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Chapter Text

The screen door creaked like it always had—loud and accusatory—announcing Jane’s return before her boots even hit the kitchen tile.

She stepped inside, dropping her duffel with a heavy thud just inside the doorway. The familiar scent of Sunday gravy clung to the air even though it was only Friday, and the ancient overhead fan buzzed like a broken fly trap. Nothing had changed. Except her.

Jane Rizzoli, twenty years old, home for the summer, Boston Police Academy cadet, and walking disappointment.

Frankie Sr. didn’t even look up from the paper.

He sat at the kitchen table in his grease-stained Red Sox tee and plaid pajama pants, chewing the end of a toothpick and muttering under his breath about the Celtics’ defense. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray beside his elbow, untouched but still burning. The whole room smelled like stale Marlboros and unresolved tension.

Angela was by the stove, flipping something in a pan. She turned first.

“Oh!” Her eyes lit up, and she wiped her hands on a dish towel, hurrying across the kitchen. “There’s my girl.” She wrapped Jane in a hug that was warm and tight and smelled like garlic and Ivory soap.

Jane softened just a little, letting herself sink into the contact before straightening again.

“You eat yet?” Angela asked, pulling away to smooth Jane’s bangs back like she was still twelve. “I made the chicken you like. With the lemon.”

“I could eat,” Jane said, voice rougher than she meant it to be.

Frankie Sr. grunted, still not looking up.

Angela shot him a look and raised her eyebrows. “Well? You got something to say to your daughter or just that sports section glued to your face?”

He flicked the paper down. His eyes landed on Jane. Dark. Narrowed.

“Figured you’d be wearing a uniform. Thought they’d have you in handcuffs by now.”

Jane’s jaw tightened. “That’s corrections, Dad. I’m not in prison.”

“Yet,” he muttered.

Angela let out a long, loud sigh and turned back to the stove. “Could we try—just once—not starting a fight the second she walks in the door?”

Jane kicked her boots off and padded barefoot to the fridge, yanking it open for a beer. She didn’t bother asking. The old rules didn’t seem to apply anymore.

Frankie watched her crack the can and take a swig. “You get that in class too? Beer-drinking 101?”

“Nope,” Jane said, leaning against the counter. “That was elective.”

Angela slammed the pan down just a little harder than necessary. “You know what? I’m gonna go water the basil before it dies from all the tension in here.”

She stepped out the back door without another word.

Silence.

Jane took another sip, dragging her eyes across the kitchen. The same chipped tile. The same crooked magnet on the fridge that read Rizzoli’s Rule the World. The same dad, sitting in the same chair, wishing she’d made different choices.

“You could’ve had a real future,” he finally said, quieter now.

Jane stared at him, then turned toward the window where the garden hose snaked across the lawn. “I do.”

“Boston Cambridge isn’t something you throw away,” he said. “People don’t get scholarships like that and go, ‘nah, I’d rather get shot at.’”

She took a deep breath through her nose. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you don’t care.”

Jane set the beer down, harder than necessary. “I care. I care more than you think. I just care about different things.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like doing something that matters.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “I didn’t want to sit in a lecture hall for four years just to wind up in some lab with my name on a paper no one reads. I want to be out there. Helping people.”

“You think being a plumber doesn’t help people?” he snapped.

“That’s not what I said—”

“That’s exactly what you said.”

Jane bit back the first ten things she wanted to yell. Instead, she grabbed her beer again and stepped toward the hallway.

“Where you going?” he called after her.

“To shower. Wash the judgment off.”

She passed Angela on the way in, towel in one hand, beer in the other.

Angela reached out and brushed Jane’s arm. “Just give him time,” she said softly. “He’s… disappointed.”

Jane paused. “In me?”

Angela’s eyes gentled. “In himself. He just doesn’t know how to say it.”

Jane gave a small, tired laugh. “That makes two of us.”

She disappeared down the hall, the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut behind her like punctuation.

In the kitchen, Frankie Sr. took a drag off his cigarette.

Angela walked back in, hand on her hip.

“She’s home for one day and you’re already pushing her out the door.”

“She’s the one choosing to walk away.”

Angela smacked the back of his head with the dishtowel. “She walked into that academy with her chin up and her fists clenched, and if you had half the guts she does, you’d tell her you’re proud.”

He didn’t respond.

Angela didn’t wait.

She stepped back out into the evening light, whispering to herself as the basil wilted in the heat.

***

By the time Jane emerged from the shower—hair damp, skin scrubbed pink from frustration—the sun had dipped low over the Boston skyline. The house smelled like lemon cleaner and fried chicken. Somewhere in the living room, the Super Mario Land theme chirped tinnily from a beat-up gray Game Boy, and her little brother Tommy was curled sideways on the couch, face bathed in the glow of the pixelated screen.

“Still hogging that thing?” Jane said as she dropped onto the armrest.

Tommy didn’t look up. “Was mine before you left.”

“It was mine before you could hold a controller,” she countered, grinning as she ruffled his hair.

“I earned it fair and square,” he said, swatting her hand away with the concentration of someone trying not to die in 8-bit.

“You stole it from under my bed.”

“Still counts.”

“Technically,” Jane said, stretching her legs, “that’s larceny.”

From the floor near the coffee table, Frankie Jr. looked up from the notebook he was scribbling in. Four years younger than Jane and twice as enthusiastic, he beamed like he’d been waiting all day for her to walk through the door.

“Okay, but seriously,” he said, sitting up straighter, “how fast do you have to run in the academy? Like, what’s the mile requirement? And how much do you have to bench?”

Jane laughed and leaned her head back against the couch. “Jesus, Frankie. One question at a time.”

He grinned wider. “I’m just sayin’, I’ve been practicing. I can already run a mile in under nine minutes.”

“Oh wow, a whole mile?” she teased. “What’d you do after, nap for three hours?”

“Shut up,” he laughed. “You’re the one who said the obstacle course is the worst part.”

“It is,” she said, pointing at him. “And don’t let anyone tell you different. I saw a guy fall off the wall his first week and land on his face. Broke his nose.”

Tommy, eyes still glued to the Game Boy, muttered, “Cool.”

“Not cool,” Jane said. “There was so much blood I had to—”

“Nope,” Tommy cut in, holding up one hand without looking. “Don’t say it. I’m eating later.”

Frankie Jr. leaned in, clearly unfazed. “Did you have to use your gun?”

“I haven’t even been assigned one yet,” Jane said. “First semester’s mostly training and drills. Defense. Procedure. Physical stuff. But next year…”

“Boom.”

“Hopefully not.”

They all laughed, the kind that felt easy and familiar. The tension that had stained the house earlier seemed to have faded, or at least been temporarily redirected by nostalgia and cheap electronics.

Then the screen door creaked again.

Frankie Sr. stepped in, hair still damp from a rinse, with a cold six-pack in hand and a tired look behind his eyes.

He paused in the doorway as if surprised to find them all together—Jane on the armrest, Frankie Jr. on the floor, Tommy buried in digital distractions.

Angela must’ve still been outside. It was quieter without her bustling around.

He walked toward the couch and held out a beer.

Jane blinked. “That for me?”

“Don’t make it weird,” he muttered, handing it over.

She took it carefully. “Thanks.”

Tommy sat up instantly. “Can I have one?”

“No.”

Frankie Jr. raised a hopeful hand. “What about—?”

“Nope.”

Both groaned in unison.

Frankie Sr. dropped onto the cushion beside Jane with a grunt and cracked open his own can.

For a moment, there was silence. The soft hum of summer evening buzzed through the open windows, mixing with the hiss of carbonation.

Then, he said, “Got a big job coming up.”

Jane turned toward him. “Yeah?”

He didn’t look at her, just nodded, tapping his fingers against the rim of the can.

“Old money family in Beacon Hill. Whole estate’s being redone. Big plumbing overhaul—indoor, outdoor, new pressure systems, the works. Could keep us busy the whole summer.”

Jane raised an eyebrow. “You want me on it?”

He shrugged, still not meeting her eye. “If you’re gonna be around. Figured maybe you could put that strong back of yours to good use.”

Frankie Jr. smirked. “That’s code for ‘I don’t wanna lift copper all by myself.’”

Frankie Sr. ignored him.

Jane took a slow sip of her beer. “Yeah. Sure. I’m in.”

He nodded once. “Starts Monday.”

Tommy yawned and dropped the Game Boy in his lap. “What’s the pay?”

Frankie Sr. barked a laugh. “Not enough for you.”

Frankie Jr. leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. “So, rich people house, huh?”

Jane stretched her legs again, already picturing it—some stuffy mansion with twelve bathrooms and golden toilets.

“Can’t wait to clog some elite pipes,” she muttered.

Frankie Sr. snorted. “Just don’t break anything.”

Jane looked sideways at him. “You mean like our fragile family dynamic?”

“Exactly.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

And for the first time all day, Jane let herself smile.

***

The town car pulled up in front of the Boston Isles estate just after noon, tires crunching softly against the gravel drive. It was a stately building—old brick, ivy crawling up the eastern side like it had something to prove, and windows so tall they practically looked down on everyone.

Maura Isles stepped out into the summer heat, smoothing her linen trousers with one hand and shielding her eyes with the other. Her driver moved to unload her luggage, but she waved him off gently.

“I’ve got it, thank you.”

The trunk opened, revealing three matching suitcases and a leather tote bag—each one meticulously packed and, somehow, heavier than expected.

Not with clothes.

But with textbooks.

Organic Chemistry: Advanced Mechanisms.

Clinical Anatomy for the Practicing Surgeon.

Introduction to Abnormal Psychology.

A summer’s worth of preparation for next semester. Her peers would be sunbathing and skipping lectures. Maura would be memorizing cranial nerve pathways and case studies. She preferred it that way. Or, at least, that’s what she told herself.

She slung the bag over her shoulder and took a deep breath.

The estate smelled the same—sun-warmed stone, old garden roses, the faint trace of polished wood under humidity. She hadn’t been back since spring. It felt like stepping into a still life.

The front door was unlocked.

Maura pushed it open and walked through the echoing foyer, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. The air conditioning hadn’t been turned on yet. It was heavy inside. Too still.

She found her mother in the kitchen, standing at the tiled counter with a slim glass of mineral water, dressed in cream from head to toe like she’d stepped out of a Vogue feature on power matriarchs.

The kitchen, despite being housed in one of the wealthiest homes in Boston, hadn’t been updated since the seventies. The wallpaper was peeling in the corners. The tiles were avocado green. The fridge hummed like a dying airplane. Constance Isles had never used it herself—only walked through it to get to the garden.

“You’re late,” her mother said without looking up from the envelope she was opening.

“I’m right on time,” Maura replied calmly, setting her luggage down against the wall.

“You were supposed to arrive by eleven.”

“The train was delayed. Then I opted for a car instead of the town line.”

“Of course you did,” Constance said, as if that confirmed some long-held theory.

Maura resisted the urge to rub her temple. “The renovations have started?”

Her mother finally looked at her, assessing.

“Not yet. The design firm finalized the layout for the new bath wing. The plumbing company will begin work next week.”

“Which firm?”

“I don’t recall.” A small sip of water. “Your father handled the contract.”

Maura bit the inside of her cheek. Her parents divorced ten years ago, and Constance still referred to Arthur Isles as “your father” like he was some distant cousin. She supposed, emotionally, he was.

“Will you be staying?” Maura asked.

“Not if I can help it,” Constance replied. “The construction noise will be intolerable. I’ll be splitting my time between New York and the Vineyard.”

Of course.

Maura glanced around the outdated kitchen, then down at her own watch. “Then I’ll take the guesthouse, if that’s alright.”

Her mother raised an eyebrow. “The plumbing’s being redone there.”

“So I’ll adapt.”

“Very well.”

Another pause.

Constance’s eyes lingered on her daughter for just a moment longer than expected. “You packed light.”

Maura blinked. “Three suitcases.”

Constance’s lips curved faintly. “Full of textbooks, no doubt.”

Maura didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

“You should spend more time outside this summer,” her mother added lightly. “Get some color. Speak to people your own age.”

“I’ll be focused on my studies.”

“Of course you will.”

The silence stretched.

“I’ll be in the garden,” Constance said, finally stepping out, her heels quiet against the old tile.

Maura exhaled once she was gone.

She reached into her tote bag, pulled out her copy of Human Osteology, and ran her thumb down the spine.

Eight weeks.

Just her.

Her textbooks.

And the sounds of old pipes being ripped from the walls.

Peace.

Or so she thought.

***

The guesthouse behind the Isles estate was smaller than Maura remembered—but cleaner than she expected. Dust hung in the corners like polite guests, and the scent of aged wood and lavender polish clung to the air, likely from the cleaning service Constance had scheduled in advance.

It was isolated enough to feel private, but not so far from the main house that her mother couldn’t drop by unannounced. A compromise. Like most things in Maura’s life.

She moved through the space with quiet precision, suitcase wheels rolling softly across the hardwood as she began to unpack her summer.

Three cases:

One filled with clothes, neatly pressed and organized by function—casual, study, formal.

One for her books—weighty titles with thin paper and dense language.

And one packed exclusively with tools: a whiteboard rolled tight, her flashcard boxes, highlighters in nine colors, her old leather journal, and a brand-new desk lamp still in its packaging.

She’d chosen this place to study for a reason. No roommates. No campus noise. No distractions. Just her, her books, and the plan.

