Chapter title inspired by "Stuck in a Moment" by U2, as sung by Scarlett Johansson.
****Trigger Warnings****
PTSD, workplace sexual harassment, mild physical assault
_
Jim watched the first rays of sunrise filter through Claire's wooden blinds and fall on her sleeping form. He was positive she was the most beautiful woman to ever walk the earth, and she was his. How the hell he'd walked out on her willingly over a month ago now boggled his mind. You didn't leave a woman like Claire Greene; she owned you, with your heart tight in her grip and your balls in a vise.
But in the sunrise silence before their hectic work day would begin, Jim noticed the smooth, relaxed lines of her face, the gentle rhythm of her breath, and the way her body melded into the mattress with zero tension while curled into a ball at his side. He was warm from head to toe when he recalled the word "Daddy" fluttering from her mouth in her breathy, excited moans.
It was a submission on her part, of course, but different from his own. When he submitted, it was to her every whim and command. When his princess submitted to him, she was still granting him the ability to serve her... to worship her... just like he did Mistress. But she trusted him to make the calls, to sense her needs and to satisfy them. Jim was learning that there were different types of Dominants, and he fucking adored being a Daddy Dom.
"It's time to wake up, my princess," he murmured in her ear, his fingertips softly tracing her hairline. "You don't want to be late for work, do you?"
Claire stirred and stretched, her full lips drifting into a smile. "Good morning, Daddy. How did you sleep?"
"Like a log, baby girl."
Claire ran a hand along the side of his bare torso, her face twisting with concern and instantly aging back to Mistress. "I think we were a bit too rough at the club the other night, Pet. You need to take it easy until this heals a little more. It seems swollen."
"You were worth it," he responded, reaching over to grab his glasses and push them up with a grin. "I've been excited about that swing in Room 5 for awhile now."
Claire kissed the scar by his ribs delicately and continued to trail her lips over his belly toward his navel. He stopped her with a firm hand in her hair.
"Not today, little one. I can't be late. We're moving in on Mickey Flannery today. They've gotten away from us for the last time."
Claire sighed. "You're the commissioner, Jim. You know what that means, right? You commission others to do these things for you. You don't have to tag along on every single takedown anymore."
"Thanks for the vocabulary lesson, Claire," Jim said dryly. "And 'tag along?' I do a little more than that. Give me some credit."
"Of course you do, Jim, but you don't need to. Gotham needs your brilliant mind. Stop risking this sexy body."
Claire coaxed him onto his stomach with kisses and a light push. She ran her fingertips over the stab wound on his side once again and drifted upward to the small, round scar on his right shoulder. It was where his vest had stopped the bullet from wreaking much worse havoc the day of Commissioner Loeb's funeral. Claire hadn't been near the front of the crowds; she'd only heard the panic as the chaos had trickled down the crowded avenue like a wave at a football game. Only later when Kay's name had appeared on her phone had Claire learned Lieutenant Gordon was dead. The news had left a nauseating pit in her stomach.
"I'll need your help with his arrangements, Greene," Kay had told her. "We're trying to take as much pressure off Barbara as possible."
Of course Claire hadn't loved him back then, so he hadn't necessarily been hers to mourn. But she'd respected him, had always felt drawn to him... even when he was a lieutenant and head of MCU. Sometimes he'd smile and say good morning, and her mind would spiral down a brief, strange path where she'd just imagine him holding her. It hadn't even been sexual, really— just a fantasy of comfort with him at the helm. Those crucial and agonizing hours he'd faked his death to ensure the Joker's capture hadn't left her with a new empty hole, as it likely had Barb... more like an acute awareness of a hole she'd already had... one that somehow didn't seem so gaping and lonely whenever Jim Gordon was around.
She hadn't known what to make of that eerie, somber feeling at the time. Of course once he came back, a hero and the newly-named commissioner, she'd joined in celebration at his well-deserved promotion. His move to the big office meant more time with the administrative staff in the aftermath of those chaotic weeks, so naturally she'd been happy. He'd elected to keep his own office with the team instead of working out of City Hall like Loeb had done. Jim preferred to be hands on, boots on the ground, and for his team to know he was with them every step of the way.
Jim couldn't have been hers, of course, but she had been okay with that back then. Him being a devoted husband and father was one of the things that made him so attractive. And it wasn't like she'd been in a position to be someone's wife and mother anyway; Mistress didn't do those things. At all. Admiring him from a distance had been easy... and comforting.
