind of tight-knit dynamic that comes from everyone knowing everyone else’s business. But Sheriff Martinez seems competent, and the FBI liaison, Agent Takamura, has already briefed us on the case files. There are leads to follow, connections to trace, a puzzle that needs solving.
More importantly, there’s hope. Real, tangible hope that we might actually find Wren alive.
“You’re going to miss this place,” Kelsi says, appearing at my elbow with a plastic cup of what I assume is punch.
I look around the bullpen—the wall of commendations and crime scene photos that tell the story of too many lives interrupted by violence. It’s been my second home for years, the place where I learned who I wanted to be as a detective.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I really am.”
“But you’re excited too.” It’s not a question.
“Terrified and excited,” I correct. “It’s a big change.”
“The best ones usually are.” She grins, and there’s something mischievous in her expression. “Besides, I’ve been shipping you two since forever. I’m just happy you finally figured it out.”
“Shipping us?”
“Come on, Dalia.”
I nearly choke on my drink. Her grin widens. “Who knew it would take a kidnapping or something equally dramatic for you both to stop being stubborn.”
“Kelsi!”
“What? I know you both. You’re too professional for your own good sometimes.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling despite myself.
“I’m going to miss you, Dalia. Promise me you’ll keep in touch.” She pulls me into a quick hug.
Across the room, I spot Elias talking with Captain Everett and a few of the other detectives. He has loosened his tie and he’s laughing at something Everett is saying. He looks relaxed in a way I rarely see at work, and my chest tightens with affection.
“He’s good for you,” Kelsi observes, following my gaze.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “He really is.”
The party continues around us—stories and well-wishes, promises to stay in touch that we’ll probably keep for a while before distance and new cases make them fade. But for now, it feels like family, like belonging, like the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.
When it’s time to leave, there are handshakes and hugs, business cards pressed into our hands with contact information “just in case.” Captain Everett pulls me aside to remind me that there’s always a place for me here if things don’t work out in Caven County, and I thank him while knowing I won’t need it.
This feels right. Scary and uncertain, but right.
By the time we get back to Elias’s apartment—our apartment now, officially, since I finally sold the house I used to live in last week—the sun is setting and we’re both slightly buzzed from the party. Moving boxes are stacked everywhere, labeled in my careful handwriting: “Kitchen”, “Books”, “Guitar & Music”.
Our life, broken down into categories and packed away, ready for transport.
“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” I say, surveying the chaos. “Moving across the country for a case that might not even pan out.”
“We’re not moving for a case,” Elias corrects, setting down his keys and wallet. “We’re moving for each other. For the chance to build something together.”
Before I can respond, he crosses the room in three quick strides and scoops me up around the waist, lifting me off my feet with the kind of easy strength that still makes my stomach flip. I shriek with laughter, wrapping my arms around his neck as he spins us both around.
“Elias! Put me down!”
“Nope,” he says, grinning up at me. “I like you right where you are.”
He carries me to the couch—one of the few pieces of furniture not yet wrapped in bubble wrap—and collapses backward, pulling me down on top of him. We’re a tangle of limbs and laughter, my fingers threading through his hair.
“Hi,” he says, suddenly serious despite the playfulness of the moment.
“Hi there, Detective Wexler.”
He reaches up to cup my face, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. “Any second thoughts? Last chance to back out before we’re officially vagabonds together.”
I pretend to consider it, tilting my head like I’m weighing options. “Well, you do snore sometimes. And your coffee is still terrible. And you have this annoying habit of being right about things…”
“Harsh but fair,” Elias acknowledges with a smile.
“But,” I continue, leaning down to brush my lips against his, “I love you anyway. Even the snoring.”
“Especially the snoring,” he corrects against my mouth.
“Don’t push your luck, Wexler.”
Six months ago, the uncertainty would have terrified me. I was someone who needed plans, who found comfort in routine and predictability. But trauma has a way of reshaping your priorities, of showing you what actually matters when everything else falls away.