Maura carried her books to the small writing desk by the window and began arranging them by subject: anatomy, cellular biology, organic chemistry, behavioral psych. She lined up her note cards beside them and pulled out her daily schedule—already inked in clean black pen across a legal pad.

***

Jane Rizzoli was in the middle of a dream she would never, under any circumstances, speak aloud.

The kind of dream that made her wake up sweating and swearing and too afraid to look herself in the mirror.

The girl from the academy—short blonde hair, killer smirk, mouth like sin—was straddling Jane’s lap in the locker room, the room quiet except for the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the sound of their breathing. She was flushed, pupils blown, wearing nothing but a sports bra and her PT shorts rolled scandalously high. One of her hands was fisted in Jane’s hair, nails scraping lightly against her scalp, while the other reached between them and guided Jane’s fingers down, lower, lower, beneath the waistband of those shorts, until Jane could feel—

Heat. Wetness. Skin.

Jane’s breath hitched in her throat as her fingers slid against slick flesh, the pressure of the girl’s hips rocking down, slow and hungry, grounding Jane in the rhythm of it. The girl’s lips brushed her ear, her voice like gravel and sugar all at once:

“Come on, Rizzoli… I know you’ve thought about this.”

Jane whimpered—actually whimpered—as the girl’s hand tightened in her hair, pulling her head back so her throat was exposed, bare, vulnerable.

“I see the way you look at me during drills,” she whispered. “You think I don’t notice? That I haven’t been waiting for you to stop pretending you don’t want this?”

Jane’s free hand gripped the girl’s thigh, anchoring herself as she thrust her fingers deeper, the girl’s hips jerking, her breath stuttering into Jane’s neck.

“Harder,” she gasped. “Don’t you dare stop—”

“JANIE! Get your ass up! Five o’clock!”

Jane jolted awake with a strangled noise, heart racing like she’d just run a mile uphill in full gear.

The room was too hot. The fan overhead spun uselessly. Her pillow was damp. Her chest was rising and falling like she’d just had a panic attack.

And her hand—

Her hand was still in her shorts.

Frozen.

Pressed hard against her own center, fingers slick, hips twitching involuntarily as the last echoes of the dream clung to her skin like sweat.

She yanked her hand back like it had betrayed her.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, sitting up so fast her head spun.

She pressed both palms against her face, biting back the groan rising in her throat. Her body was on fire. Every inch of her skin felt tight, too aware. Her thighs trembled. She could still feel the phantom weight of the dream girl’s hips rocking against her, the way her voice scraped the inside of Jane’s skull like a record she couldn’t stop playing.

This wasn’t new. But it never stopped catching her off guard.

Because no matter how many times she had these dreams—dirty, loud, real—the daylight always brought the same thing: shame. Fear. And a pressure in her chest that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with pretending.

Because no one knew.

No one could know.

Not her family. Not her instructors. Not the guys at the academy who slapped each other on the back and traded stories about bar hookups like it was a sport. Not her Mother, who’d probably just quietly cry into a dish towel and whisper prayers to Saint Anthony.

Jane Rizzoli liked girls.

And it scared the hell out of her.

Especially when it felt this good.

Bang bang bang.

“You better be dressed, Jane!”

“I am,” she called back, even though she definitely wasn’t.

She climbed out of bed in a rush, frustration simmering just under her skin, and headed straight for the bathroom. The shower water came out cold, which was a blessing and a punishment. She let it hit her full-on, jaw clenched, hands gripping the edge of the porcelain basin like she could scrub the desire off her skin.

It didn’t work.

***

By 5:30 AM, Jane stumbled into the kitchen in a clean tank top and dark jeans, towel still looped around her shoulders, her mood somewhere between “mildly electrocuted” and “emotionally repressed disaster.”

Angela was already flipping pancakes.

Without turning around, she said, “You look… flustered.”

Jane blinked. “I’m awake.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Jane ignored her, poured a cup of coffee, and sat at the kitchen table across from Tommy, who was half-asleep over his Game Boy.

“You were talking in your sleep again,” Angela added, casual.

Jane stiffened. “Was I?”

Angela flipped a pancake and hummed. “Said something about… I don’t know. Knees? Maybe keys?”

“Must’ve been a nightmare,” Jane muttered.

Angela grinned. “Maybe you need a boyfriend.”

Jane snorted. “Hard pass.”

Angela raised an eyebrow. “You’re gonna end up married to your job.”

“Better than marrying a plumber,” Jane said, nodding toward the hallway.

Right on cue, Frankie Sr. stomped in, already dressed and covered in sweat like the day had been waiting for him.

“You ready or what?” he barked, grabbing a breakfast sandwich from the counter.

Jane stood up, shoved her coffee into a travel mug, and grabbed her tool belt.

“Where are we going?”

“Beacon Hill. Big estate. Rich folks. Plumbing’s so old it probably creaks in Latin.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Sounds fun.”

Angela handed her a second sandwich. “Try not to break anything. Or anyone.”

Jane muttered a half-thank-you and followed her dad out the door.

Outside, the air was already thick and hot. The truck smelled like metal and sawdust. Jane climbed in and stared out the window, still trying to push the dream out of her brain.

It stuck anyway.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because no matter how fast she worked, no matter how tough she talked, Jane Rizzoli couldn’t outrun the truth of who she was.

Not even in her sleep.

***

The truck pulled up to the curb outside the Isles estate at exactly 7:28 AM.

Jane stared at the house through the windshield, trying not to show how deeply unimpressed she was by anything that had columns, a dedicated front gate, and a goddamn weathervane.

It wasn’t just big. It was obnoxious.

Three stories of brick and ivy, polished windows, flowerbeds so perfect they looked fake. The kind of house where shoes weren’t allowed on the rugs, and even the mailbox probably had a trust fund.

Frankie Sr. killed the engine, chewing the edge of a toothpick and scanning the clipboard in his lap.

“Alright,” he said. “You’re knocking.”

Jane blinked. “Why me?”

“Because I’ve got to sort the valve map before the rest of the crew shows up, and you’ve got hands and feet and a working mouth.”

Jane scowled. “My working mouth is not for knocking.”

“It is today,” he said, already climbing out of the cab.

Jane muttered a curse under her breath, rolled her eyes, and shoved the door open. She adjusted her belt, tugged her tank top down, and marched up the stone path toward the oversized front door, hoping to get this part over with fast.

Her shoulders were tight. Her head was pounding. And she was still buzzing from the stupid dream that had woken her up in a sweat—and not in the good way. All she wanted was to bury herself in copper piping and maybe hammer something until the need dissolved into her boots.

She knocked once. Firm. Businesslike.

The door creaked open less than five seconds later.

And Jane’s brain short-circuited.

The girl standing in the doorway looked like a fever dream that had wandered off the cover of a very expensive medical journal. She was wearing a pale silk robe that hit mid-thigh, loose at the collar, her legs long and bare beneath the hem. A massive hardcover textbook was tucked under one arm—Advanced Inorganic Chemistry—and a pair of delicate, wire-framed glasses sat low on her nose.

Her blonde hair was pulled up into a lazy bun, strands escaping like they were too refined to obey gravity. She blinked at Jane, curious but not surprised, her eyes a striking hazel-green that felt like staring into sunlight underwater.

Jane, still standing on the doormat, forgot how to breathe.

“Good morning,” the girl said, voice smooth, crisp, lightly amused. “You must be with the plumbing company.”

Jane’s mouth opened. Then closed.

Then opened again.

Nothing came out.

The girl tilted her head slightly, expression unbothered. “Is this where you tell me you’re here to lay pipe?”

Jane choked.

“No! I mean—yes. But—not like that.”

The girl smiled faintly, clearly enjoying herself. “I’m Maura Isles. And you must be Jane.”

Jane blinked. “How did you—?”

“Your toolbelt,” Maura said, gesturing vaguely toward Jane’s waist. “And the clipboard says ‘Rizzoli & Sons,’ which would make you a Rizzoli, although not a son.”

Jane, still trying not to stare at the bare legs and that ridiculous robe, cleared her throat and yanked her eyes back up to somewhere safely around Maura’s forehead.

“Right. Yeah. I’m Jane.”

“Excellent.” Maura stepped back from the doorway and gestured her in. “The main lines are accessible through the basement. I can show you the entrance.”

Jane hesitated. She really didn’t want to go inside this house. Not like this. Not with her pulse still hammering and her thoughts darting back to things she had very much not planned to think about at work.

But Maura was already turning, robe swaying slightly as she walked deeper into the house.

Jane followed.

Because of course she did.

Because apparently, life had decided to drop a silk-robed temptation with scientific credentials right into her already confused, closeted lap.

Fantastic.

She was so screwed.

Chapter Text

By the end of the third day on the Isles estate, Jane had two busted knuckles, one pulled shoulder, a fresh patch of sunburn on the back of her neck, and zero idea why a girl in silk robes and glasses could make her want to physically climb inside a wall to hide.

The work itself was fine.

Manual labor was the one thing Jane knew how to throw herself into without thinking. Digging out old copper piping, crawling under joists, fitting valves together in the dark—her hands moved on instinct. The crew was decent, too, even if they gave her shit for being the boss’s daughter.

“You his daughter, or his parole officer?” asked Kevin, the wiry guy from Southie with two missing teeth and a deep affection for beef jerky.

“I’m the one with better arms,” Jane shot back.

That earned her a round of laughter, even from Lou—who looked like a middle-aged mountain and refused to wear gloves, even when they were pulling rotted insulation out of the guesthouse.

Her father didn’t say much, just barked orders and muttered complaints about the Isles “probably wanting their toilet water scented” or “too many damn valves in one damn house.”

The estate was massive. Gorgeous, sure. But too perfect. Too curated.

And then there was her.

Maura Isles.

On day one, Jane thought maybe the robe had been a fluke—some early morning blip in a schedule too rich for alarm clocks.

But no.

On day two, Maura was on the staircase, leaning against the railing in another robe—this one a dusty lavender, loosely belted, with legs that went on for days. A book in one hand. A mug of something steaming in the other. She didn’t speak. Just looked Jane up and down like she was scanning her for bacteria.

On day three, she was in the solarium, barefoot, stretched out on a velvet chaise with a biology textbook and a mechanical pencil between her teeth. Jane had walked past the open door and nearly tripped over her own bootlace.

Each time they made eye contact, it felt like Maura was…assessing her. Not with attraction. Not even curiosity. It was cooler than that. Clinical. Like Jane was the thing under the microscope.

The worst part? Jane couldn’t stop thinking about the robe.

Or the mouth.

Or the voice from her dream.

Which was not Maura, obviously.

Probably.

Maybe.

Definitely not.

“Earth to Rizzoli,” said Lou, snapping her out of it as they hauled a coil of flexible pipe across the backyard. “You spacing out on us or just mentally up a parking ticket?”

“Just wondering why I agreed to this job,” she muttered, wiping her brow with the back of her arm.

“’Cause your dad guilt-tripped you into it and you didn’t wanna go back to the academy with a busted conscience.”

“Thanks for the reminder, Freud.”

Inside the house, the renovation crew moved like a storm of caffeine and corded muscles. The electricians were a pair of thirty-something twins who wore matching plaid and argued constantly in Irish accents so thick Jane only caught every third word. The tile guy was named Marco and whistled constantly—off-key, always the same tune, something vaguely like Take on Me but slower and more painful.

And then there was Nora.

The project manager.

Sharp-shouldered, clipboard-wielding, and about five foot ten of no-bullshit authority. She wore her toolbelt like armor and her ponytail like a weapon.

On day two, she squinted at Jane and said, “Let me guess—academy girl?”

Jane raised an eyebrow. “How’d you know?”

“You carry your shoulders like you’re waiting for someone to square up. Relax. We’re not the enemy.”

Jane liked her instantly.

By the end of day three, she had the layout of the plumbing system half-memorized, had memorized the creak in the guesthouse’s east-facing floorboard, and was pretty sure Maura Isles had some sort of vendetta against her—one carried out through eyebrow raises, pointed silences, and exactly two words of spoken interaction:

“Watch your boots,” Maura had said, flatly, after Jane had tracked mud across the kitchen tile she clearly didn’t use.

Jane had looked down at the floor, then back up at Maura.

“You’re welcome,” she’d said.

Maura hadn’t smiled.

She hadn’t frowned, either.

She’d just turned and walked away.

Silk robe swaying.

Jane had to take a full minute in the hallway to remind herself how lungs worked.

On the evening of the third day, Jane sat on the edge of the tailgate of the truck, unwrapping a protein bar and rolling her shoulder slowly, her T-shirt soaked through with sweat.

The sun was low over the brownstones. The Isles estate gleamed like a magazine cover. Somewhere inside, she could almost feel Maura reading something, barefoot again, uncaring, cool.

She didn’t know what Maura’s problem was.

And she definitely didn’t know what hers was.

But if this job didn’t kill her, the next eye contact from Dr. Robe & Judgement just might.

***

Maura had structured the first week of summer like an experiment: clean inputs, controlled conditions, predictable outcomes.

The theory: uninterrupted study, quiet mornings, and precisely prepared meals would result in a productive, disciplined summer.

But by day three, the variables were already misbehaving.

Day One:

The plumbing crew arrived at 7:30 AM sharp. Constance, still in her cream silk scarf and matching heels, had made a point to greet them—sharp nods, firm handshakes, polite disdain worn like perfume.

Maura stayed at the top of the stairs, textbook open, watching over the rim of her glasses.

