A/N: This chapter contains profanity that some may find offensive.

Chapter 7. A Spring Awakening

Fitz has traded his white long-sleeved shirt for the short-sleeved version. The black tie has been discarded. The top two buttons of the shirt are undone, revealing a sparkling white crew neck undershirt. The warm weather demands the lighter and cooler materials. He leans back in his chair and blows out his cheeks. He can't seem to focus on anything today. The data analysts have done an excellent job visually displaying the latest crime report data, but he cannot make heads or tails of the pages and pages of colorful charts. Pie charts, bar charts, and line graphs are all a blur. He snatches his cell phone from the desk and walks out of the office. As the poet said, spring makes young men restless.

With arms stretched across the back of the bench, Fitz scans the landscape with quiet eyes. It's a bright sunny day. The sky is the bluest blue. The once barren trees of winter are a lush spring green. The once frozen ground has given way to colorful blooming flowers. Spring has seemingly burst onto the Boston's landscape when no one was paying attention. That's how transformations often occur; small, incremental changes quietly happening over time. One day you look up from your life and a whole new world has taken shape.

From high up in the trees a chorus of birds recently returned from hiatus sing to each other in syncopated rhythms. Geese float effortlessly on the pond without a care. Clusters of people who probably work at BPD and surrounding businesses sit at picnic tables amidst half-eaten trays of food, sweating containers of cold drinks, and crumpled white paper napkins. They laugh raucously. No one is anxious to return to their drab offices.

Fitz lifts his face skyward, enjoying the warmth of the sun. He inhales deeply, filling his nostrils with the sweet perfume of blossoming flowers like zinnias, daffodils, and cornflowers. He wonders why he's never taken the time to leave his office and enjoy the outdoors.

Crinkling his brow, he leans forward, narrowing his eyes at a man sitting on a bench a short distance down the pathway. The man is hunched over and seems to be talking to the pigeons. That's Dan O'Brien. Fitz shakes his head, thinking, the man has finally lost his mind. Other than at Sunday Mass, he can't remember the last time he saw the poor soul in public.

"Dan?" Fitz says, frowning down at the breadcrumbs sprinkled about the ground in front of the man. The city's health department discourages people from feeding the pigeons. The birds attract disease and roosting. He thinks about how for years Venice has been battling the pigeons at the famous Piazzo San Marco.

"Hello, Fitz. It's good to see you," Dan says, squinting up at the man shrouded in the sun.

"I was sitting across the way," Fitz says, looking back in the direction of the bench he vacated. "Do you mind if I join you?"

"Sure. If you don't mind being seen in public with an adulterous pariah."

Fitz steps over the bird droppings and breadcrumbs and sits down on the bench inches away from Dan. The cooing, beady-eyed birds do not fear the newest visitor. Maybe another source of food. Fitz removes his aviator sunglasses from his face and hangs them by the gold-toned metal temple from his breast pocket, the pocket below his name tag.

Dressed in a grey tee shirt with his company's name emblazoned across the chest in blue sans script letters, black running shorts that stop just above his bent knees, and a pair of pristine white Nike running shoes, Dan looks like he's been exercising. His tee shirt and hair are damp.

"Do you come to this park often?" Fitz asks.

"Three days a week. I run a few laps around the track. Feed the birds."

"You look good," Fitz says earnestly, thinking Dan looks nothing like the wretch who is ridiculed by churchgoers when he walked down the aisle of Saint Gregory's to receive communion. His eyes are clear and bright. He is transformed.

"I am good. Never better. Everyone at church just wants me to disappear. They don't want to see my cheating face. I have as much right to be there as they do," Dan says forcefully.

"Of course you do," Fitz says, slowly nodding his head up and down.

"They're all a bunch of hypocrites. They think that I got what I deserve. That Elyse should have left with the kids."

"It's nobody's business," Fitz says.

"You've always been fair, Fitz," Dan says, digging his hand into the clear plastic bag. He tosses a handful of breadcrumbs onto the walkway. The birds immediately swoop in. "Even some roommates have benefits," Dan says somberly, staring off into the distance.

"Excuse me?" Fitz says, with a confused expression on his face. Dan turns his head and stares at Fitz with fiery eyes.

"Elyse cut me off — forced me into celibacy for seven fuckin' years."

Fitz' eyes widen at Dan's unbridled honesty. Dan leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The clear plastic bag of breadcrumbs dangles loosely from his long fingers. His gaze is focused beyond the birds.

