But, yeah, that wasn't me.
Or it had never been me before.
My brain wasn't working right or something.
All those sex hormones.
Surely, that was what was to blame.
"You alright?" Finn asked, watching me with furrowed brows as I sat up to take my mug of coffee.
"All of my parts don't seem to be working in conjunction with one another right now," I told me, shooting him a wobbly smile.
"I'll take that as a compliment," he said, looking a bit bashful as he climbed in beside me, reaching down to drag the covers up over us.
"You should," I agreed. "Though, fair warning, if you ever edge me like that again, I'm going to take retribution out on you."
"What kind of retribution?" he asked, slinging an arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer.
"I'm a fan of an eye-for-an-eye approach to things," I told him, looking up to find his horrified look.
"Fair enough," he agreed.
"Are you alright?" I asked. "Do you want to shower or something? Change the sheets? I won't be offended. I might ask you to throw some towels in if you are doing the wash, though."
"Told you, Poppy. I'm not a germaphobe. I just like things clean."
"There's not going to be anything clean about what you and I do," I told him with a smirk.
"I have no complaints about that," he said, tucking some of my hair behind my ear.
"So, we're in agreement then."
"Agreement?" he asked.
"That we are going to do this again. Preferably a couple hundred, or thousand, times."
"I can get on-board with that," he said, smiling softly at me.
"And maybe we can drink coffee together," I suggested, my voice getting quieter. Relationship talk and me, we hadn't ever gotten along well. But I was trying my best.
"Coffee is always good," he agreed, pulling my mug up to his lips for a sip.
"You know what else I like to do on occasion that you might enjoy as well?"
"What's that?" he asked, fingers stroking down my bare arm.
"Eating. I like to eat. Not cook, as we've established. But consuming. Consuming food is good."
"I do that on occasion as well," he agreed, and the slight tug of a smile at his lips let me know he was starting to see where I was going with this.
"I also am a big fan of documentaries."
"You might be able to convert me to them."
"And sometimes I like to go out."
"Yeah? Maybe you wouldn't mind some company when you do that."
"You know, I think I might like that."
"Poppy..."
"I suck at this, okay?" I blurted out.
"Suck at what?"
"Touchy-feely shit. And feelings shit. I'm not good at this."
"I'm no better."
"We're quite a pair," I mumbled. "Anyway, this is my very inelegant way of saying that maybe the two of us should explore what we have going on here."
"I think I'd like that too," he said, making my stomach wobble. "But you might not like sharing a bed with me."
"I won't even know you're there once I pass out," I told him. "I sleep like the dead. So you can toss and turn or get in and out all you want without bothering me. We will test that theory now," I said, reaching across him to put my coffee on the nightstand. "I'm suddenly exhausted."
"I can't imagine why."
"I think we should both try to get some sleep, and then get up, do some stuff, and get exhausted again."
"I like your plan, babe," he said, and the endearment made my heart trip in my chest.
"Then let's get to it, shall we?" I asked, pulling the covers up higher as Finn curled me into his chest, a place I decided I really liked being.
I could get used to this.
What's more, I wanted to.
Fate, though, it had other plans in mind.
Chapter Eleven
Finn
I was a dick.
Each moment that passed made me more and more acutely aware of that fact.
It was never my intention to allow things to go this far. I was just supposed to figure out what she knew about me and my cases, maybe throw her off my scent a bit.
I wasn't supposed to insinuate myself into her life.
I damn sure wasn't supposed to share her bed.
If she knew who I was, what I'd done, she never would have invited me there in the first place.
Poppy might have had a bit of a morbid streak, but she had a pretty north-facing moral compass.
She was never going to be okay with learning that I dismembered and got rid of bodies, that I cleaned up crime scenes, that I made it impossible for investigators to get answers.
In fact, not only would she never be okay with it, it would outright infuriate her. She took her work seriously. She knew how important trace evidence was to solving crimes. Aside from a confession, it was the only hope for families who wanted answers, who needed closure.
Even if she was able to overlook what we did—since we often did do so for the greater good—I doubted she would forgive me for taking closure away from the families.