She wasn’t expecting much.

But when the younger Rizzoli stepped out of the truck, scowling beneath a mess of dark curls and slinging a wrench onto her hip with the ease of someone used to moving in a man’s world, Maura’s internal monologue faltered for the first time all morning.

Tank top. Toolbelt. Broad shoulders. A gait like someone who could break a man’s jaw without losing her balance.

Definitely unexpected.

Maura adjusted her glasses and did not, absolutely did not, track Jane Rizzoli’s progress through the house with her eyes.

At least not noticeably.

Day Two:

Constance left for New York that morning.

They didn’t hug.

She’d barely stayed long enough to critique the renovation plans—called them “functional but uninspired”—and left Maura with a list of phone numbers, instructions for the gardenia pruning schedule, and one last sweeping glance that felt like disappointment hidden in a satin wrap.

Maura hadn’t cared. She rarely did anymore.

She spent the morning in the solarium with her biology notes, but she could feel the rumble of tools under the floorboards. The vibrations buzzed under her bare feet like static.

Around eleven, she caught sight of Jane through the window—sleeves rolled up, wrench in hand, hair damp with sweat, laughing with one of the older crewmen.

There was something in the way she threw her head back. Confident. Unapologetic.

Maura turned back to her book and read the same sentence five times.

Day Three:

It wasn’t so much that Maura disapproved of Jane Rizzoli.

She didn’t disapprove of her.

She simply… didn’t know how to categorize her.

And Maura Isles had spent her entire life categorizing things.

But Jane didn’t fit anywhere tidy. She was both sharp and careless. Loud but observant. She tracked mud through the front hallway and didn’t seem to care. She flirted, Maura was fairly certain, with both the tile guy and the electrician’s wife, and somehow managed to be charming about it.

Maura’s only direct interaction had been brief—and probably unkind.

“Watch your boots.”

It had come out colder than she meant. But Maura hated mess. And Jane had smiled at her like she knew.

Not like she was mocking her. Not exactly.

More like she was… amused.

Later, when she returned to the kitchen to wipe the floor herself, she found it already clean. No one had said anything.

That afternoon, she had a rare moment alone in the garden, sipping iced tea and reviewing her note cards. She heard the crunch of gravel, and glanced over the hedge to find Jane and one of the crew carrying coiled pipe toward the greenhouse.

Jane’s tank top was stained with sweat. Her biceps flexed with each movement.

Maura’s heart did something ridiculous.

She told herself it was just heat.

She went back inside and stood under the air vent until the goosebumps faded.

Later that evening, Maura passed through the foyer on her way to the kitchen and ran into Jane’s father.

Frankie Sr. stood stiffly near the archway, holding a set of blueprints and looking around the house like it had personally offended him.

They made eye contact.

He gave her a nod. “Nice place.”

“Thank you,” Maura replied carefully.

He hesitated, then added, “Your mother said you’re going into medicine.”

“I’m studying pre-med, yes.”

“Smart girl,” he said, with the faintest touch of pride. Then, “My daughter wanted that. For a while.”

Maura didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what he meant to convey. Regret? Resentment?

He cleared his throat, shifted his weight. “She’s a good worker. Just don’t tell her I said that.”

Maura offered the barest smile. “Your secret’s safe.”

And then he walked away, disappearing down the hall, the scent of pipe grease and aftershave lingering in his wake.

That night, Maura sat on the edge of her bed, brushing out her hair, thinking about the sound of Jane’s laugh echoing from the garden wall.

Three days in, and she was already behind schedule.

And it wasn’t the construction dust or the power tools.

It was the woman with bruised knuckles and a crooked smirk who looked at her like Maura was something worth unwrapping.

Maura adjusted her glasses. Then opened her book.

And read nothing for an hour.

***

Maura Isles was not easily distracted.

She’d trained herself to focus in noisy dorms, crowded lectures, and even during that one unfortunate seminar where the visiting professor had brought a live snake and spilled a flask of acid.

She could recite the Krebs cycle in her sleep.

She could identify 212 bones by touch alone.

She had not, however, accounted for Jane Rizzoli in a tank top.

It started just after 1:00 PM.

Maura had taken her tea upstairs, away from the echo of drills and tile saws. She planned to spend two focused hours on cranial nerve mapping—half reading, half sketching—before moving on to cardiovascular development.

But as she walked past the second-story window, textbook in hand, she caught a glimpse of movement in the yard.

Curiosity got the better of her.

She set her mug down. Stepped closer.

And promptly forgot what room she was in.

Below, in the full blaze of the afternoon sun, Jane Rizzoli was crouched over a tangle of piping and joints, shoulders glinting with sweat, tank top riding up at the back to reveal the hard plane of her lower back.

She was swearing under her breath—something about a seized coupling—and wrestling with a wrench like it owed her money.

Maura stood frozen, textbook clutched against her chest.

Jane leaned forward again, tank top straining across her shoulders, biceps flexing as she yanked at a pipe.

She had grease on her jaw.

There was a streak of dirt along the inside of her arm.

And Maura… blinked.

A slow, stunned blink.

And then she did something entirely irrational: she stayed.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

Maura hadn’t turned a page.

She hadn’t even sat down.

She was still by the window, still watching, still trying to pretend she wasn’t doing exactly that.

I’m not distracted, she thought firmly.

But her untouched tea had gone cold.

Her textbook hung forgotten at her side.

And Jane Rizzoli was now lying on her back in the grass, muttering obscenities at the sky and shaking out her arms, tank top damp and clinging in all the wrong—or right—places.

Maura felt her throat go dry.

She is objectively attractive, she told herself, academically.

It was like labeling a specimen in a lab: observable characteristics, identifiable reactions, repeatable data. She was just gathering information. That was all.

That was why she noticed the way Jane’s mouth quirked to the left when she laughed. Why she now recognized the rhythm of her footsteps on the gravel. Why she could distinguish Jane’s voice from the others on the crew, even when she wasn’t trying to listen.

Why her skin warmed when Jane wiped sweat from her neck with the hem of her shirt, exposing a flash of toned stomach that made Maura’s fingers tighten involuntarily around her book.

She was not distracted.

She was… intellectually engaged.

In a prolonged moment of focused study.

Yes.

***

Maura had always prided herself on discipline.

When she was twelve, she’d taught herself Latin for fun. At fifteen, she’d aced her first university-level exam without so much as a late-night cramming session. She could organize a week of material in color-coded blocks, down to the minute, and never once stray.

But by 2:43 p.m., she had re-read the same sentence about the hypothalamus twelve times, and her pulse still hadn’t settled.

Jane Rizzoli was still outside.

And Maura’s body was not cooperating.

She tried everything.

Shifting her focus to anatomy flashcards.

Lighting one of her rosemary-scented candles.

Standing in front of the air conditioning vent for a full two minutes.

Nothing worked.

Her skin felt too warm. Her shirt clung to her back. Her thighs squeezed together at the smallest shift in posture.

It wasn’t just that Jane had looked attractive—objectively attractive, yes, in a rough, effortless way Maura didn’t usually notice. It was how present she was. The casual strength. The sweat. The low voice. The sharp, masculine confidence layered over something unexpectedly playful.

And Maura’s brain refused to let it go.

Every time she tried to recite her notes, her thoughts drifted to the way Jane’s tank top had clung to her chest. The way her hands had wrapped around metal like it weighed nothing. The subtle scar along the inside of her bicep that Maura wanted—illogically—to touch.

By 2:48, she gave up.

She closed her book with a snap, stood, and walked—calmly, precisely—to the door of her bedroom. She locked it.

She pressed her back against the wood for a moment, eyes closed, trying to breathe through it.

Then she turned, crossed the room, and sat on the edge of her bed.

Her thighs pressed together.

She glanced toward the window automatically, then caught herself and yanked the curtain closed with more force than necessary.

“No more distractions,” she murmured.

This was practical. Clinical, even.

Her body was chemically aroused. A spike in adrenaline, oxytocin, and dopamine—likely triggered by prolonged observation of a visually appealing stimulus. If she relieved the tension, she could return to studying without interference.

Maura reached for the edge of her shorts with steady hands.

She lay back against the pillows.

And let herself think—just briefly—about Jane.

The way her jaw flexed when she turned a wrench.

The way she licked her thumb before smoothing flyaways from her forehead.

The way she grunted when the pipe slipped and she muttered, “You son of a bitch,” in a voice so low Maura felt it in her spine.

Her hand slipped between her legs.

She exhaled—quiet, controlled—as her fingers found heat and slickness and the overwhelming need she’d spent the entire day pretending didn’t exist.

Her other hand clenched in the sheet.

She let her mind drift.

Jane’s hands. Her mouth. That smirk.

Jane looking up at her from between her thighs, shirt tossed aside, eyes heavy-lidded, voice like gravel—

Maura came with a sharp gasp, head thrown back against the pillows, hips arching once, twice, trembling as she sank into the sensation.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was satisfying.

Relief came in waves—chemical, physiological.

Her body relaxed.

Her breath slowed.

Her thoughts unknotted.

She lay there for a long moment, chest rising and falling, then turned her head to the side and stared at her unopened textbook on the nightstand.

After several seconds, she smiled faintly to herself and whispered:

“Now. Back to work.”

***

Jane slumped into the passenger seat of the truck like her body was trying to fold itself into a human question mark. Her arms were sore, her back was fried, and she was pretty sure she’d inhaled enough old dust to mummify a lung.

Her tank top clung to her in all the wrong places, and her knees were still dirty from crawling under the damn crawl space. She’d spent half the day arguing with a two-inch compression joint that refused to budge and the other half not thinking about Maura Isles in silk.

She scratched behind her ear and sighed.

Her dad climbed into the truck with a grunt and passed her a bottle of water. “You look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks. That’s what every girl wants to hear after sweating through her bra for ten hours.”

“Just sayin’,” he said, adjusting the AC vent. “You could at least pretend to care about appearances. You never know who’s watching.”

Jane didn’t reply.

Mostly because she did know who was watching. And it was a girl in high-waisted linen pants and lipstick that didn’t smudge, who kept looking at her like Jane was a stain she hadn’t decided whether to scrub out or study.

They pulled away from the curb, the truck rattling like it needed a priest more than a mechanic.

Traffic was light. The windows were down.

Her dad drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Hey—by the way. You remember Hank from the crew?”

Jane nodded absently. “Guy with the permanent sunburn and the John Deere hat?”

“That’s the one. His son’s back in town for a few days. Home from college. Gonna be helping us out on-site.”

Jane glanced over. “Okay?”

Frankie Sr. smiled—actually smiled—and gave her a nudge with his elbow.

“Real good-looking kid. Tall. Athletic. Smart. You’ll like him.”

Jane stared out the window and rolled her eyes so hard she almost gave herself a headache. “You want me to like him, you date him.”

Her dad barked a laugh. “Don’t be a wiseass.”

“I’m serious,” she said, kicking her boot up onto the dashboard. “He sounds perfect for you. You can bond over your shared disappointment in my life choices.”

He snorted, but didn’t argue.

That was the thing about her dad—he didn’t say he was still pissed about her dropping Boston Cambridge for the academy, but it hung around every conversation like bad cologne. Every offer to fix a leaky sink before class. Every suggestion that she might be happier “behind a desk, like a normal girl.”

And now this.

Jane sipped her water and let the silence stretch.

The sun was low on the horizon. The air smelled like asphalt and lilac.

Her thoughts drifted—again—to the moment she’d glanced up from the crawl space and caught a glimpse of Maura in the guesthouse doorway. Hair up. Sleeveless blouse. Watching her. Not smiling. Just watching.

Something about the way she tilted her head made Jane feel like she was being measured and peeled back at the same time.

And then Maura had turned and disappeared, leaving Jane on her back, wrench in hand, wondering if it was possible to have a full-blown sexual crisis in someone’s yard.

Her dad hummed beside her. “Maybe you can bring this Hank Jr. kid a beer or somethin’. Say hi.”

Jane smirked, slow and wicked. “You gonna bring him flowers and ask him to prom too?”

He muttered something under his breath, but she just leaned back in the seat, smug.

Let him try.

Jane Rizzoli wasn’t interested in Hank Jr. or his jawline or whatever eligible-straight-girl checklist her father thought she was supposed to care about.

She wasn’t interested in anyone.

Except maybe a certain infuriating, immaculately composed blonde with judgmental eyebrows and legs for days.

Jane closed her eyes, grinning to herself, and muttered:

“Good luck, Hank.”

***

Maura Isles woke up with a plan.

A clear, rational, completely appropriate plan.

She would speak to Jane.

Not because she was attracted to her.

(Not that she’d ever admit that in clinical terms.)

Not because she had spent the last three nights thinking about her voice, her hands, her stupid crooked grin.

(Not that she had.)

But because it occurred to her—generously, charitably—that it must be difficult for Jane, working on a crew full of men, most of whom seemed to operate on a strict diet of innuendo and lukewarm convenience store burritos.

Maybe Jane would appreciate talking to another woman.

That was all.

Just a kind gesture.

Maura even made lemonade.

Freshly squeezed, with a hint of mint and precisely the right amount of sugar to counter the tartness—because if she was going to make conversation, she was going to do it well.

She poured it into a tall glass with ice, placed it on a tray with a napkin (of course), and set out across the yard.

It was barely 10 a.m., and already the sun was high, cutting sharp angles through the hedges. Birds chirped obnoxiously. Her sandals clicked softly against the stone path as she made her way around the side of the greenhouse.