"Sex is supposed to be part of the deal, right?" he says, looking at Fitz again. "You have no idea what it's like, lying in bed next to your wife every night and not allowed to touch her. She wasn't ill. No menopause. I hoped she was having an affair. That would have at least explained it. She wasn't.

"I did my part. I did everything we men are supposed to do. I worked my ass off — slayed fuckin' dragons and all that shit. She stopped doing her part," he says through clenched teeth. "At the end of the day we were nothing more than roommates who happened to be married. A goddamn platonic marriage. We were polite to each other, of course. It's easy to be kind when you no longer care."

The pigeons circle Dan's feet, their beady eyes stare up at him hungrily. Dan throws another handful of breadcrumbs on the ground and the birds dive in again. He sighs softly and flops back against the bench. The fire has left his eyes.

"You know how it is being raised Catholic. Family is everything," Fitz nods his head and Dan pauses for a while. "I didn't want to torpedo my marriage. Who the hell wants to start over after fifteen years? But I was in a fight for what's left of my life, man. I was dying a little day by day. I don't think that's what's they mean by "til death do you part," he chuckles without mirth. "The affair saved my life."

Fitz crinkles his brow.

"It wasn't just about sex —although sex was a significant part of it, of course. I was so friggin' lonely. I craved intimacy, like an addict needing their next fix. I needed that jolt. I needed to touch and be touched by a woman —by my wife. I wanted us to do corny shit like hold hands while sitting on the sofa watching some dumb ass television show. I wanted to kiss her for no reason while she stirred a pot of soup on the stove. She didn't like any of that stuff. For whatever reason, affection wasn't important to Elyse."

Fitz listens intently, staring at Dan's profile.

"She was indignant, of course, when she found out about the affair. What did she expect after seven years of me living on an island?"

The sounds of children squealing as they splash around the spray pad to cool off capture Dan's attention. Fitz follows Dan's eyes with his eyes. He smiles at a little girl doing cartwheels the way Karen used to when she was around that age.

"What about your children? You have three if I recall?"

"They hate me. Elyse made sure of that. She won't let me see them. Maybe they won't hate me so much when they're older. Maybe they'll understand."

"What happened to the woman you had the affair with?" Fitz asks.

"That's one of my biggest regrets. She's a good person. After everything came out, she had to resign from her teaching position at the school. She moved back to Iowa. We no longer talk."

Dan breathes out heavily, stands to his feet, and sets the bag of breadcrumbs on the bench next to Fitz' thigh.

"Take care, Fitz," Dan's says as he turns to walk away.

"Was it worth it?" Fitz calls out. Dan turns around with a broad smile on his face and arms spread wide.

"Look at me. I'm alive."

"Take care, Dan."

"Feed the birds, Fitz. They won't hang around long if you don't."

XXX

Later that night, lost in his thoughts, Fitz is oblivious to the chattering that's swirling around the kitchen and the scraping of silverware against dinner plates and glasses of iced tea being plunked down on the wooden table. He cannot seem to shake his chance encounter with Dan from his mind. He brings the glass of scotch to his lips.

"Dad?" Karen says, jolting him from his thoughts.

"Excuse me?" he says, staring at his daughter with a blank expression on his face.

"Weren't you listening? Do we have to cancel my Sweet Sixteen trip to New York — with Uncle Matty being sick and all?" Karen says with a lugubrious look on her face.

"Your uncle is doing much better. We're celebrating you turning sixteen in New York City," he says, trying to sound upbeat. He brings the glass of scotch to his lips again.

"Great! Can Hillary and I have our own room?"

"No," Mellie says. "I've already made the reservations. We have a three-bedroom suite. You and Hillary will share a room. Jerry will have his own room."

"Hillary can have my room," Jerry says. "I don't want to go on a stupid Sweet Sixteen trip with those two girls."

"I don't want you there either, nerd," Karen says, reaching across the table and pushing her open palm against her brother's shoulder.

"You're going," Fitz says, shooting Jerry a hard stare. Jerry groans, dropping his eyes to his plate of half-eaten food. "And you, young lady, are staying in the suite with us. I don't want you and your cousin sneaking out at night. New York can be a dangerous city." Karen crosses her arms and pokes out her bottom lip like a toddler.

"Then why are we going there if it's so dangerous?" Jerry asks in a snarky tone.

"Because it's my birthday and I can go wherever I want," Karen replies, sticking out her tongue at her brother. "Mom, did you get the tickets to Kinky Boots? I've wanted to see that musical forever."

"They'll be waiting for us at the box office."

"Did you get tickets to MoMA?"