What matters is this: the steady rhythm of Elias’s heartbeat under me, and the absolute certainty that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.
I think about Wren, somewhere out there, hopefully safe, hopefully healing from whatever she’s endured. I think about Ruth, who gave her life so a child she barely knew could have a chance at freedom. I think about the work ahead of us, the long hours and difficult questions and the possibility that we might actually make a difference.
I think about the man who would have given everything to get me back in one piece, the road in front of us.
And as long as we’re together, it’s perfect.
// ELIAS
Dalia shifts against me, her breathing warm against my chest, and I can’t help but marvel at how right this all feels.
How perfectly she fits in my arms, how natural it’s become to have her here, in my space, in my life, planning a future I never thought I’d be brave enough to want.
The boxes surrounding us represent more than just a change of address. They’re evidence of choice, of commitment. Six months ago, if someone had told me I’d be moving across the country with my partner—my personal partner, not just professional anymore—I would have laughed. Not because I didn’t want it, but because I never believed I could have it.
I’d convinced myself that people like me weren’t meant for this kind of happiness.
“What are you thinking about?” Dalia asks, tilting her head down to look at me, her hazel eyes soft with affection.
“You,” I answer honestly. “This. How I never thought I’d be lucky enough to have something like this. Someone who chooses to stay even after seeing all the broken pieces.”
“Especially after seeing the broken pieces,” she corrects, pressing a kiss to my neck. “That’s when it matters most.”
I run my fingers through her hair, thinking about the fact that I get to touch her like this whenever I want. “Are you nervous? About starting over?”
“Terrified,” she admits. “But also excited.”
“Finding Wren.”
“Finding Wren,” she agrees. “But also… building something. A life that’s ours, not just what’s left over after the job takes its share.”
I understand exactly what she means. For years, work has also been my identity, my purpose, the thing that gave my life meaning. But lying here with Dalia in my arms, surrounded by the physical evidence of our shared future, I realize that meaning can be bigger than solving cases or catching criminals.
It can be partnership. It can be the quiet moments between the chaos, the ordinary miracle of choosing each other every day.
“I love you,” I tell her, because the words still feel new enough to be worth saying out loud.
“I love you too.” She laughs, the sound bright and genuine, and leans down to kiss me again.
The kiss ignites a familiar need in me. Dalia’s touch, confident and claiming, sends a jolt through me. Her laugh vibrates against my lips as the kiss turns hungry, her fingers threading into my hair.
I don’t think I’ll ever have enough of this.
My hands find her waist, strong and sure. Before she can register the shift, I push her back firmly but carefully onto the soft cushions of the couch. She lets out a surprised little “Oh!” that turns into a gasp as I capture both her wrists in one hand, pinning them gently but immovably above her head against the couch. A grin tugs at my lips, fuelled by the spark of surprise and answering heat in her hazel eyes.
“You,” I declare, “are under arrest.”
“Oh really? And what’s my crime, Detective?” she challenges, arching her back subtly, testing my hold.
“Distraction,” I growl, leaning down to nip at the sensitive skin of her throat. “Grand theft of my sanity. And…” My free hand moves with practiced speed, fingers finding the button of her black slacks, then the zipper. “…Conspiracy to drive me utterly wild.” I tug the slacks down her hips and legs in one smooth motion, leaving her clad only in simple cotton panties. The sight of her, flushed and breathless, pinned beneath me, sends a surge of pure need through me.
Dalia playfully wiggles under me like she is trying to escape, while my other hand fumbles with my belt, the button, the zipper, shoving my own pants down just enough.
My fingers hook into the side of her panties, pulling it aside, exposing her. I push forward without hesitation, sinking into her welcoming warmth in one deep, claiming thrust.
“Elias,” Her moan is a mix of surprise and pleasure, her body arching up to meet mine, taking me in completely. For a few seconds, I’m lost in the sensation, in the sheer rightness of being with her, her wrists still captive in my hand.
I want more.