She didn’t look like she was scanning for her.

She was just… observing.

And then she saw her.

Jane was crouched low behind the greenhouse, elbow-deep in dirt, her tank top clinging to her back, sweat streaking down the curve of her spine. A pile of rusted pipe lay beside her, tangled and corroded, and she was grumbling as she tried to wrench another section free.

Maura stopped dead in her tracks.

Her breath caught.

It shouldn’t have been… stunning, to watch someone dig a trench.

But somehow it was.

Jane’s muscles flexed with each motion, deliberate and powerful. Her curls were pulled back into a low bun, neck slick and glinting in the sunlight. She was biting her bottom lip in concentration, the corner of her mouth twitching whenever the pipe resisted.

Maura had to remind herself she was holding a tray.

And also that she was supposed to be speaking, not staring.

She cleared her throat. “Good morning.”

Jane startled, head snapping up. She squinted at her through the sunlight, then wiped her wrist across her forehead.

“Oh. Hey.”

Maura stepped forward carefully, holding the tray out like a peace offering. “I thought you might like something cold.”

Jane looked at the glass. Then at Maura.

Then back at the glass.

“Ice-cold lemonade,” Maura added, unnecessarily.

There was a pause.

Then Jane grinned, all crooked teeth and sweat and mischief. “You make it for all your laborers, or just the especially sweaty ones?”

Maura ignored the warmth climbing up her neck. “Only the ones I suspect may be suffering from mild heat exhaustion and are too stubborn to take a break.”

Jane chuckled and sat back on her heels. “Sounds like me.”

Maura passed her the glass.

Their fingers brushed—just briefly.

And Maura felt it. Sharp and bright. Like the first jolt of a defibrillator.

She looked away immediately.

Jane sipped. Her eyes widened a little. “Okay. Damn. That’s good.”

“I’m aware,” Maura said, folding her hands in front of her.

Jane raised an eyebrow. “Modest, too.”

“I don’t believe in false humility. It wastes time.”

Jane leaned against the greenhouse wall, sipping again, the glass sweating in her hand. “You come all the way out here just to hydrate me?”

Maura hesitated. “I thought… it might be nice to talk.”

Jane blinked at her.

Maura rushed to clarify. “I just meant—I imagine it’s exhausting, spending all day surrounded by men who only seem to speak in monosyllables and construction puns.”

“You’re not wrong,” Jane said slowly.

“I’m not trying to interrupt,” Maura added quickly, even though she absolutely was. “You’re clearly working.”

“I was. Now I’m drinking lemonade with a beautiful woman in linen pants.” Jane shrugged. “I’ve had worse Wednesdays.”

Maura blinked. “Oh.”

Jane grinned at her reaction.

Maura opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out that wasn’t wildly inappropriate or wildly transparent. Instead, she folded her arms and looked away.

Jane tilted her head. “You always this composed?”

Maura lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“Even when you’re watching someone sweat all over your flowerbeds?”

“I wasn’t watching.”

“You sure?”

“I—” Maura caught herself. “I was observing.”

Jane laughed.

And Maura felt her stomach flip.

Just once.

Just enough to know she was in trouble.

Maura regretted speaking the second the words left her mouth. “You always this forward?”

It came out too sharp. Defensive. Not quite how she meant it.

But Jane didn’t flinch.

She just smirked around the rim of her lemonade glass and said, “Must be all the testosterone in the air.”

Then she winked.

Actually winked.

Maura blinked, lips parting in faint disbelief.

“You know,” Jane went on, stretching out her legs a little, looking maddeningly relaxed despite being covered in dirt and sweat, “after enough time around Lou and Hank and Marco, you either start grunting at people or cracking jokes before someone else does.”

“That’s your defense?” Maura asked, folding her arms across her chest. “Construction-induced flirtation?”

Jane grinned. “If the wrench fits.”

Maura stared at her, deadpan. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s a metaphor.”

“It’s not.”

Jane shrugged, unfazed. “Worked though.”

Maura narrowed her eyes, trying to maintain her composure—but her pulse had already quickened, betraying her. She didn’t know what was worse: the way Jane said things like that with such ease, or the fact that Maura found it—God help her—charming.

She’d studied biochemistry. Neuroanatomy. She could calculate pH shifts in her head and diagram the structure of ATP without notes.

But none of that had prepared her for a woman in steel-toed boots and a tank top, smiling like sin in the middle of her backyard.

Maura straightened. “Well, don’t let the testosterone affect your ability to complete the job.”

Jane raised both hands in mock surrender. “Scout’s honor.”

“You weren’t a scout.”

“Sure wasn’t,” Jane said, biting back a grin. “But you believed me for a second.”

Maura rolled her eyes, biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling.

Jane tilted her head slightly, watching her with that unreadable look—somewhere between amusement and curiosity. “You really came out here just to talk?”

“Yes,” Maura said, lifting her chin. “I thought it might be nice.”

“For me or for you?”

Maura hesitated.

And that was answer enough.

Jane didn’t press, didn’t tease. Just looked at her like she could see something Maura didn’t want her to. Something too close to the truth.

Maura looked away first.

The lemonade glass was half-empty. A bead of condensation slid down the side and dripped onto Jane’s thigh. Maura’s eyes flicked there—just for a moment—before she looked away again, heat blooming across her cheeks.

Jane noticed.

Of course she noticed.

But for once, she didn’t say anything.

Instead, she leaned back on her elbows, glanced up at the sky, and said, “Supposed to rain tomorrow.”

Maura cleared her throat. “Good. The grass needs it.”

“Everything about this place looks like it gets exactly what it needs.”

Maura looked down at her sandals. “Not… everything.”

Silence.

Then Jane said, gently, “Hey.”

Maura looked up.

“You okay?”

That hit harder than it should have.

Maybe because no one ever really asked her that. Not and meant it.

Maura held her gaze, feeling the question linger in the heat between them.

And for once, she didn’t try to answer with logic.

She just said, quietly, “I don’t know.”

And Jane didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. She just nodded, like she understood.

Then she offered the lemonade glass back. “Thanks for this.”

Maura took it, their fingers brushing again.

“I’ll let you get back to digging,” she said, voice softer now.

“I’ll be here,” Jane said, settling back in the dirt. “Covered in testosterone. Thinking deep thoughts.”

Maura turned away quickly so she wouldn’t laugh.

Or blush.

Or look back.

But she did.

Of course she did.

***

What the hell was she thinking.

No—seriously. What the actual hell was she thinking.

Jane jammed her shovel into the dirt with more force than necessary, muttering to herself like she’d completely lost it. Which, judging by her current heart rate and the fact that she was sweating through her second tank top of the day, might not be far from the truth.

“Nice one, Rizzoli,” she grunted, tossing a clump of dirt to the side. “Just flirt with the rich, untouchable, pre-med goddess in full daylight on a job site. Real smooth.”

She couldn’t even blame the heat anymore.

No amount of heat made her say beautiful woman in linen pants like she was auditioning for the lead in a goddamn rom-com.

Maura had brought her lemonade. Lemonade. And instead of just saying “thanks” like a normal person, Jane had flirted.

Flirted.

Badly.

And it had worked, somehow—which only made it worse. Because Maura Isles had looked at her like she wasn’t just dirt-covered labor. Like she wasn’t just some screw-up daughter who dropped out of Cambridge to roll around in basements with copper pipes.

She’d looked at Jane like she was… interesting.

And Jane had felt it. In her chest. In her throat. Low in her stomach where she tried not to think too much, because she was still at work, and—

“Christ.” Jane dropped the shovel and covered her face with her hands, wiping the sweat away and trying not to scream into the hedge.

She could not—could not—let this be a thing.

Not here. Not now. Not with her dad walking around somewhere probably fifteen feet away and Hank’s hot, hetero college son showing up tomorrow like some weird universe-level reminder that this was all supposed to be harmless.

She was supposed to be invisible. That was the plan.

Do the job. Keep her head down. Avoid eye contact with the woman in silk robes who looked like she belonged in a goddamn magazine ad for wealth and intelligence and things that would never belong to someone like Jane.

And instead?

She’d made a crack about her being beautiful.

Which she was, but still.

She’d made Maura smile.

Worse—Maura had looked at her like she was the one who started it.

Jane sank onto the overturned bucket they used as a toolbox seat and rubbed her hands through her hair, then yanked the tie loose and pulled it back again just to do something with herself.

Her chest wouldn’t settle.

She wasn’t stupid—she knew the risks.

This wasn’t high school, where a look could be dismissed as confusion. This was the real world. A world where being caught even thinking about another woman in the wrong place could ruin her life.

And yet here she was.

Sitting behind a greenhouse, heart pounding like she’d just run a mile uphill, because Maura Isles had handed her a glass of lemonade and said I thought it might be nice to talk like she wasn’t the most intimidating person Jane had ever met.

And maybe—just maybe—she’d meant it.

Jane looked down at her hands, dirt-caked and trembling a little.

“Get your shit together,” she muttered.

She picked up the shovel. Tried to focus.

But every time she closed her eyes, she saw Maura’s smirk. The way her voice dipped when she’d said “You always this forward?” like she didn’t mind.

And then that final look. That moment.

Maura’s gaze softening, something unspoken flickering just beneath the surface.

Jane groaned, jamming the shovel into the earth again.

“This is so, so bad.”

But she was already smiling.

And that scared her more than anything.

***

Maura had been on the same page of her textbook for twenty-three minutes.

She was lying across her bed—ankles crossed, pillow hugged under her chest, a pencil in one hand that hadn’t moved in ages. Her bedside lamp cast a soft yellow glow over her notes, but she couldn’t focus on the diagram of the hypothalamus.

Her mind kept wandering.

Back.

To the greenhouse.

To Jane Rizzoli’s smirk.

The sweat on her collarbone.

The moment their fingers touched over the glass.

The way Maura had nearly moaned when Jane said “beautiful woman in linen pants” like she meant it.

Maura sighed, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling.

“It wasn’t flirting,” she told herself for the fifth time.

“It was just… a confident expression of gratitude.”

Right.

And Maura wasn’t aroused for the second time that day.

Which, frankly, was becoming a physiological inconvenience.

She pushed the book away and sat up, rubbing her fingers into her temples. This wasn’t like her. She didn’t get flustered. She didn’t get distracted. And she definitely didn’t obsess over construction workers with forearms like mythology and smiles that made her lose IQ points.

And yet here she was—blushing in bed like a teenager and wondering what Jane Rizzoli’s voice would sound like in the dark.

She stood abruptly, crossed to the window, and peeked through the sheer curtain.

The greenhouse was empty. The crew long gone. The night was still.

She exhaled and rested her forehead against the cool glass.

“It’s fine,” she told herself.

“She probably forgot the whole thing already.”

But some part of her—low in her chest and undeniably hopeful—whispered that Jane hadn’t.

And Maura… didn’t want her to.

***

Jane stared at herself in the mirror, toothbrush dangling from her mouth like it had personally offended her.

Her hair was a mess. Tank top stretched out. She had a cut on her knuckle she didn’t remember getting. And yet all she could think about was a glass of lemonade and the girl who gave it to her.

Maura Isles.

Maura effing Isles.

She spit, rinsed, and leaned on the counter, groaning softly.

“What was that?”

That smirk? That voice? That moment when Maura looked at her—not like she was covered in sweat and dirt and bad decisions—but like she saw her?

She’d meant to be cool. Flirty. Nothing serious.

Just a little harmless teasing to make the rich girl flinch.

But Maura didn’t flinch.

She leaned in.

And now Jane couldn’t stop playing it back:

That quiet “I thought it might be nice to talk.”

That eyebrow lift.

That little pause before she said, Not everything gets what it needs.

Jane wiped her face with a towel and paced her bedroom barefoot.

She couldn’t get a grip on it. Couldn’t tell if Maura was just being polite, or curious, or if she was standing there in that linen outfit knowing full well what she was doing.

And Jane had flirted back like a jackass.

“Beautiful woman in linen pants.”

She dropped her face into her hands and groaned again.

“You absolute moron.”

Except… she didn’t regret it.

Not even a little.

Because for the first time all summer, something had clicked. Something that felt bigger than a job site or a dream she wasn’t ready to admit out loud.

She flopped onto her bed and stared at the ceiling.

“She came out there just for you.”

Her heart thumped.

And in the dark, Jane smiled.

“Maybe this summer isn’t going to be so bad after all.”

Chapter Text

The Rizzoli kitchen smelled like bacon and interrogation.

The ceiling fan creaked overhead, doing nothing to cut through the late June humidity. Jane sat at the far end of the table in her academy sweats and a loose tee, legs sprawled, ankles crossed, trying not to look like someone who’d spent half the night tossing and turning over a girl with perfect posture and painfully expressive eyes.

Angela was at the stove, flipping pancakes with the kind of loving aggression that meant she’d already had two cups of coffee and one passive-aggressive conversation with Frank Sr. that morning.

Frankie and Tommy were shoveling cereal into their mouths like they hadn’t eaten in days. Jane nursed her black coffee like it was a lifeline, head still heavy from restless sleep and too many mental reruns of that lemonade conversation.

“So,” her father said from behind the morning paper, voice deceptively casual, “Hank’s kid’s starting with us today.”

Jane didn’t look up from her mug.

Here we go.

“Thought I’d have him shadow you, Jane,” Frank added, folding the paper with a rustle. “You can show him how we do things on-site.”