"Karen, calm down. I've taken care of everything. You've only been telling us what you wanted for over a year."

"Mom, may I be excused? I want to work on my science project. It's due in the morning," Jerry says, already pushing away from the table.

"Of course. Don't stay up too late."

"Good night, Dad."

"Good night, son."

"Why does Jerry get excused from dinner early and I always have to wash the dishes?"

"Your brother has to finish his science project," Mellie says.

"But he never does the dishes. He doesn't do anything around this old house."

"That's not true. He helps your father all the time."

"What century are we living in, Mom? We shouldn't have chores based on our gender. When I get married the household chores are going to be divided fifty-fifty. I'm not going to work at my career all day and come home at night to cook and clean."

"Marriage is not always fifty-fifty, Karen. It's about compromise." Fitz takes another sip.

"But the housework should be, Mom."

"So, you're a feminist now?" Fitz says, setting his glass on the table.

"You're just a traditionalist, Dad. When Conor and I get married — "

"Whoa! No more talk about marriage. You're going to college."

"Calm down, Dad. I mean after college. When we're married, Conor is going to help with the shopping, cooking, and cleaning. It's going to be fun."

"If you don't want to do your part, maybe you shouldn't get married."

"Fitz!" Mellie exclaims. He ignores her warning tone. His frustration is starting to leak out again.

"Do you want to shovel ten inches of snow in the winter? Do you want to fix a busted water heater on your only day off from work? Do you?"

Karen's chin drops to her chest. She stares down at the table as her father continues to rant.

"Get your head out of the clouds. Marriage is not a fairy tale. It's not a dream come true. It's not all sunshine and rainbows. Most married couples are miserable. Did you know that?"

Karen's eyes fill with water.

"There's no fun. No happily ever after. No walking off into the sunset at the end of the movie. The sooner you get that through your head the better off you'll be."

"Mom", Karen cries, running over to her mother. She buries her tear-stained face against her mother's chest. Her hero-father just murdered the marriage myth. He debunked everything that the fairy tale books have told her since she was a little girl.

"Fitz! What is wrong with you tonight?!" Mellie shouts, as if she doesn't know what's wrong with him. They stare in each other's eyes, seeing the wasted years of discontent and misery.

"Sweetheart," Fitz says, reaching out to touch his daughter's arm. Karen yanks away, refusing to look at him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things. I didn't mean them." Mellie continues to glare at him icily. "I'm going up to bed," he says, leaning forward to press a kiss on his daughter's wet cheek.

Mellie says, "I have to get to the center by eight in the morning. A new group of women are arriving. I need you to drop the kids off at school. Jerry can't get on the bus with his science project."

"Of course. I have a meeting tomorrow evening. Don't hold dinner for me," he says somberly before walking from the kitchen. Karen looks up at her mother. Her face is crimson red.

"Mom, what's wrong with Dad? He seems so unhappy lately."

"He's just stressed. A lot is going on at headquarters," Mellie says, placing a kiss on her daughter's forehead. "Now let's get this kitchen cleaned up."

XXX

The next night, parked in front of BPD headquarters, Ferguson eyes Superintendent Grant through the rearview mirror as he walks toward the SUV. He's changed out of his uniform and is now wearing a dark-blue suit and light-blue shirt. No necktie. A black leather portfolio is tucked under his left arm.

"Where to, sir?" Ferguson says after Fitz is settled into the backseat of the cruiser.

"Take me to the house," he says, looking down at his phone as he types a quick message to his daughter. He's been feeling guilty all day for yelling at Karen. He suggests they hang out together on Saturday. Karen replies quickly, accepting the olive branch with the father-daughter hugging emoji.

XXX

Holding a glass of bourbon and soda in one hand, Frank DiMaggio stands in front of the oversized painting hanging on the wall. He strokes his chin with his thumb and forefinger, shaking his head from side to side.

"I don't get it. What is it supposed to be?"

"It's an abstract," Fitz says, shrugging off his jacket as he walks toward the sofa.

"I like faces, beautiful scenes, mountains," Frank says, turning away from what he considers to be bad art.

"You said that last month," Fitz says, walking over to Frank and giving the man a tight hug. "Hello Frank."

Frank steps back and clasps Fitz by both shoulders. He studies his face for a moment, then puts one hand on the nape of his neck. "You should not mar such a handsome face with sadness."

"Don't start," Fitz says, walking back across the room to the sofa. Frank walks over to the bar cart. He raises the bottle of scotch. Fitz waves his hand no.