But now, as she massaged his skin, still warm from the bed, the knowledge that she was his filled that empty ache until her insides overflowed. Not just his... but his princess...
"Mmm, that feels good," Jim moaned into the pillow as she dug her hands into his neck muscles. "But I have to be there today, Claire. We have to get ready."
She sighed and sat back on her heels. "Please promise me you'll be careful."
Jim turned over and kissed her sweetly. "You know I will. And the team's gonna wrap this case up today... and you and I will go out tonight to celebrate. How about that steakhouse in the Diamond District... what's the name? Rare?"
Claire nodded. That was actually where Hans had taken her the night they'd met to discuss Grace's birthday... and discuss Jim. But she wasn't about to tell Jim that and rain on his parade.
"That would be amazing, Jim," she said instead. "Since we're in a hurry... what would you say to a shower together?" She tugged him to his feet and backed her silk-clad body toward the bathroom.
He gave her a mock glare. "As long as you behave yourself in there, kiddo."
XXXXXX
The door to the administrative hall burst open just as Claire was packing her bag in anticipation of going home. Even though she had her own car now, thanks to Hans, Jim had refused to let her drive herself to and from the station since her kidnapping. In fact, she hadn't been out of the man's protective shadow since Valentine's Day. This meant Jim's hours were now hers— a horribly inconvenient reality that resulted in many late nights of office-delivered takeout and solitaire games on the computer while she waited.
The familiar faces of MCU trickled in, but they wore harried expressions— their stride was swift and tense. Claire felt a tingling panic rising in her chest that she couldn't name, but when she saw Detective Foley enter next and unlock Jim's office, she suddenly wanted to throw up. She rose and crept to the glass paneled door, her voice shaking.
"Detective— what happened?"
"Go sit down, Greene," Foley said in an annoyed tone. "What are you even doing here this late?"
She ignored his brashness. "Where's the commissioner?"
"Awfully worried about your holiday dance partner, aren't you?" Foley retorted.
The man was such a smart ass. She had the urge to smack his face, even though he wasn't the least bit worthy of such.
"Just tell me— "
"Greene— please give the detective and me a few moments," came Jim's somber voice.
Claire did her best to disguise the relief on her face at seeing Jim's panting, sweaty form standing in the doorway. Composing herself, she nodded and obeyed. She sat back down at her desk and didn't even pretend to look busy— focusing instead on Gordon and Foley's animated and visibly stressed body language during their exchange. Other officers kept trickling in, looking ragged, some with tears. Many gathered in the large conference room at the back, consoling each other. Of course Claire knew at this point what had happened; she recognized this scenario well, although they'd enjoyed a reprieve from it since the Joker had been locked up in Arkham, the mob in Blackgate, and the Batman had fled.
Jim rested his elbows on his desk, casting his glasses aside and rubbing his eyes. Claire was fairly sure he was crying, at least a little. Foley had calmed down and just surveyed his boss stoically from across the paper-strewn surface. After a few moments of this, Jim lifted his phone and made a few calls, then the pair left the office together. Jim looked back at Claire, then hesitantly to Foley.
"Give me a minute, Peter," he said quickly. "Since Greene's still here I'm gonna get her started on a few things to help out. Go get the car warmed up."
"Jim, what— " Claire began.
He held up a hand and spoke quietly. "Lieutenant Black's gone, Claire. He was hanging out of the back of a SWAT van, trying to take a shot at Flannery. Lost his balance and fell on the pavement— of course we were flying. He might have been just banged up, but some freak on a motorcycle just sped right across his body. It was like he was waiting for us, Claire. We don't even think it was related to the case... just some rogue nut in a mask with a vendetta against the cops. Foley and I are headed in his car to Black's partner's house in Otisburg. I want you to take my car straight home — to your place, not mine. If they're targeting cops, your apartment is safer, I think. Hell, I don't even know anymore."
His hands rested on his hips, his jacket flaps pushed back in classic Jim Gordon stance. Claire stood and gave him a reserved hug, hoping the interaction would be excused in their moment of grief if anyone happened to notice.
"I'm so sorry, Jim," she whispered. She had always struggled with what to say when faced with tragedy; no words ever seemed to be enough. So she decided to ease his anxiety rather than his pain. "This was a one-off. Obviously a tragedy. Black was an amazing officer... and a fun guy. Irreplaceable, really. But don't worry about me— I'll text you when I get home. You just be there for his family."