Jane’s eyebrow twitched. “Right. Because I’ve got so much free time between cursing at old pipes and crawling through spider-infested basements.”

Frank ignored her. “Good kid. Smart. Pre-law or something.”

“Sounds dreamy,” Jane muttered.

Frankie grinned. “Maybe you two can hold hands over the toolbox.”

Tommy, not to be outdone, made exaggerated kissing noises with the back of his hand. “Ooooh, Janie’s got a boyfriend!”

Jane shot them both a glare that could’ve stripped paint. “You morons even look at my wrench wrong and I’m lodging it in your nasal cavities.”

Angela turned from the stove, a spatula in hand and a dreamy sigh on her lips. “Oh, wouldn’t it be nice though? I mean, just imagine it—plumbing meets law school. Very stable. He probably wears nice shoes.”

Jane stared at her. “Ma.”

“And then maybe a little wedding by the harbor, I’m thinking navy suits and white roses—”

“Jesus Christ,” Jane groaned, shoving her chair back and standing so fast her coffee sloshed over the rim. “He hasn’t even stepped out of the truck yet and you’re planning my hypothetical marriage to a guy I haven’t met.”

Angela smiled sweetly. “What can I say? I believe in romance.”

“Yeah, well, believe in a world where your daughter can pick her own damn date.”

Frankie leaned over and stage-whispered, “That’s a no on Hank Jr., then?”

Jane grabbed her tool belt from the back of the chair, slung it over her shoulder, and looked at her dad. “I’ll meet you in the truck.”

“Leaving before breakfast?” Angela called.

“I’m not hungry.”

That was a lie.

She was starving.

But not for eggs.

She needed air. She needed space. She needed to get the image of Maura Isles leaning against the kitchen counter with a glass of lemonade and that unreadable look out of her head before she started grinning like an idiot in front of her whole family.

Jane grabbed an apple from the bowl by the door, muttered something that sounded like back soon, and escaped.

Outside, the morning air hit her like a splash of cold water.

She sucked in a deep breath, rolled her shoulders, and tried to shove all thoughts of Maura and Hank and wedding flowers out of her head.

But her heart was still beating faster than it should.

And somewhere, beneath all the noise, one very inconvenient truth lingered:

She didn’t want to be set up.

She didn’t want to flirt with some guy just to make her father happy.

She wanted Maura Isles to look at her again like she had yesterday—like Jane was something she hadn’t quite figured out yet but wanted to.

And God help her, Jane wanted to be figured out.

One slow step at a time.

***

Maura had woken before her alarm.

She told herself it was due to the early sunlight, the summer warmth, her perfectly balanced circadian rhythm. But deep down, she knew the real reason she was already dressed, perfumed, and sipping her first cup of tea by 7:30.

She had been hoping to see Jane.

Not overtly. Not in any obvious or debilitating way. Just… casually. Quietly.

She had, after all, taken extra care with her clothes that morning—a pale linen shirt, just slightly fitted. Subtle earrings. A hint of tinted balm. Nothing overt. Just polished enough to feel confident. Just hopeful enough that if a certain plumber happened to glance her way, she wouldn’t look like a recluse with a textbook addiction.

So when the knock came at the guesthouse door, Maura smoothed a hand over her shirt and composed herself.

She opened the door with her best polite, breezy expression.

It wasn’t Jane.

The man standing on her porch was tall, slightly flushed, and trying hard not to look nervous. His tool belt was slung over one shoulder, his boots a little too clean to have seen real work. He had the clean, collegiate look of someone used to being liked, but currently out of his depth.

“Hi,” he said, a little out of breath. “Sorry to bother you. I’m Hank—Hank Jr.? I just joined your plumbing team this morning.”

Maura blinked once, then offered a gracious nod. “Of course. I was told you’d be starting today.”

“Right. Uh—so, small thing.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Do you have a key to the greenhouse? Because one of the crew—um, Jane, I think—tried to get in and couldn’t. She’s sort of… stuck.”

“Stuck?”

“Well—stuck angry.”

Maura tilted her head.

“She’s not hurt,” Hank added quickly. “She’s just… extremely passionate. About plumbing. And tight valves. And maybe human decency.”

Maura’s brows lifted, curious. “I see.”

“She also said she’s going to personally track down whoever designed the irrigation system and ‘mail them a pipe snake soaked in swamp water.’”

That did it.

Maura’s lips twitched. “Charming.”

“She didn’t seem charmed.”

“I can imagine.”

“And she may have referred to me as ‘useless scenic background noise’ before suggesting I go knock on the fancy door like a good intern.”

Maura didn’t laugh—but it was a near thing.

She stepped inside and retrieved the greenhouse key from the small hook beside her pantry, fingers moving with quiet purpose.

When she returned, Hank was still hovering like someone unsure whether he’d walked into a job site or a psychological experiment.

Maura didn’t offer him the key. “I’ll meet you there momentarily.”

He blinked. “You… sure?”

“Oh, yes.” She folded her hands. “If Jane’s that upset, I feel it would be irresponsible not to assist.”

Hank accepted her words with a grateful nod and made his retreat.

Maura stood in the doorway for another moment, sipping what was left of her now-lukewarm tea. The porch was quiet, the birds chirping politely, and the morning sun creeping higher over the hedges.

No shouting reached her ears.

No footsteps.

Just a distant pressure in her chest. Anticipation, maybe.

She stepped out into the garden path, unhurried but intent.

Because even if Jane Rizzoli was red-faced, covered in dirt, and cursing the laws of fluid dynamics…

Maura very much wanted to see her.

Maura approached the greenhouse slowly, the key cold in her palm and a carefully rehearsed smile resting at the corners of her mouth.

She saw Jane before Jane saw her—on her knees in the dirt, one arm buried under the base of a rusted valve, her hair escaping its tie, curls frizzed from sweat and frustration. Her tank top clung to her back in damp patches, exposing sun-warmed skin, and her mouth was moving in a low, continuous grumble.

Maura felt her breath catch.

God, she was beautiful.

Rough and raw and alive in a way Maura had never been, not even at her most passionate. There was something magnetic about the way Jane threw her whole body into a problem, even one that clearly hated her back.

She stepped closer.

Jane heard the crunch of gravel and glanced up.

Her face went still.

Not angry. Not surprised. Just… blank.

Maura hesitated, her smile dimming slightly. “I brought the key.”

Jane shifted back, wiping her wrist across her forehead. “Oh. Thanks.”

Her tone was neutral.

Not cold, but not… warm, either.

Nothing like yesterday.

She took the key from Maura’s outstretched hand without their fingers brushing, and that small detail—so minor—sent a ripple of disappointment through Maura’s chest.

Jane turned quickly and jammed the key into the greenhouse lock. “Hank said you’d come. That guy’s got golden retriever energy.”

Maura forced a quiet laugh. “He does seem eager to please.”

The lock clicked.

Jane yanked the door open and muttered something about “freakin’ welded shut,” then gestured to the valve near the doorframe. “That’s the bastard. Had to access the line from outside because someone, years ago, thought encasing everything in ornamental stone was cute.”

Maura crouched beside her, instinctive now, even in pressed slacks. “Did you isolate the main line?”

Jane blinked at her. “You know plumbing?”

“I read,” Maura said, arching one brow.

Jane smiled—slightly—and looked away just as quickly. “Yeah. Shut it off an hour ago. Still draining.”

Maura waited. Hoped.

But no joke came. No casual compliment. No spark like yesterday.

Jane turned back to the line and started fiddling with the wrench again, lips pursed, focused.

It felt… wrong.

Stiff.

Like something had reset overnight.

Before Maura could say anything, she heard heavy footsteps approaching behind her.

Frank Rizzoli Sr.

He clapped a hand on the greenhouse doorframe as he arrived. “There we are! Two great girls—one brain, one brawn.”

Jane groaned quietly. “Dad.”

Frank chuckled and gave her a wink, then turned to Maura with a charming grin. “You’ve met Hank Jr., right, Ms. Isles? Good kid, huh?”

“I have,” Maura said evenly.

“Sharp. Polite. Got a real future ahead of him,” Frank continued, nudging Jane with his elbow. “Maybe a good influence on this one. Calm her down some.”

Jane rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

Maura’s stomach pulled tight.

Frank turned back to Jane. “Told Hank he’d be shadowing you all week. Hope you don’t scare him off.”

Jane shrugged, wrench still clamped in her hand. “No promises.”

Frank laughed and wandered off, calling back something about “grabbing fittings from the truck.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

Maura straightened slowly, brushing dust from her slacks. “So,” she said, tone lighter than she felt, “you’ll be mentoring.”

Jane’s smile was quick but hollow. “Guess so.”

“And yesterday,” Maura ventured carefully, “all that testosterone… I suppose it’ll be balanced now?”

Jane looked up.

Something flickered behind her eyes—recognition, maybe. Guilt?

But then she ducked her head and muttered, “Better get this fixed before Hank tries to help and ends up breaking something else.”

And just like that, she turned away again.

Maura stood there a moment longer, unsure what she’d done—or not done—to cause this shift. She watched Jane work in silence, arms tense, jaw tight.

Then she turned and walked away without another word.

And this time, Jane didn’t watch her go.

***

By Wednesday, the heat had settled in like a drunk relative—loud, clumsy, and completely uninterested in leaving.

The renovation crew worked early to beat the worst of it, but by ten a.m., shirts were clinging, brows were dripping, and tempers frayed like cheap wire.

Jane tried to keep her head down. Tried to focus.

But the teasing was relentless.

It started with Marco, who elbowed Jane while they were hauling a water heater through the back corridor of the main house.

“So, you and Prince Hank makin’ plumbing babies yet or what?”

Jane snorted. “He wears sunscreen to his knees, Marco. I promise you I’m not tempted.”

But it didn’t stop.

Lou chimed in next while they were threading copper joints behind the greenhouse.

“Think I saw him pick you a flower yesterday. That’s real old-fashioned romance, Rizzoli.”

“He sneezed and dropped it,” Jane grunted. “It wasn’t symbolic.”

“You sayin’ that kiss behind the tool shed was just a friendly peck?”

Jane threw a wrench at him.

The next day, it got worse.

Frank Sr. caught them walking back from the truck together and grinned like he was already writing the wedding toast.

“You two are startin’ to look like a team. What’s next, matching tool belts?”

Hank laughed good-naturedly, nudging Jane. “Only if they’re embroidered.”

Jane forced a tight smile.

She knew Hank wasn’t doing it to be cruel. He was nice. Overly nice. He held doors, said please and thank you, called her “Rizz” like they were already best friends. She knew it made his dad proud to see them working side by side. Knew Frank Sr. saw Hank as a solution—a corrective course Jane might take if she just opened up to the right kind of man.

So Hank leaned into it.

Played the golden retriever card. The harmless flirt.

And every time Jane felt Maura’s eyes on her from across the lawn or the guesthouse window… she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.

Maura, for her part, remained perfectly composed.

Except for the eye rolls.

Which became more pronounced by the hour.

Monday morning: small frown, subtle glance.

Tuesday afternoon: a slow blink behind her glasses, followed by a silent turn and exit.

Wednesday: a very pointed look when she passed Jane and Hank laughing near the truck, followed by a loud door slam at the guesthouse that was absolutely coincidental.

And no, Maura told herself, it wasn’t jealousy.

Not technically.

It was frustration. At the crew’s juvenile behavior. At how Jane let herself get pulled into their boyish antics. At the way Hank always stood too close and smiled like he’d won something.

Maura didn’t want Jane.

She just didn’t want anyone else to have her either.

Especially not someone who wore khaki cargo shorts unironically.

***

It happened behind the greenhouse.

Of course it did.

The sun was relentless overhead, baking the brick paths and heating the copper fittings until they burned bare skin. Most of the crew had taken a break, scattered around the main house, sipping from water bottles and hiding in pockets of shade.

Jane had stayed behind to finish reseating the final pipe connection, sweat dripping down the back of her neck as she crouched in the dirt, cursing the valve wrench and whatever masochist designed greenhouse irrigation systems in the 1950s.

Hank Jr. lingered.

He’d been “lingering” all week, really—always just close enough to be annoying, never close enough to push. Until now.

Now he was standing behind her. Too close. Smiling that harmless, too-handsome smile.

“Hey,” he said, lightly bumping her shoulder with his. “Everyone else bailed. Thought I’d keep the hardest-working Rizzoli company.”

Jane didn’t look up. “Bold of you to assume I want company.”

He laughed like she was teasing.

She wasn’t.

“Come on,” he said, crouching beside her, voice dropping just enough to grate. “We’ve been working together all week. Don’t tell me you haven’t felt the vibe.”

Jane froze.

Every muscle in her body went still.

Hank didn’t notice.

Or he didn’t care.

He reached out—too fast, too confident—and his hand landed low on her back, fingers grazing just under the edge of her tank top.

Jane stood.

Fast.

Too fast.

He didn’t have time to react before her fist connected—clean and hard—with the bridge of his nose.

Crack.

He stumbled back with a startled cry, hands flying to his face as blood poured down over his mouth.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned. “What the hell?!”

Jane’s chest was heaving. Her face was flushed, lips pulled tight, fury radiating off her like heat from the asphalt.

“You touch me like that again,” she snapped, “and I’ll break more than your nose.”

He blinked at her through his fingers, stunned.

Around the corner, the commotion had drawn attention.

Footsteps—fast ones.

