During stakeouts, at night, when the chitchat in their issued SUV died down, he would study her in the faint light, seeing nothing more than a silhouette but knowing every millimeter.
The curve of her cheek, the slant of her nose, the rise of her forehead- all were familiar and foreign. Her face always seemed unreal to him. She was as finely crafted as a china doll.
Those regal brows. He'd seen her arch one in disdain or amusement or disbelief more times than he could count. Often at him, when his humor had gotten just a little too dark. They'd developed a contest between them: quietly, with a dead serious face, they'd murmur a bad pun or black-humored one-liner. First person to crack and acknowledge it lost. Rachel had finally mastered control over her (incredibly lush) lips but that one eyebrow couldn't help itself; he lived to watch it climb towards her hairline.
He hid on his side of the darkness in the car and drank her in from the corner of his eye, from under his lashes, shyly, furtively. She never acknowledged his gaze, even though he knew that she knew he was looking. She wouldn't embarrass him like that.
Whatever his mind dreamed up, whatever improbable scenarios of steamed windows and dark skin and fingertips raced through his veins, they were professionals. They had a job to do. She would never break concentration just to... well... with him. Yeah. No.
Inevitably he would be brought back to focus by something - the suspect moving, or a car driving by, or a need to pee - but the afterimage of her face would remain, long after they returned the SUV to the garage, long after they murmured their good nights, long after he returned to his silent apartment and sank into his empty bed. She remained.