She wanted to give him a kiss of reassurance but settled for a squeeze instead. Jim just nodded, his eyes weary as they raised to hers. She could tell more than just this evening's events were weighing on his mind— decades of losing good men and women, worrying about the lives of those he held most dear, and seeing foreboding patterns cast shadows over a city he knew like the back of his hand.
"Sometimes I wish I could give it all up, kiddo," he muttered. "But I never can."
He pulled back reluctantly after dropping his car keys in her hand, knowing that eyes from the conference room had a perfect view straight to her desk. Claire wanted to do something more, but she was helpless as she watched him retreat to the elevator and back to the twilight streets. She found herself nervous as she grabbed her purse, the terror of waking up in that dank, cold warehouse— cut, bruised, and frightened for her life — creeping back into her mind. She hadn't been alone since, and the prospect was sending her into a panic.
"You're here pretty late, Greene," Detective Evans commented, emerging from the gathering in the conference room. He'd refrained from his normal smirk and trouser adjustment, presumably out of respect for the lieutenant's passing.
"Yes, just tying up some loose ends," said Claire. "I'll be leaving soon."
"May I offer you a ride home?" the detective offered. "It's been an eventful evening— I'm sure a friendly car ride beats the stench of the monorail, yes?"
"No, I have a car." She instantly regretted the words.
Sure enough, the older man crossed his arms, and the usual smirk quickly returned. "Then let me walk you out— I insist."
Damn it! I can't exactly let him see me getting into Jim Gordon's car, now can I?
"I've really got it, Detective," insisted Claire. "Go home to your wife— I'm sure as soon as Ji- , uh, Gordon and Foley talk to Black's partner, they'll do press. Your wife will be worried sick watching the news."
"She goes to bed early," Evans said with a dismissive grin.
"Before dinner time?"
"Come on, Greene. I don't bite. Let me walk you to your car. Gotham streets are no place for a lady." He placed a hand at her waist and gave her a push toward the elevator.
"Please don't touch me, Evans," Claire said sharply. "I've got it. Good night."
She walked swiftly to the stairs instead of the elevator, hoping she could beat him downstairs and take off in Jim's car before Evans could see what vehicle she was driving. But he was right on her tail, of course... the lecherous creep.
"I'll stay back and just watch you," he called with a chuckle. "I'm sure your daddy would be happy you've got a gentleman willing to see you out at night."
Claire grimaced and tightened her grip on her purse strap, her heels clicking on the pavement. Of course he meant her real father (didn't he?), but the patronizingly sexist words gave her pause and reinforced the fact that she definitely couldn't let him see her in Jim's car... just in case there had been talk around the station. Of course Jim would never in a million years brag about their bedroom games with anyone, but their age difference along with their sexy dance at the ball was enough to spur 'daddy' talk.
She sighed. "Detective, I— "
"Yes?" Evans asked slyly, quickly closing the distance between them on the sidewalk.
Everything in her gut regretted what she was about to say, but she knew Jim didn't want their relationship known to anyone but Kay. She was sure he had his reasons, and she wasn't going to ruin it by inventing some lame ass excuse as to why she was driving the commissioner's car.
"I'm actually so dumb," Claire said with an off handed laugh. "I rode the monorail in today. My friend borrowed my car. Would you mind giving me a lift? Hands to yourself of course," she added in a warning tone.
"Not at all," he replied. "And of course." He held up his hands in surrender and led her to his silver Buick. As she nervously slid into the passenger seat, she got a huge whiff of Sweet Breath and a cologne that smelled overwhelmingly of vetiver. It served as a reminder of what Jim had said in the club about scent. Not all "daddy" smells were created equal; this one was as repulsive as Jim's was irresistible.
As Harry Evans shuffled into the driver's seat, Claire instantly felt guilty for disobeying Jim. She pulled out her phone and started skimming social media, hoping the detective would take the hint and drive in relative silence. She should have known better.
"You know I've always wanted to get to know you, sweet pea. Ever since my transfer to Gotham last year. What a hot ticket like you is doing at a desk in that grubby place is beyond me. You should be on the cover of a magazine."
Claire ignored his "compliment" and skimmed through recipes on the new Pinterest app she'd downloaded last week. She'd started a board of all the things she wanted to learn to cook with Jim.