Maura was the first to arrive, blouse fluttering in the breeze, eyes scanning the scene in an instant. She took one look at Hank’s face, the blood, and Jane’s clenched fists, and immediately shifted into action.

“Sit down,” she ordered Hank, already reaching for the handkerchief from her back pocket. “Tilt your head forward, not back—unless you enjoy choking on blood.”

Jane stepped away, jaw locked.

Maura pressed the cloth to Hank’s face, speaking to him sharply but efficiently. “You likely fractured the nasal bone—minor, probably—hold pressure. Don’t lean back. Stay upright.”

Frank Sr. came next, already yelling.

“What the hell happened?!”

Maura didn’t answer. Her focus was clinical.

Jane did.

“He put his hands on me,” she said flatly.

Frank stopped short. “What?”

“I didn’t ask him to,” Jane continued. “I didn’t invite him to. And I sure as hell didn’t want him creeping up behind me in the middle of the workday and grabbing my back.”

Frank opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then tried again. “You hit him.”

“I defended myself,” Jane said, voice low and sharp. “I came here to help you with the job. Not get groped by your newest golden boy.”

Silence.

Frank glanced at Maura, then at Hank—who was still dripping red onto the grass—and rubbed a hand down his face.

Jane turned, walking away without waiting for permission or forgiveness.

Maura watched her go, still pressing the cloth to Hank’s nose, a strange feeling curling in her chest.

Because Jane Rizzoli had just made it very clear where she stood.

And for the first time all week, Maura felt her heart steady.

***

The east garden was mostly wild.

Less manicured than the front lawn, less traveled than the greenhouse path, it was Maura’s favorite part of the estate—overgrown with ivy and shaded by an ancient ash tree that didn’t quite match the symmetry of the Isles landscaping.

She found Jane there, sitting at the base of the tree in the dirt, one leg stretched out, the other bent, her bruised knuckles cradled in her lap.

Her tank top was smeared with grease and sweat. Her hair was an unruly mess. There was a smudge on her cheek that looked like dirt but might’ve been dried blood.

Maura exhaled quietly, her heart tugging before her mind could catch up.

Jane didn’t look up when she heard footsteps. Just sighed and muttered, “Tell me he’s pressing charges so I can start rehearsing my apology-to-nobody.”

Maura stopped a few feet away, hands tucked loosely in front of her.

“I came alone.”

Jane glanced sideways, surprised. Her eyes were tired. Guarded.

Maura offered a tentative smile. “You and Hank didn’t work out, I take it.”

A dry laugh escaped Jane’s throat, quick and joyless. “Please don’t start. Everyone else already got their turn.”

“I’m not here to tease you.”

Jane looked down at her hand. “Guess I should’ve gone for a stern talking-to instead of a right hook.”

“You didn’t overreact.”

“I punched him.”

“You warned him.”

Jane blinked at that.

Maura stepped closer, kneeling slowly, brushing her linen slacks beneath her. “May I?”

She reached for Jane’s hand, pausing for permission.

Jane hesitated. Then nodded.

Maura took it gently, examining the bruised knuckles, the raw scrape on her middle finger. Her touch was light but certain—cool fingertips over swollen skin.

“Not broken,” she murmured. “Just impressive.”

Jane huffed a small laugh. “Yeah, well. He earned it.”

Silence settled between them—thick but not uncomfortable.

Maura’s thumb traced the edge of a bruise. Her eyes didn’t leave Jane’s hand.

And then, softly:

“I’m glad you weren’t interested in him.”

Jane stilled.

The air shifted.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was wary. “Why?”

Maura looked up.

Met her eyes.

And whispered, just loud enough to be heard:

“I’ve been wearing linen trousers all week hoping you’d notice.”

She let it sit there.

Let the words hang in the shaded quiet between the tree roots and the truth.

Then she rose slowly, smoothed her palms over her thighs, and walked away without waiting for a reply.

Jane didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Just stared after her, stunned and blinking, heart thudding so hard she thought it might echo.

She looked down at her bruised hand.

Then at the soft indent in the grass where Maura had knelt.

And smiled.

***

The old Rizzoli work truck rumbled steadily down the shaded road that led back into the city, windows cracked just enough to let in the scent of hot tar and summer grass.

Jane sat in the passenger seat, elbow propped against the door, fingers idly tapping the bruise on her knuckles. It had started to purple.

Frank Sr. drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the gearshift. They hadn’t spoken since they pulled out of the Isles estate.

Jane could feel the words waiting, balancing somewhere between them like an untied rope, fraying.

She wasn’t in the mood.

But silence with her father could be just as suffocating as noise, so she finally muttered, “I’m not gonna apologize.”

Frank didn’t answer right away.

She glanced sideways, ready to be yelled at or guilted or told she’d embarrassed the family name again.

But instead, he said simply, “Good.”

Jane blinked.

“What?”

“I said good,” Frank repeated, eyes still on the road. “You shouldn’t.”

She stared at him.

This wasn’t the script.

Frank sighed, shifting gears as they coasted to a stop at a red light. “The kid crossed a line. You clocked him. Maybe a little harder than necessary, but… hell. Sometimes people need a reminder.”

Jane didn’t say anything.

Her mind was scrambling to catch up.

“You’re not mad?” she asked finally.

“Oh, I’m mad,” he said. “But not at you.”

Jane swallowed hard. “Then what was all that yelling earlier?”

Frank scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable. “I was embarrassed. I brought him onto the job. I vouched for him. Didn’t think he’d try something like that.”

Jane leaned her head back against the seat. “Yeah, well. You also didn’t think I’d ever wanna be a cop.”

Frank glanced at her.

Didn’t deny it.

“I just thought,” he said slowly, “maybe if you met a decent guy… had a little summer fun… maybe the whole police academy thing would fade out. You’d remember there were other things to chase.”

Jane snorted. “You think I’d give up a badge for Hank Junior?”

“I hoped,” he said. “Not for him. Just… for different priorities.”

Jane let out a slow breath through her nose. “I’m doing this, Pops. With or without your blessing. I need to do this.”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Just stared out the windshield, the light turning green and the truck rolling forward.

“I know,” he said finally.

Jane looked over at him again.

His jaw was tight. His fingers flexed on the wheel. But his voice had softened, just slightly—like someone finally letting go of a weight he didn’t know how to carry.

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

But it wasn’t the angry kind.

Not today.

Not anymore.

The truck rolled past Fenway, the evening sun painting the skyline in streaks of gold and burnt orange. The air was still thick with summer, but the silence between them had thinned—less like a wall, more like a truce.

Frank cleared his throat.

Jane glanced sideways, cautious.

“She seems nice,” he said casually.

Jane squinted. “Who?”

“The Isles girl.”

Maura.

“Friendly,” he went on. “Smart. Bit formal, maybe, but I guess that’s money for you. Probably got her own encyclopedia.”

Jane bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

“You know,” Frank added, glancing at her quickly, “if you weren’t so busy dodging Hank Junior’s charm offensive, I’d say she might be a good influence on you.”

Jane looked out the window. “You think?”

“Well, she’s not gonna teach you how to curse better or throw punches in a greenhouse, so yeah. Safer bet.”

Jane snorted. “So now you’re telling me to hang out with her?”

“Not telling you anything,” Frank said, lifting a hand. “Just sayin’. That kid’s got more books than our parish library. If you’re set on joining the force, maybe it’s not such a bad idea to have someone around who knows how to stitch you up.”

Jane smiled to herself, soft and involuntary.

She could picture Maura just then—frustrated, delicate fingers threading gauze, that little crease in her brow when she was focused, the faint curve of her mouth when she was pleased with herself.

She bit her lip to chase the smirk.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, “a friendship like that would be better suited for me anyway.”

Frank made a noise that was half grunt, half chuckle.

“As long as she doesn’t try to give you a book on plumbing, you’ll be fine.”

Jane rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling.

Because somehow, without even knowing it, her father had said something that made the knot in her chest loosen.

He wasn’t saying no anymore.

And even if she wasn’t ready to tell him the whole truth… he hadn’t shut the door, either.

Maybe this summer wasn’t going the way anyone expected.

But maybe, just maybe, it was going somewhere better.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was loud in that comfortable Rizzoli way—radio humming low, sauce bubbling on the stove, the sound of a spoon clinking against the edge of the pan as Angela stirred without needing to look.

Jane hovered near the fridge, her fingers drumming on the handle like she had nothing better to do. Her knuckles still ached from earlier but her mind was too far away to care.

Tommy was stretched out on the floor with a comic book, legs kicking in the air, and Frankie Jr. was hunched at the table pretending to study but actually doodling a tank on his math homework.

“Hey, Ma,” Jane said casually, eyes fixed on the countertop, “do we have any cannolis left?”

Angela didn’t turn. “Why?”

“No reason. Just thought I’d grab a couple. For later.”

Angela gave her a look over her shoulder, half skeptical, half amused. “For later, huh?”

Jane tried for nonchalant. “Yeah. Y’know. For… morale.”

“You don’t eat cannolis for morale, Janie. You eat them when you’re guilty or tryin’ to impress someone.”

Jane scoffed. “I’m not tryin’ to impress anyone.”

Angela raised both brows but said nothing.

Frank Sr. looked up from his beer at the kitchen table. “You headin’ back out?”

“Yeah,” Jane said, brushing her hair off her neck. “Just gonna swing by the Isles estate.”

That got Angela’s attention.

She turned fully from the stove, wiping her hands on a towel. “The Isles estate…ain’t that the place you’re workin’ on Janie?”

Jane nodded.

Angela’s expression softened. “That poor girl must be goin’ crazy up there in that big house all alone. That’s no way to spend a summer.”

“She’s not in the house-house,” Jane mumbled. “She’s in the guesthouse.”

Angela waved her off, already pulling open the pastry box. “Still. Nice of you to check on her. It’s good you’re making friends, sweetheart. Real ones.”

Jane didn’t correct her.

Didn’t say the girl in question had sharper eyes than anyone she’d ever met, or that Jane still hadn’t stopped thinking about the feel of her hand in hers.

Angela packed two cannolis—wrapped in foil, just right—into a paper bag and handed it over with the reverence of a peace offering.

“You tell her she’s always welcome here,” she said. “And next time, maybe I’ll send some of the good lemon biscotti.”

Jane grinned. “You’re already planning my second visit?”

“I like to be prepared.”

Frank Sr. gave her a pointed look over the rim of his beer. “You bein’ nice to someone? You feelin’ okay?”

Angela swatted at him with the towel. “Don’t you start.”

Jane shook her head and grabbed her jacket. “Alright, I’m out before this turns into a family interrogation.”

She was halfway to the door when her mother called after her.

“And Jane?”

She paused.

Angela’s voice softened. “Don’t stay too closed off, okay? Just because you’re tough doesn’t mean you have to be alone all the time.”

Jane didn’t look back.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I’ll try.”

And then she was gone.

Out into the warm night with a brown paper bag and something new—something hopeful—blooming slow and careful in her chest.

***

The sun had just dipped below the rooftops when Maura heard the knock.

It was soft—hesitant, almost—and she nearly missed it over the low hum of her desk fan. She tucked her pen into the crease of her anatomy textbook, rose from her chair, and crossed to the door, pulse quickening despite herself.

When she opened it, Jane Rizzoli stood there in the fading light, one hand behind her back, the other rubbing the back of her neck.

“Hey,” Jane said, voice a little hoarse. “Hope it’s not too late.”

Maura blinked, surprised but not unwelcome. “Not at all.”

Jane pulled her hand from behind her back and revealed a modest brown paper bag, grease-blotted and still faintly warm at the base.

“My mom’s cannolis,” she said, holding it out. “I didn’t make them, so they’re actually edible.”

Maura took the bag, blinking down at it. “That’s… thoughtful.”

Jane shoved her hands into her back pockets. “I wanted to say sorry. For today.”

“You don’t need to apologize to me, Jane. I wasn’t the one—”

“I do,” Jane cut in, eyes serious now. “Not for what I did, exactly—he deserved it—but for you having to see it. And for the crew and my Pops running their mouths all week. And me… not doing a better job shutting it down.”

Maura looked at her, quiet for a moment.

Jane cleared her throat and added, “I don’t want you thinking that I’m that kind of person. Who hits first and asks questions later, or who lets people make assumptions about who she’s interested in without correcting them.”

Maura’s brows lifted slightly.

“And if anything I’ve said—or didn’t say—made you uncomfortable…” Jane paused, exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

Maura’s heart tugged in an unexpected direction. She’d expected distance. Avoidance. Even denial. Not… this.

Jane held out her hand, palm open, crooked grin returning with hesitant charm.

“Friends?”

Maura stared at her hand for half a second too long.

Then smiled.

And slid her own into Jane’s, soft fingers curling gently around rougher ones.

“Friends,” she said, though her stomach fluttered with something that felt entirely not platonic.

They stood like that for a breath longer than necessary.

Then Jane pulled her hand back, suddenly fidgeting. “Well, umm enjoy. Ma packed two but I can bring more tomorrow if you want. I once ate a whole tray so they can be very addictive…”

Maura laughed lightly, already backing toward the door. “I’ll ration them carefully.”

“Good.”

A pause.

Jane turned to go.

Maura hesitated—then called after her, just before she vanished down the path.

“Jane?”

She stopped, glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

Maura smiled. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad you hit him.”

Jane’s grin cracked wide and crooked.

