She found him sitting alone in the hotel bar, head hanging over his glass. He could have been anywhere in the city, but he had chosen the only place he knew she'd be. She weaved through the other tables until she reached his, and sat down next to him, her fingers almost itching with a need to touch him.

She wasn't used to that. When others offered a gentle hand or hug, she accepted, but she never initiated. A small voice locked away in the back of her head wryly suggested that it was fear that held her back. Emily called it self-preservation.

"They took my gun."

His voice jolted her out of her self-diagnosis. It was raw and full of pain – something she was familiar with. But unlike that man – a man who constructed locks and doors so intricate that even he couldn't see them clearly – Don Flack had the keys hanging around his neck.

"It's standard procedure, Don," she said, vaguely wondering when she had started using his first name. "You'll get it back as soon as they clear you."

He shook his head. "Doesn't make it any better. I shouldn't have had to pull the damn trigger."

"But you did."

He shook his head again, his scowl deepening. Emily realized that he was nothing like that other man. Logic wasn't what he needed. It wouldn't stop the bleeding inside him, or help him go through the motions. Don Flack needed to be whole.

In the end, she told herself that was why she did it. A broken man was dangerous enough. A broken cop…

Her hand was reaching out before she'd even finished the thought.

He was so warm. He turned his head to look at her, but her focus was on his arm, the skin where their bodies met. That same voice in the back of her head wondered how long it had been since she had touched another person, but this time its tone was sad instead of sardonic.

She had been about to say something. But then his hand was covering hers, and she was left bare, skin on fire.

She wondered if she'd ever be able to pull away.