"I don't know what to think of these so-called 'smart' phones," Evans mused. "Nobody pays attention to anyone anymore."
Pretty sure that's not the reason no one pays attention to you, Claire thought, but she just gave a mild laugh.
"I live in the Village, by the way," she told him as he pulled onto the main thoroughfare.
"Ahhh, very nice. Boyfriend's place?"
"No, mine," she corrected curtly.
Evans looked over with a wink beneath a heavy silver eyebrow. "So you're single?"
"I'm in a relationship. And you definitely are." Claire minced no words and returned to drool-worthy photos of paella and carbonara.
"We're open," the bold detective continued. "Swingers, actually. What's the boyfriend like? My wife has a type but could be persuaded. I'm sure he's young and attractive to score a prize like you."
So what makes you think I'd want to swing over to you, asshole? Claire thought.
"He's the 'not interested' type," answered Claire. "As am I, but thank you."
Evans didn't give up of course, carrying on as he screeched to a stop at a busy four-way. He regaled her with tales of how they'd entered the lifestyle on their honeymoon to Key West and how surprised she'd be at some of the Gotham characters that showed their faces at GSC... Gotham Swingers Club, of course.
"I thought you might actually be a secret member," Evans said with a chuckle. He knuckled the gear shift and twisted his hand in an attempt to brush her nearby knee. "That day you made the comment about a standing engagement with 'whoever gets there first.' I've been keeping an eye out for you ever since. The new boyfriend keeping you away?"
"Racquetball, detective," she replied with a pointed look. "I play racquetball regularly, with whoever gets there first."
Well, that was a complete lie. Or maybe not complete... I do slap my fair share of balls around, she mused inwardly.
"Silly me," he remarked. "That was embarrassing."
"It's okay... we'll pretend we never had this conversation," Claire returned. "Now, does your wife like to cook? She should check out Pinterest..."
Claire managed to spend the rest of the world's longest car ride talking about food and hearing about his wife's famous pineapple Ritz-cracker casserole. She jumped with relief and gave him a brief thank you as soon as they reached the front of her building, not even giving him time to open her door like Jim would have insisted on doing. But Evans was on her heels again within seconds.
Fuck... why can't this dense bastard take a hint? I flat out told him no!
Claire suddenly remembered that many men in the real world didn't take hints. They took what they wanted. Felt entitled... like Benny had.
"Maybe I should sample your abilities for myself, hmm? Would you like that?" Benny's voice still growled in her head.
Her senses were suddenly filled with that moldy basement smell, mixed with the odors of blood and piss and her kidnapper's sweaty body. As she ascended the steps, her mind seemed to become only half-conscious of the present. She heard Harry Evans's footsteps echoing hers in the stairwell, but she couldn't gather her speech faculties enough to ask him why. Instead her feet just sped up, lumbering up the stairs sometimes two at a time, the impact of her feet on each seeming to shatter her knees, which threatened to buckle as her body recalled the painful restraints.
A voice somewhere in her head, masterful, like Mistress... reminded her that her therapist said this was normal. Sometimes the memories would come back, but they wouldn't just be memories. Her mind would interpret them as real. She was supposed to breathe... she was supposed to ask for help... but who the fuck could help her right now?
Her chest felt tight when she reached her front door, and she struggled to breathe as she fumbled with her key.
"Slow down there, sweet pea," Evans called from the bottom of the last stairwell. "I'm not as young as I once was."
"What are you doing here?" she asked shakily. "I'm fine. Please go home."
"Calm down, sweetness," he said, closing the gap between them. "Was just going to see if you had a soda or some juice before I head out. Blood sugar's feeling a little low."
Claire tried to still her breath as she opened the door and walked robotically to her fridge. This was it. She'd pour him the damn juice in a paper cup and tell him to hit the road. The man had tried to cross too many lines tonight. She listened to the orange liquid pool in the cup and whipped around to take it to him, only to find herself face to face with his chest, his toes brushing hers. The juice splashed and hit him in the face; he reached up to steady himself on her shoulder, but her adrenaline had already spiked to a fever pitch.
Her fist met the detective's jaw squarely, and suddenly her mind was watching herself in a movie as she threw her entire weight against him, pinning him to the counter. Her fist landed again, this time on his nose, then again, punching him and ramming him frantically into the butcher block top.