“I’ll let my knuckles know.”

Jane’s grin curved wide and crooked—and for a moment, Maura thought she would leave, just like that. A perfect exit line. A step back into the dark.

But she didn’t move right away.

Neither did Maura.

Then, before the moment could close completely, Maura said, lightly but not without meaning, “If you’re not in a rush, I was just studying.”

Jane stopped mid-step, half turned. “Yeah?”

Maura nodded, her hand still on the doorframe. “And I wouldn’t mind the distraction.”

Jane’s brows lifted. “Distraction, huh?”

“I’ve read the same paragraph four times and retained nothing but the word bursa,” Maura replied, stepping back and pushing the door open wider. “You might as well come in before I start reciting the ligaments of the knee to the cannolis.”

Jane hesitated only a second longer—then stepped inside.

The air was cool from the desk fan, the smell of books and citrus and something unmistakably Maura in the space. Clinical order, but lived-in. A half-drunk cup of tea beside an open anatomy textbook. A notepad covered in perfect cursive.

Maura watched Jane take it in, the way her eyes darted toward the books, the clean corners, the subtle chaos of a mind that needed everything just so in order to focus.

“Nice setup,” Jane said, sliding her hands into her back pockets. “Very… Harvard med student chic.”

“Boston Cambridge, actually,” Maura corrected, then caught herself. “But thank you.”

They shared a look.

Brief. Careful. But it lingered.

Maura moved to her desk, pulled out a second chair, and nodded toward it. “Sit. You can pretend to read while I pretend not to be frustrated with myself.”

“I’m excellent at pretending,” Jane muttered, taking the seat, knees brushing Maura’s as she settled in.

Neither of them mentioned it.

And for the next hour, they sat side by side, pages turning, cannoli dust on fingertips, hearts humming with something too new to name—but impossible to ignore.

***

The cannolis were gone, the textbooks forgotten, and the guesthouse had gone still—like even the crickets outside had hushed to listen.

Jane sat opposite Maura, one leg stretched out, a bruise blooming faintly along her knuckles. She looked relaxed in the chair, but there was an alertness in her eyes now—something watchful, sharp, like she was finally letting herself really see Maura, too.

Maura sipped her lukewarm tea, pretending she wasn’t watching her back.

“You know,” she said lightly, “I remember seeing you that first day. Covered in dirt. Swearing at the greenhouse piping.”

Jane laughed under her breath. “A glorious introduction.”

Maura’s smile curled slowly. “And I remember thinking… well, if I’m going to have to spend the summer surrounded by construction noise and foot traffic, at least one of them is interesting to look at.”

Jane blinked.

And then grinned, slow and crooked. “You were checking me out on day one?”

“I was not checking you out,” Maura said, too quickly. Then, quieter: “I was… curious.”

“Right. Curious.”

Maura raised an eyebrow. “Says the girl who’s been glancing at my linen trousers all week.”

Jane choked on a laugh. “Guilty.”

Maura’s voice softened, her expression tilting toward sincere. “I asked after you. Your father mentioned the academy. Said you had ‘a mind of your own’ like it was a bad thing.”

“Shocking,” Jane said dryly.

“He also said you were good. At the job. And that you worked harder than most of the men he hired.”

Jane leaned her head back against the chair. “That’s… rare praise, coming from him.”

“I noticed.”

A pause settled between them—not awkward, just full. Like they were both feeling the same thing rise between them, and neither quite knew what to do with it.

Jane exhaled through her nose, breaking the stillness. “The academy…it’s tough. But worth it. I like knowing I can help people. Or stop the bad before it gets worse.”

Maura nodded. “That’s very brave.”

Jane tilted her head, studying her. “What about you? Boston Cambridge. Premed. That’s intense.”

Maura looked down at her hands. “It is. But it’s always been the plan. My mother had it in writing before I could walk, I think. Study, specialize, succeed.”

“No room to breathe?”

“Not really,” Maura said quietly. “But I like it. I do. I just don’t know if I chose it for myself… or because I didn’t know how not to.”

Jane was quiet a moment, then offered gently, “You’ve still got time to figure that out.”

Maura looked up at her, searching her face.

And for a second, it felt like they weren’t in the guesthouse anymore. Like the room had gotten smaller and quieter, charged with something unspoken—something new.

Jane smirked, trying to lighten it. “So, for the record… definitely not interested in Hank Jr.”

“I’d gathered that.”

“I mean, if I wanted a walking can of hairspray, I’d have gone with Joey Grant to prom.”

Maura gave a rare, genuine laugh, hand to her mouth. “Not your type, then?”

“Not even close.”

A silence fell again—this one charged differently.

And then Maura, barely above a whisper:

“So what is your type?”

Jane’s breath caught.

The question hung in the air like humidity—thick and clinging, impossible to ignore.

Maura didn’t move at first. She looked startled by her own words, like they had slipped out before her brain had fully vetted them. Her cheeks flushed, pale pink blooming high on her cheekbones.

“I—” she began, lifting her hand like she might take it back. “You don’t have to answer that, if you’re not ready.”

Jane blinked.

Not ready?

She wasn’t sure if that was the word.

Terrified might have been closer. Or reckless. Or cornered and strangely thrilled by it.

But she’d never been one to back down from a challenge—not in a fight, not in a classroom, and certainly not when a beautiful girl with perfect posture and perfect skin and a frustratingly perfect brain asked her that.

So instead of ducking it, Jane smiled.

Crooked. Lazy. The kind of smile that always meant trouble.

“My type?” she said, like she was just tasting the idea. “Well…”

Maura sat very still, like a deer in a designer blouse.

Jane leaned back in her chair again, arms folding behind her head. “Smart’s a must. Like… make-you-feel-stupid smart. The kind of person who says something completely out there and actually knows what it means.”

Maura’s blush deepened, but she smiled.

Jane went on, casually—too casually.

“Kind of a perfectionist. Maybe a little uptight, but in a way that makes you want to mess with them. Not mean, just… always in control. Until they’re not.”

Maura blinked slowly.

“And classy,” Jane added. “Like, drinks tea at night instead of beer. Knows how to pronounce words like brioche and patina and actually gives a shit if you’re using the right fork.”

She paused.

Then, softer: “But not snobby. Just… raised different.”

Maura tilted her head, expression unreadable now—except for the faintest twitch of a smile.

Jane’s voice dropped as she added, almost an afterthought, “Someone who makes you want to try harder. Even when it scares the hell out of you.”

Silence.

Maura didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t need to.

Because something between them had shifted again—small, but seismic.

A truth spoken sideways. A secret laid bare without ever saying a name.

And Maura, always sharp, always observant, understood it perfectly.

She reached for her tea, though her hand trembled faintly now.

“That sounds like a very… specific type.”

Jane shrugged. “I’m picky.”

Maura met her eyes. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

The room stayed quiet long enough for Jane to start feeling smug.

Not in a mission accomplished kind of way—but in that deeply satisfying you know I just messed with your whole equilibrium kind of way.

Maura was still holding her teacup, but she hadn’t taken a sip. Her eyes hadn’t left Jane’s since the end of that very… detailed description.

So Jane, leaning back in her chair with a slow stretch and the most irritating smirk on her face, tilted her head and said:

“Alright, Isles. Your turn.”

Maura blinked. “What?”

“You asked me what my type is.” Jane’s grin widened. “Seems only fair I ask you the same.”

Maura lowered her cup. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed. Her usual ease in conversation faltered for the first time that night.

Jane’s smirk deepened. “What? Too invasive?”

“No,” Maura said quickly. “Just… unexpected.”

Jane shrugged. “I’m a plumber. We’re blunt.”

Maura gave her a look. “You’re also in the police academy. You’re trained to ask questions.”

“Exactly.” Jane leaned forward, forearms resting on her knees. “So come on. What’s the Isles standard? Future surgeon with a perfect jawline? Someone who uses the word visceral in bed?”

Maura laughed—an actual, startled laugh that made Jane’s stomach do something annoying and floaty.

Then Maura looked at her, really looked at her, and said, “I suppose… I like people who challenge me.”

Jane’s brow ticked up. “Challenge you how?”

“Intellectually,” Maura said carefully. “Emotionally. Someone who doesn’t immediately cater to what I expect. Who pushes back when I’m too rigid. Who surprises me.”

Jane’s voice dropped just slightly. “You like surprises?”

“Not usually,” Maura said honestly. “But some are… interesting.”

The air thickened again.

Jane licked her lips, her voice still low. “Anything else?”

Maura hesitated.

Then, more softly, “Someone brave. Someone who knows exactly who they are, even if no one else does.”

Jane’s breath hitched—just slightly, just enough for her to feel it.

But she didn’t let it show.

Not completely.

She sat back, casual again, hiding the pounding of her heart behind a lazy shrug.

“Well,” she said. “Sounds like you’ve got good taste.”

Maura’s eyes flicked over her, slow and sharp.

“I do,” she said.

And there it was again.

That not-quite-said thing.

Sitting between them like a held breath neither of them was ready to release.

Jane glanced toward the clock on Maura’s desk, and her stomach dropped just a little.

“Shit,” she muttered, straightening in her chair. “I didn’t realize it was almost midnight.”

Maura followed her gaze and blinked. “Oh.”

Jane stood, stretching the stiffness from her back. “I should probably get home before my ma starts calling every hospital between here and Revere.”

Maura stood, too, almost reluctantly. “Big day tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Early start. And… uh, the client’s daughter…” Jane smirked. “She’s kind of a stickler for punctuality.”

Maura let out a laugh, soft and unguarded. “She sounds awful.”

Jane’s grin widened. “Total pain in the ass.”

They paused in the middle of the guesthouse, both half-smiling, half-holding back something neither of them could name just yet.

“I’ll walk you out,” Maura offered, already reaching for the porch light switch.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Outside, the air was cooler, quieter. The crickets had resumed their symphony, and the gravel crunched lightly under their feet as they crossed the short path to Jane’s beat-up car.

They stopped at the driver’s side door.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Maura shifted awkwardly and opened one arm for a quick, polite hug.

Jane hesitated—then stepped into it. One arm around Maura’s back, the other hanging awkwardly by her side. It was brief, barely a breath of contact, but her brain still stalled the second Maura’s hand brushed her shoulder.

They pulled apart, equally unsure of what to do with their hands.

“Thanks,” Maura said quietly. “For coming by. It was… nice.”

Jane nodded. “Thanks for the tea.”

Maura smiled, head tilted.

Jane turned toward the car, then paused and looked back. “And thanks for checking on my hand earlier.”

Maura’s gaze dropped briefly to Jane’s knuckles. “You should ice it again tonight.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

Another silence.

Another moment.

This one stretching just long enough for Jane to glance at Maura’s mouth—and then not do anything about it.

She opened her car door.

“See you tomorrow,” she said.

Maura nodded. “Bright and early.”

“Wouldn’t want to disappoint the boss’s daughter.”

“Definitely not.”

And with one last smirk, Jane slid into the car and shut the door.

Maura stood in the driveway until the taillights disappeared down the gravel path, her arms folded over her chest like she didn’t trust them to do anything else.

***

It started with a knock.

Every morning, just after the Rizzolis pulled up and the crew began unloading tools and swearing at each other, Jane would break off from the chaos and make her way around the side of the estate.

And knock.

Sometimes Maura was already up, dressed and calm, with a full pot of tea steeping and an annotated textbook open on her lap.

Sometimes her hair was still damp from the shower and she answered in pajamas with a toothbrush in her mouth.

Either way, she smiled when she saw Jane.

“Morning, boss’s daughter,” Jane would say with a grin.

“Morning, crew’s most punctual liability,” Maura would reply without missing a beat.

And then Jane would disappear again, off to deal with clogged drains, twisted pipework, and Hank Jr. moping on the far side of the estate.

But around noon, like clockwork, Jane came back.

Lunch was Jane’s favorite part of the day—not because the job sucked (it did), or because she got to sit down (also true), but because it meant thirty uninterrupted minutes of Maura.

It had started innocently enough. Jane stopped by to “check the pressure valve behind the guesthouse,” and Maura offered her half a sandwich.

The next day, there was a full plate waiting for her.

By day four, Jane had her own chair. And Maura was cutting the crusts off.

“You don’t like crusts?” Jane asked, amused.

“You scowl at crusts,” Maura corrected, passing her the plate.

“I scowl at most things,” Jane muttered, already eating.

After lunch, sometimes Maura would quiz herself on flashcards while Jane half-listened and sipped lemonade. One day, Jane started answering them.

“Name the three layers of the epidermis,” Maura asked.

“Stratum… corneum, granulosum, spinosum?” Jane guessed.

Maura blinked. “You missed the basale layer, but… not bad.”

Jane puffed her chest. “Told you I was smarter than I look.”

“You must be a genius, then.”

Jane threw a grape at her.

They sat cross-legged on Maura’s floor, chewing and laughing and drifting closer by inches. Once, Maura fell sideways in a fit of laughter, her shoulder bumping Jane’s thigh. Jane didn’t move. Just looked down at her, something unspoken curling in her chest like smoke.

Neither of them mentioned the closeness.

Or how Jane’s boots were now always left by Maura’s door.

Or how Maura started making enough food for two without asking.

Or how Frankie Jr. raised an eyebrow when Jane packed extra deodorant for work.

They were friends.

Totally platonic.

Completely normal.

It just happened to feel like the best part of Jane’s day.