Releasing her wrists, my hands slide down her arms, over her shoulders, gripping her hips firmly. With a powerful lift, I pull her up and onto me, reversing our positions in one fluid motion. Now she straddles my lap as her hands fly to my shoulders for balance.
She braces her hands on my chest, her gaze locked on mine as she begins to move. Slowly at first, lifting herself almost off me, then sinking back down with a deep, rolling motion that wrings a groan from my throat. I grip her hips, guiding her, urging her faster, deeper. My own hips surge up to meet her downward strokes, driving into her with increasing force.
We shatter together, locked in that final, shuddering thrust. Her body collapses forward onto mine, her face buried in the crook of my neck, her breath coming in ragged, hot gasps against my skin. My arms wrap around her, holding her close, feeling the frantic hammering of her heart against my chest, matching the wild thudding of my own. The aftershocks ripple through both of us, smaller tremors of pure, spent ecstasy.
“Best arrest ever,” she murmurs.
A low chuckle rumbles in my chest. I press a kiss to the top of her head, tightening my arms around her. Surrounded by the chaos of moving boxes, the promise of an unknown future in a new city, holding the woman who chose to stay despite seeing every broken piece… this moment, this messy, perfect, real moment, feels like the only home I’ll ever need.
“Tell me something,” she says, her voice muffled against my chest. “Something I don’t know about you.”
I consider this, thinking through all the stories I could tell, all the pieces of myself I haven’t shared yet. “I used to want to be a teacher,” I say finally.
“Really?” She lifts her head, surprised.
“High school history. I had this idea that I could make a difference, help kids understand that the past doesn’t have to define the future.” I shrug. “Then I enlisted, and after that… well, police work seemed like a more direct way to make an impact.”
“Do you ever regret it? Not becoming a teacher?”
“No,” I say without hesitation. “Because if I had, I never would have met you. Never would have worked that first case together, never would have seen you tear apart a suspect’s alibi with nothing but sheer will and intuition.”
Dalia smiles, that soft expression that makes my chest tight with affection. She’s quiet for a moment, studying our joined fingers.
When she settles back against my chest, I think about all the words we’ve exchanged over the months—case theories and late-night confessions, fears spoken in darkness and dreams shared over morning coffee. But I’m beginning to understand that some of the most important communication happens without words at all.
In the way she trusts me with her body, her heart, her future. In the way I’ve learned to let her see my vulnerabilities without trying to protect her from them.
“We’re really doing this,” I say, more to myself than to her.
“We really are.” Dalia tilts her head up to meet my eyes. “Any second thoughts?”
“None,” I answer without hesitation. “You?”
“Just one.”
My heart skips. “What?”
Her grin is pure mischief. “I’m worried your guitar playing is going to scare away all the neighbors in our new apartment.”
I laugh, relief and love and anticipation all tangled up in my chest. “Our new apartment. I like the sound of that.”
“Me too.”
As the evening deepens around us, I think about all the conversations we’ll have in the months to come. About Wren, about the case, about where we want to live and whether we want kids of our own someday. About marriage and mortgages and all the ordinary complications of building a life together. There’s so much we haven’t said yet, so many plans we haven’t made, so many possibilities we haven’t explored.
Tomorrow we’ll load a moving truck and drive toward a new life, new challenges, new hopes. We’ll follow the trail that might lead us to Wren, or might lead us somewhere else entirely. We’ll learn how to be partners in every sense of the word, professional and personal boundaries blending until they’re impossible to separate.
Together. Complete in a way I never thought possible.
And in what remains unspoken between us—the promises too big for words, the love too deep for easy expression—I find all the hope I need for whatever comes next.
⫘⫘⫘⫘
THANK YOU for reading the first draft of What Remains Unspoken. This is my first ever completed manuscript and I'm quite pleased with it, even though it has quite a few issues.
It's definitely far away from a perfect story at the moment, so thank you for taking the time to read it, commenting and reacting! Any critiques and reviews are always welcome.
I'm going to miss these two, but I'll see you all very soon with another crazy story. ;)
Aurora L. ♥
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