Stop! Stop it now! Mistress commanded, but Claire wouldn't listen— she just kept hitting and hitting, listening to her angry, feral sounds shriek through the apartment before disintegrating into tears. Evans was too stunned to react— she'd heard a grunt or two, distantly, as if there were yards between them instead of centimeters. Her senses and her logic were horribly mismatched— part of her mind felt like it was seeing her act like a madwoman, but yet she couldn't stop... not until her hand began to burn with pain.
"Oh god!" Claire shrank back, and when she removed her body from his, Evans sank limply to the floor. Her field of vision slowly went from blurred to acute, and she could see blood on his already swelling face.
For a few moments she just stood there, holding her shaking hands to her lips, frozen and terrified at what she'd done. What had shedone? She couldn't even remember! She truly had lost her mind! Surely whatever the detective had done hadn't been worth this!
Trembling, Claire dropped to her knees and checked the man's pulse. He was out, for sure, but still alive. Yes— alive. Thank god. But still she panicked... a different kind now... a more logical, tangible panic. She would be in so much trouble. She'd get fired for sure this time. This was five hundred times worse than a turn around the dance floor with the commissioner or fooling around in a closet. She'd physically assaulted a detective! But wait... hadn't he harassed her in a way? The things he'd talked about tonight were hardly appropriate discussions for a co-worker, and she'd repeatedly told him no... and to stop...
But it wasn't worth all THIS, Claire!
Jim was going to hate her. She'd disobeyed his orders, and now she'd gone and gotten herself an all-but-guaranteed assault charge. He'd just forgiven her for being a criminal's whore, and now she was a fucking criminal herself.
She ordered herself to stop spiraling. She had to think straight... had to get ahead of this. Her first move was to clean the man up and get a better look at his wounds. Had he hit his head on the wooden counter? Is that why he was knocked out? Surely she hadn't bashed his head in with her fist... even Mistress couldn't be that strong...
Claire started crying again as she knelt down with her first-aid kit to start cleaning and patching up the man. It honestly wasn't as bad as she'd thought, once the initial mess was cleaned. Blood nearly always made things look worse than they were. But she worried about a concussion still. And about what the man's wife would say.
Well, perhaps he should stop trying to swing without her, she thought haughtily.
She wasn't sure how much time passed before Jim arrived. She had given him his own key, and he had done likewise, since he'd insisted on staying together to protect her. Now she clearly understood why; she couldn't be trusted alone. She sat frozen in time as she waited, knowing she needed to do something but terrified of the ramifications. She jumped only when she heard the key turn in the lock.
Jim swung the front door open and stood there bathed in the hallway's dim fluorescent light. He paused, his face expressionless as he took in the sight of the crumpled form on the kitchen floor.
"What the actual hell, Claire?" he muttered, immediately rubbing his face before looking again, obviously hoping the sight would magically fade away.
Claire stood, her limbs visibly shaking again. She recounted the night's events as best she could, from her reasoning for going with Harry in the first place, to his suggestive remarks, his swinging invitation, and her feelings of unprecedented panic. Jim knelt down and calmly assessed the detective's body while she spoke, showing zero emotion.
"Bring me some ice," he said stoically.
Claire scrambled to the kitchen and brought him a handful of cubes wrapped in a kitchen towel.
"Is it bad?" she whispered.
"No," sighed Jim. "It could have been worse. I know you said you kept punching and punching, but this honestly looks like Princess got him, not Mistress. He must have passed out from something else." Jim sat back on his heels and looked thoughtful, then his keen eyes noticed the shiny stickiness of her kitchen floor. "What's this?"
"Juice," Claire answered shakily. "He had just asked for some juice, when..."
Jim leapt up and sprang to the fridge, pouring a fresh cup of juice before jostling Evans into a sitting position.
"He's diabetic, Claire. The team is trained in ADA protocols to take care of him out in the field. He should have a glucagon pen in his car. Go check the glove compartment. Go quickly."
"Oh shit!" she exclaimed and took off down the stairs, still feeling halfway out of her own body. Luckily Evans had been feeling too sluggish to remember to lock his car, and she found a red plastic box that appeared to be the right thing. She ascended the steps at lightning speed once again, completely out of breath when she arrived.
"I'm such an idiot!" she moaned as she watched Jim administer the medication. "I feel awful!"
"Well, being a diabetic doesn't excuse you from being a jerk," Jim replied, giving the man's face a couple of light slaps in uninjured areas in an attempt to rouse him. "He should have backed off when you first declined the ride home."