"When are you going to move into this place? It's a beautiful home. It's a shame to let it sit empty," Frank says, pouring himself another drink.

"We've been over that before," Fitz says, hunched over the coffee table flipping through the pages of DiMaggio's monthly financial report.

"This house should be filled with family and laughter and hours-long dinners."

"You know you don't need me to do this for you," Fitz says, reviewing his handwritten notes in the margins of the pages flagged with a yellow sticky note.

"And I told you, I don't trust anyone else to handle this except you!"

Fitz sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair.

"I compared this month's report to the past six months. There are discrepancies in the reported revenue on pages 5, 12, 26, and 32."

"That's why I need you. They still think that I'm some ignorant guinea straight off the boat. They think they can cheat me. I'll show them."

"Frank, you can't keep having me check your checkers. You should find lawyers and accountants that you can trust."

"Would you trust lawyers who make those kinds of mistakes?" he says making air quotes with his fingers. "I'm on to those crooks. You should come work for me —full time."

"We've already discussed that."

"You're an intelligent man. You know you cannot live this life forever."

"My life is just fine."

"When will you stop denying yourself? How much more of your life are you willing to trade to be a virtuous man?"

"My life isn't up for discussion tonight," Fitz says, still focusing on the financial report. Frank ignores the retort. He talks about whatever he wants to talk about.

"What's going on with you and Olivia?"

"What do you mean?" Fitz says. He feels Frank eyeing him closely so he keeps his head bowed pretending to read the document. Frank throws back his head and laughs.

"Don't pretend with me. Your eyes are restless when you're with her. You look at her when you don't think she will notice."

"Dr. Pope and I have a strictly professional relationship," he says, flipping the pages back and forth.

"You never come to the restaurant and now you've been there two times with her."

"I was recently there with my family. We celebrated Jerry's win at his baseball game," Fitz says, trying to sound casual. Frank looks amused. He's crafty and wise. He knows how to provoke Fitz into admitting his secret desire.

"You're a clever man, Fitzgerald. You forget, I'm clever, too. These so-called business meetings with Olivia are a sham. She's opened something in you. You desire her."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about," Fitz says with more force than he intended. He walks across the room to the bar cart to pour himself a drink.

"I know what the hell I'm talking about. Is it because she's Black? Is the thought of sleeping with a Black woman so distasteful to you?"

Fitz grimaces at Frank. "You know I'm not like that."

"If I were a younger man …." Frank chuckles softly as he sits down in the chair across from the coffee table. "A woman like Olivia doesn't come around often. It would be very easy for a man to fall for her. It would be equally difficult for a man to forget a woman like her."

"I have a wife if you've forgotten," Fitz says, sitting down on the sofa and crossing his legs.

"Hrph. You know what I think about your marriage," Frank says with disdain. "Wives forget that they are a woman first. They become mothers and all those other silly things that mothers do. You need a woman. I have one wife but many women."

"I have children." Frank smiles as Fitz' wall of denial slowly begins to crumble.

"Children are not children forever. You, my son, are a man forever. Men are driven by desire—by the things we think will give us pleasure. Be with Olivia. Screw her. Get her out of your system."

"Don't talk about her like that," Fitz snaps, glaring icily at his friend. Frank waves away the look of anger on Fitz' face.

"Ah. Protective, too," Frank says with a sneaky smile on his lips. Fitz stares down in the glass of the amber-colored liquor.

"I have nothing to offer her," Fitz says somberly. "A woman like that wouldn't waste her time on a married man," tacitly acknowledging Frank's keen observation. Frank looks at Fitz affectionately, the way a man looks at his beloved son.

"Have you seen Nico lately? He's getting married."

"We had lunch together last week. He's quite excited about the wedding."

"It's going to be a big wedding. Hundreds of people. Lots of food and lots to drink. It's going to be exquisite. His wife will make him happy. She will give him lots of children."

"Is that what she wants? Women seem to have their own ideas about what they want and don't want these days."

"I vetted her myself," Frank says proudly. "She will give me many grandchildren."

Fitz sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He feels another headache building.

"I don't like seeing you like this. Nico is happy. I want you to be happy, too"

"I am who I am."

"No. You're what they've made you to be."

"I'm fine," Fitz says, bringing the glass to his lips again.

"You're a wealthy man, Fitzgerald. I made sure of that. Access that money. Do whatever you want. Be happy."

"You know I can't touch that money."

"And I told you that money is clean —all from legitimate businesses. I invested in blue chip stocks for you. Use it to start a new life. Maybe with Olivia, huh?" Frank says with a devious smirk on his face.

