He'd only ever had one love in his whole life, one true love that he'd devoted years to, and Henry had sworn to himself that there would never be another, that there would only be three people in all his years to ever know his secret and accept it (make that four, if Adam was considered).
But Jo made him think differently, sometimes, when she'd had a hard day at work and invited him for drinks at her favorite bar, when she stared at him with quiet amazement each time he noticed the small details otherwise gone overlooked, when she smiled at him each time he revealed to her some secret truth. She made him reconsider it, for just a moment, and imagine a life where she was still his partner, where she still solved murders at his side, but instead of treating him with such care she would know that he'd be fine, that he'd never truly be harmed.
Instead of having that quick, instinctual panic in her eyes each time a gun was trained on him, she'd let him fend for himself, knowing that even if the fatal shot was fired, he'd be back with her in only fifteen minutes or so.
It was a nice thought, and he found himself entertaining it more and more as the time he spent with her lengthened. He visualized a moment, perhaps a few years into any relationship they might have had, with her slumbering beneath the rays of early morning light coming into their bedroom, dark hair spread out over the pillows and eyelids peacefully closed, as he ran the back of his hand down her cheek, mesmerized at the soft, warm skin beneath his touch, heart fluttering like it hadn't in decades.
Even now, he could feel the fondness, the affection, and it was a blossoming thing that carried past his daydreams and into the reality of their lives.
And it was, inevitably, a contagious thing, but neither knew it yet.
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