"Still, I lost it," admitted Claire. "I don't know what came over me."
"You said your therapist warned you these things could happen," Jim reminded her. "Happens to our folks in the field a lot. I shouldn't have left you alone."
"Lieutenant Black died, Jim," said Claire. "He was clearly more important than me tonight. You can't be my full-time babysitter."
He nodded wearily. "I know... I know."
Harry Evans stirred. Claire said a quick thank you to the universe that his fainting spell hadn't been more severe. The man could have died right here in her apartment.
"Morning, sunshine," Jim said to the man dryly, and Harry's eyes widened as he looked around to assess his surroundings.
"Drink, Harry," Jim continued abruptly. He placed the ice on the swollen spots of the detective's face and pressed the cup to his lips, forcing him to drink.
"Jim? Fuck! What are you doing here?"
"Greene called me. You were here in her apartment, and she didn't know what to do." His tone held a note of warning, like a father with an ominous I-Know-What-You-Did sort of look.
Evans looked confused as he rose to his feet, then his swollen face finally rearranged itself into some sort of understanding. His sense of feeling seemed to return as well, as he winced and raised a cautious hand to his aching nose. He glanced at Claire and suddenly looked horrified.
"What the hell did you do to me, bitch?"
"Hey now!" Jim snapped, jumping to his feet as well.
"Jim... I mean... Commissioner... it's fine," Claire assured him. "Just a misunderstanding."
Evans stalked over to a mirror hanging near the door. "A misunderstanding that made my face look like this? What the fuck am I going to tell my wife?"
Jim's eyes narrowed and voice deepened as he replied, "How about you tell her you tried to swing but you fell off?"
The man paled but sent Jim a glare, knowing he was caught but none too happy about it. For good measure, Jim made it quite clear. He strode casually up to his detective, hands restrained in his pockets as he took a deep breath.
"Greene isn't going to report you to Kay for the things you said— which was harassment, make no mistake," Jim said sternly. "And you're going to forget you got beat up by Greene. You will not treat any member of my staff like that again, or your career is over. Got it?"
Evans's mouth curled into an amused grin. "That's a pretty dirty deal for a good cop like you, Gordon. What's in it for you?"
Jim pushed the man aside and opened Claire's door, ushering for him to exit. "A good night's sleep after a hell of a day," he answered. "One less thing to worry about, because this is a done deal. Take a couple of days off, Harry; blame the stress of Black's death... which is what should have been on your mind tonight instead of chasing a piece of ass. Now, are you feeling all right? Can you make it home?"
"I'm fine," Evans replied gruffly.
Jim sighed. Claire knew he was regretting being a good guy with such an annoying conscience. "Come on, Harry. I'll drive you home," he said. "You can worry about your car tomorrow. Greene, you got a snack for the road for the detective? And a big bowl or bucket. Glucagon can make you sick."
Claire handed Jim a couple of granola bars and her mop bucket, and the men departed. Claire locked the door and ran a bath, then she made herself a cup of tea and waited on the couch for Jim. It was so late, and it had truly been a horrible day. She frantically watched the minutes tick by, craving their bed, his touch, and to let her mind finally rest.
When Jim returned and shut the door behind him, he leaned against it and gripped the knob like it was the only thing keeping him from sinking to the floor with exhaustion.
"Sorry to call you a 'piece of ass,'" he apologized wearily. "I was kind of caught up in the moment."
Claire rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck, breathing in the smell of his jacket until her lungs nearly ached. She held him in silence until curiosity drove her to speak.
"Um, Jim? How did you know to get your car from the station? I figured you'd take an Uber since Foley couldn't drop you off here?"
"Foley took me back to the station after we visited Black's family. I didn't want him being suspicious. I planned to call a ride from there but saw my car still there and panicked. Luckily I always carry an extra key. But didn't you get my phone calls?"
Claire walked over to the kitchen and grabbed her purse. Five missed calls from Jim. She checked her phone volume... over halfway up.
"I don't even remember hearing it ring," she said softly. "I don't know where my mind went, Jim. I just..."
"Shhhh, come here." Jim brought her back to his chest, his hands running up and down her back with firm strokes. "Call your therapist tomorrow, okay? Promise me?"
Claire nodded, and Jim pressed a long kiss to the top of her head. They went to sleep with barely another word, but he held her all night long.