"You're crazy," Fitz says, throwing back the last of the scotch. He stands and walks over to the bar cart again.

"You made me a happy man. You saved my Nico."

"We no longer talk about that," Fitz says, splashing more scotch into the glass.

"How can I not talk about it? If you hadn't been walking along the waterfront that night my precious Nico would not be getting married. We quarreled that night about his grades. About the crowd he started hanging around. About him not wanting to go to law school. He ran from the house in anger. I was beside myself with worry. But hours later a young police officer covered in snow knocked on my door, holding my Nico in his arms. Because of you, Nico didn't end up at the bottom of that wretched harbor. He's a doctor now. You became my second son that night. I will always be indebted to you."

Fitz looks down at his watch and frowns. "I have to go."

"You counseled me that night, counselor. You said to let Nico live his life — let him become whoever he wanted to be in this wonderful world."

"That's how it should be," Fitz says, sliding on his jacket. "Turn out the lights when you leave. You left them on the last time."

"One more before you go?" Frank says, raising the bottle of scotch. "I'll tell you how to win Olivia's heart." Fitz turns on his heels and stares at Frank with dark eyes.

"I know how to court a woman."

XXX

Bored with listening to the people around him complaining that it's too early to be so hot, Fitz frowns at his watch thinking she's never on time. He wonders if she's late for other appointments. His annoyance is immediately abated when the old-fashioned bell above the door jangles and the warm breeze of spring steps inside. He can't help but smile. Consuming her totally with his eyes, he stands from his chair and waves her over to the table. He always marvels at how effortlessly she maneuvers in those those strappy, high-heeled shoes. She is glowing in the sleeveless marigold-colored dress with a huge white tulip appliqué that runs from the bodice down to the hemline. The dress stops just above her knees.

"Hello," she says when she reaches the table and hangs the tote bag on the back of the chair. "It's a real scorcher today," her face glistening from the blazing sun.

"Hi. Would you like something cold to drink?" he asks.

"Iced tea, please. I've been filling up on water all day."

"You look really nice. I like the dress. It's a great color."

"Oh … thank you," she stammers, taken aback by the compliment. He has never commented on her wardrobe. "I finally went to the North End. Like you said, there are a lot of great shops down there. I saw this dress hanging in one of the windows. I couldn't resist."

"You're wearing your hair differently today," he says, signaling to the waiter.

"It's so humid out. I thought I would put it up today," brushing her hand up the back of her hair.

"You should wear it like that more often." Olivia crinkles her brow slightly, then quickly dismisses the thought that he is flirting with her. "An iced tea for the lady," Fitz says, looking up at the waiter.

"Oolong. Unsweetened," Olivia specifies. "I have a long day. It smells wonderful in here. I didn't know there was a coffeehouse in this park," glancing around the store.

"Neither did I until I started taking walks at lunch. I took your advice."

"That explains the tan," she says. "I thought maybe you went on vacation. Did you notice the flowers on the way here? The colors are magnificent. The earth is awakening. That's what my mother used to say when our perennials started popping up through the soil."

"Do you garden?"

"My mother taught me. She was obsessive about gardening. It was her planted everything: vegetables, herbs, flowers. Tulips are my favorite. I always got in her way when she was gardening. She didn't want me to ruin all of her hard work so she set up a small box next to hers so I could plant my own tulips and tomatoes."

"I didn't have a lot of patience as a child. I wanted to rush everything along. I wanted my tulips the week after we planted the bulbs. My mother said I had to wait until spring. I would cry something awful," she says with a soft chuckle. "My father couldn't tolerate my crying, so he'd take me to the flower shop to buy tulips."

He wants to hear more about her family but decides not to push.

"Thank you for meeting me on short notice," he says, nervously playing with his coffee cup.

"No worries. I have some free time this afternoon before my next appointment. Besides, I couldn't wait to get here to tell you what I saw this morning. I started to call you earlier, but I didn't want to disturb you."

"You know you can call me anytime. You don't have to wait until we meet."

"You're a busy man," Olivia says as the waiter sets the tall, frosted glass of tea and paper straw in front of her. She takes a long sip with closed eyes. "This is so good," smiling like a delighted child. He clears his throat and Olivia looks at him wondering if something is wrong.

"Is everything all right?" she asks with a hint of concern in her voice.

"I wanted to thank you for—uh—for the other week—for—uh—listening to me," he stammers. "I'm sure you didn't want to hear all of that." Olivia waves her hand dismissively in the air.

"You don't need to thank me. Friends support friends."

"So, we're friends now?" he says with a lopsided smile.

"We're getting there, Superintendent," she says, bringing the straw to her lips again. "How is your brother doing?"

"He's better. The doctors finally got his meds regulated. Thanks for asking. Now, what did you want to tell me?"

Olivia places her hands on the table's smooth faux wood surface and leans forward as if she's about to share an important secret. He leans forward, too.

"You won't believe what I saw this morning," her voice just above a whisper.

Half listening to her story, he admires her glowing face. He daydreams about how it would feel to kiss her full lips. How it would feel to run his tongue inside her wet mouth. The word hawk snaps him back to the present moment. Mouth agape, he stares at her with blinking eyes.

"A hawk?!" he exclaims, astonished.

"I know. I couldn't believe it either," her eyes stretched wide. "Like I said, I stopped at the traffic light on Hanover Street."

Feeling like he just walked in on a conversation already in progress, Fitz listens intently, trying to catch up with her story.

"It was huge," spreading her arms wide. "It swooped down, snatched up a poor squirrel that was gathering acorns, I assume, then flew off with the squirrel. In. It's. Beak. But here's the really strange part. The hawk tied the squirrel to a tree limb, then flew away."

"No way," he says, his face twisted in disbelief.

"It's true," raising her right hand to indicate that she is telling the truth. "It was the weirdest thing. Curiosity got the better of me, so I pulled my car over to the curb, using my turn signal, of course."

"Of course," he says earnestly, not wanting her to think he is mocking her.

"When I walked over to the tree, the squirrel was gone."

"What do you mean it was gone?" His voice echoing through the small coffeehouse.

"Lower your voice," she says, looking over her shoulder as if she is checking for eavesdroppers. She turns back to him and continues. "The squirrel wasn't hanging from the limb. I looked around the grounds for a few minutes, thinking it must've fallen from the tree." She shakes her head from side to side. "I guess the hawk took it away before I got there."

She leans back against the seat, signaling the end of her harrowing early morning experience. Fitz stares at her slack-jawed for a few seconds then throws his head back in laughter.

"You don't believe me," she says in a childlike tone.

"I believe you. It's just — "

"The strangest thing," she says, finishing his sentence.

"Well, I guess the hawk had a really nice breakfast," Fitz says. Olivia covers her mouth with the paper napkin, not wanting to spit-laugh the oolong tea onto his white shirt.

"You're bad. That poor squirrel was minding its own business."

"Circle of life," he says with a shrug of his shoulders. "I have something to share with you."

"You saw a hawk, too?"

"No hawks," he says, pausing for a moment.

"Tell me. I told you about my squirrel."

"I met with Officer Carmen Ramirez. Carmen graduated from the academy — top of the class, actually. She's a single mother with a son named Tomas. He's five. Her husband was killed two years ago by a drunk driving the wrong way on Interstate 80."

Olivia gasps. "That's horrible."

"The drunk driver walked away without a scratch, of course. Officer Ramirez became a police officer because she wants her son and other children to grow up in a safer city. She's a Police Activities League volunteer in her neighborhood district. She wants to build a stronger connection between the kids in her community and the police. She also tutors elementary-age kids in math, of all things."

"Wow, you really know a lot about Officer Ramirez." Her smile of approval encourages him to continue.

"She's going to be a good cop. She'll go far in the department." He glances at his watch and sighs. "I have to get back to headquarters."

"So soon? I've only been here a few minutes," she says, sounding disappointed.

"I've been here much longer. I'm late for a meeting," he says, standing and tossing a few bills on the table.

Olivia cranes her neck to stare up at him. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting," she says in an apologetic tone.

"Don't worry about it," resting a warm hand on her bare shoulder for what feels like an eternity. "Are you going back to headquarters? We can walk together."

"No. No," she stammers, forcing herself not to look away from his piercing stare. "I think I'll sit here a while longer. Finish my tea. Enjoy the air conditioning."

"I'll see you soon, Olivia."

Olivia shivers, rubbing her hand over her shoulder. She's not sure if the goosebumps are from the cold air or the touch of his hand on her shoulder. She's not sure if his fingers slightly caressed her shoulder. If his thumb brushed against her collarbone. If she saw a small smile on his lips when he turned to leave. It all happened so fast.

Strolling through the park back to headquarters, Fitz smiles as he thinks about the confused look on Olivia's face. He must be patient. He can't move too fast if he wants to win her heart.