***

Rain clung to the estate like a second skin, slicking the pavement, soaking the hedges, and making the interior hallways smell faintly of damp plaster and old pine. The crew had moved most of their work indoors—fixing stubborn fixtures in the library and patching a leak in the second-floor ceiling. Jane spent the morning alternating between holding flashlights, fitting pipe elbows, and wiping rainwater from her forehead with the back of her wrist.

By the time lunch rolled around, she was tired, wet, and completely uninterested in listening to Hank Jr. debate which of the deli sandwiches had the most protein.

She headed for the side hallway near the kitchen without thinking.

“Where you sneakin’ off to?” her father called, half distracted by a tangled length of wire and a leaking radiator.

Jane didn’t stop walking. “Break. Like everyone else.”

Frank Sr. glanced over and gave her a look. “Sure you’re not just taking the long way to that guesthouse?”

Jane turned at that, frowning. “It’s lunch.”

He held up his hands. “I’m not saying it ain’t. Just—don’t forget who’s signing your payslips.”

She sighed and nodded. “Got it.”

His tone softened just a touch. “I’m glad you’ve got someone to talk to, kid. Just—keep your head on.”

Jane didn’t answer. Just kept walking, hoodie pulled tight against the rain.

By the time she reached the guesthouse, her hair was damp at the edges and her boots left a trail of mud on the stone steps. She wiped them carefully before knocking.

The door opened before her knuckles touched the wood.

“I saw you coming,” Maura said, stepping aside.

Warmth poured out of the space—soft lighting, the smell of something rich and comforting on the stove, and Maura herself, dressed in a navy sweater with sleeves pushed up to her elbows, hair tucked behind her ears.

Jane blinked once. “You cooking?”

Maura gave her a look. “I cook.”

“You microwave.”

“I can cook,” Maura said, amused, “and today I did. Stewed steak. I figured something warm might help after the rain.”

Jane’s stomach growled on cue. “You’re some kind of witch.”

Maura just smiled and waved her toward the small table, already set for two.

They ate in easy silence, Maura neatly cutting her food, Jane tearing off chunks of bread with her fingers and wiping her bowl clean. She didn’t realize how cold she’d been until her toes started to feel warm again.

“You’re quiet today,” Maura said gently, taking a sip of her tea.

Jane shrugged. “Just tired. Rain makes everything feel heavier.”

“You did spend the morning fighting with a ceiling pipe.”

“Pipe won,” Jane muttered. “I’m re-grouping.”

Maura reached for a neat stack of flashcards. “Then let’s test your brain while your body recovers.”

Jane groaned and slumped lower in her chair, but she took the stack anyway.

“Alright, science queen. What’s the first bone to ossify in the human body?”

“Clavicle.”

“Gross. Correct.”

Maura smiled and reached for her tea again. She looked cozy—like the weather had made her softer somehow. The knit of her sweater dipped slightly at the neck. Her legs were tucked under the table, crossed at the ankle. Her hair, slightly messy from steam or rain, curled gently at her collarbone.

Jane looked down quickly at the flashcards.

“Which cranial nerve controls smell?”

Maura tilted her head. “Olfactory. Cranial nerve one.”

“Also gross,” Jane mumbled.

“You’re squeamish.”

“I’m a plumber.”

“That’s not mutually exclusive.”

“Tell that to my gag reflex.”

Maura laughed, and Jane felt the heat creep up her neck.

She didn’t know why it got her like that—Maura laughing. Maybe it was because she was usually so composed. So smooth. Like nothing ruffled her. But around Jane, something cracked open. And Jane… liked that.

Maybe too much.

They kept going, one flashcard after another, the rain a quiet hum against the windows. Every so often Jane would glance up, catch Maura watching her, and look away too fast.

Eventually Jane stood and pulled her hoodie back on, pretending she wasn’t already missing the warmth.

“Same time tomorrow?” Maura asked as she walked her to the door.

“If I don’t get electrocuted by the west wing paneling.”

“I’ll keep a chair warm just in case.”

Jane paused in the doorway. “Thanks for lunch.”

“Thanks for keeping my brain sharp.”

Jane turned to go, then hesitated.

She didn’t say anything. Just gave Maura a quick, awkward half-smile and disappeared into the rain.

The door clicked shut behind Jane, and Maura stood there for a moment, still holding the handle like she might open it again.

She watched through the rain-slicked glass as Jane jogged back across the garden, hoodie pulled tight, long legs splashing through puddles. She was all elbows and energy, slightly hunched against the cold, muttering something to herself as she ran—and smiling.

That stupid, crooked grin.

Maura pressed her lips together to stop herself from doing the same.

She didn’t move until Jane vanished behind the main house. Even then, it took her a few moments to peel herself away from the window. Her pulse was faster than it should have been.

She turned back to the guesthouse and exhaled.

There was still half a cup of tea on the table, and the stack of flashcards sat abandoned beside Jane’s empty bowl, a few slightly damp from her elbow resting on them. Maura picked them up, smoothing them with her thumb.

She should get back to work.

Instead, she glanced across the room at her desk—and winced.

Textbooks. At least four. Color-coded tabs sticking out at sharp angles. Notebooks filled with neatly organized margin notes, equations she’d meant to review, diagrams she still needed to label. A full summer study plan, written before she arrived.

She wasn’t even halfway through the first phase.

Maura sighed and crossed the room, fingertips trailing over the back of her chair before sitting down. She opened her anatomy textbook and stared blankly at the page.

The words blurred almost immediately.

She tapped her pen twice against the desk, glanced toward the table again.

Jane had leaned back in her chair that afternoon, legs outstretched, reading Maura’s flashcards with narrowed eyes and exaggerated concentration, like she was solving a bomb instead of quizzing her on cranial nerves. Her sleeves had been pushed up, exposing her forearms, and she’d kept scratching the side of her neck with the edge of a pencil.

It had made Maura irrationally distracted.

And warm.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

“This is ridiculous,” she murmured.

She was here to study. To get ahead. To stay focused. That was the plan. She was good at plans. Plans had structure. Predictability.

Jane Rizzoli, however, had none of those things.

She was loud, sarcastic, blunt to the point of rudeness, and sometimes more grease than girl. She cracked jokes when Maura was trying to be serious. She showed up soaked in rain and still managed to look like some charmingly reluctant indie movie protagonist.

And yet.

The moment Jane walked into the room, Maura felt it—the shift. Her pulse changed rhythm. Her brain quieted, but her body lit up.

And when Jane smiled, especially at her, it was impossible not to smile back.

Even now, alone, Maura felt the ghost of that reaction.

She looked down at her open textbook again, then reached for her pen.

She needed to refocus.

But her next note, scribbled quickly in the margin beside the labeled diagram of the brachial plexus, read:

Cranial nerve I – olfactory. Smell. Rain. Jane.

Maura closed the book.

She’d try again later.

***

The fan in Jane’s room clicked softly every third rotation.

She lay on her back, one arm folded behind her head, the other resting over her stomach, the blanket half-pushed to the side. It wasn’t hot—not really—but her skin felt too tight and her chest too full to get comfortable.

The room hadn’t changed much since she left for the academy—same Red Sox posters, same old dresser with one sticky drawer, same faded glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling from when Frankie and Tommy insisted they’d be scared without them.

It was all familiar. Comforting.

But tonight, Jane didn’t feel like the same person who used to live in this room.

She stared at the ceiling, a stupid grin ghosting her mouth, and let herself think about her.

Not just lunch.

Not just the way Maura had smiled when Jane got the flashcard right or the way she always managed to cut her sandwiches into clean, perfect triangles.

But her.

Maura.

With her painfully neat handwriting and her tea obsession and her ridiculous encyclopedic brain.

Maura, who wore cardigans even in summer, and linen pants like it was 1950, and somehow made that look sexy.

Maura, who called her out with zero hesitation, but never made her feel stupid for not knowing something.

Maura, who looked like the kind of person Jane had been trained to assume would want nothing to do with her—but who kept inviting her in. Offering her food. Her time. Her space.

Her smile.

God, that smile.

Jane grinned into the quiet, covering her face with her arm.

She was in trouble.

Big, dumb, heart-racing trouble.

Because Maura Isles wasn’t just hot—though, obviously, yes, the woman looked like a freaking soap opera heiress on vacation. She was kind. Sharp. A little bit weird. Totally different from anyone Jane had ever met, and yet somehow… easy to be around.

Even when Jane was tired. Even when she was cranky or soaked in rain or had nothing smart to say, Maura still looked at her like she mattered.

And somehow—somehow—Jane didn’t feel like a mess around her. She didn’t feel like a screw-up or a girl with too much to prove.

She felt… capable. Like maybe she was already good enough. Like maybe, if she kept showing up and being herself, Maura would keep letting her in.

And that thought—that—was terrifying.

And also a little bit magic.

She let out a slow breath, turning her head to look at the old photo of her family on the dresser. Her smile faded a little.

They wouldn’t understand.

Not really.

Not yet.

But that didn’t change how she felt.

And tonight, at least, alone in the dark, she let herself feel it.

This ache. This pull. This impossible, irrational, inevitable thing that had started the second she’d laid eyes on Maura. 

Jane laughed softly to herself.

She was so screwed.

But for once?

She didn’t mind.

Chapter Text

Jane emerged from the guesthouse with her jacket slung over her shoulder and the ghost of a grin still curling at her lips.

Her stomach was full—Maura had made some kind of chickpea salad that Jane had claimed to hate and then devoured. Her brain was still buzzing from a rapid-fire flashcard session, half of which had devolved into giggling fits after Maura mispronounced “ischiopubic ramus” and Jane refused to let it go.

And her chest… well, that was the problem. It felt too full again. Not in a bad way, just… too much. Like everything inside her had grown an inch in every direction, and there wasn’t enough room under her ribs anymore.

She hopped down the last step and turned to close the door quietly behind her, trying not to disturb the gentle quiet that always settled around the guesthouse after lunch. But she froze halfway through the motion.

Her father was standing at the edge of the gravel path, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, a rag hanging out of his back pocket.

“Have a nice lunch?” he asked.

Jane’s spine went tight.

She recovered fast—training from the academy already kicking in—and smirked. “Yeah. Way better than Hank’s leftover tuna melt yesterday.”

Frank snorted. “That boy’s stomach’s a war zone.”

Jane stepped onto the gravel and started toward the main house like it was no big deal. Like her heart wasn’t pounding. Like she hadn’t just spent the last forty-five minutes laughing with Maura while their knees “accidentally” kept bumping under the table.

“You’re late,” Frank said casually, falling into step beside her.

“Lost track of time,” Jane shrugged. “It’s raining again. Thought I’d wait it out.”

“It stopped ten minutes ago.”

“Then I must’ve really liked the sandwich.”

Frank chuckled. “Well, don’t get too comfortable. The pipe order for the upstairs bathroom—rest of the brass fittings—they’ve been delayed.”

Jane glanced at him. “Delayed how long?”

“Till Monday, minimum.”

“Seriously?”

Frank nodded. “We can’t do much without ‘em, unless you want to get creative with plastic fittings and duct tape.”

Jane didn’t answer.

He looked over at her as they reached the garage. “So you’re off the hook Friday through the weekend. Paid. You’ve earned it.”

That caught her off guard.

She blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, wiping his hands on the rag. “You’ve been pulling more weight than most of the guys. Thought you could use the break.”

Jane stared at him, unsure what to do with that kind of unsolicited praise.

“I—uh. Thanks.”

Frank waved her off. “Don’t get mushy on me.”

She smiled despite herself.

Then he added, more carefully this time, “You’ve been spending a lot of time with the client’s daughter.”

Jane’s stomach did a flip.

“She’s nice,” she said, too quickly.

Frank didn’t respond right away. Just watched her for a moment, eyes sharper than usual. Then he gave a short nod.

“She seems smart. Polite. Can’t say I blame you.”

Jane stiffened.

“Blame me for what?”

Frank shrugged. “Liking people who don’t come from the same world as you. Your ma did it. Hell, so did I.”

Jane’s pulse thundered in her ears.

She said nothing. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.

Frank patted her on the back and turned toward the work truck. “Take the time off. Rest up. Or do whatever twenty-year-olds do with too much free time.”

“Right,” Jane managed. “Thanks.”

As he walked away, Jane stared after him—equal parts suspicious, confused, and quietly stunned.

And under all of that, something else was building.

An idea.

A feeling.

A tiny opening.

She had the weekend off. No crew. No schedule.

And all she could think about was the way Maura had smiled when their hands had touched reaching for the same flashcard, like it wasn’t the first time, and hopefully wouldn’t be the last.

***

Maura had told herself she wasn’t going to seek Jane out again that day.

Lunch had already run long—longer than usual, even for them—and she had flashcards to review and two entire chapters on the circulatory system flagged for note consolidation. But the house had fallen quiet as the rain eased, and with most of the renovation crew already packed up and gone, the stillness felt almost eerie.

She found herself wandering the upstairs hallway with her book clutched to her chest, half-telling herself she was checking on the water pressure in the newly plumbed master bath. That was technically true. Mostly.

There was a faint clatter from the far end of the corridor, followed by a muttered curse.

Jane.

Maura paused at the partially ajar door, knocked twice on the frame. “Jane?”

A beat.

Then Jane’s voice, distracted and low. “Yeah, I’m in here—hang on—”

Maura pushed the door open just in time to see Jane half-crouched by the tub, wrench in one hand, eyes locked on a section of exposed pipe under the tile ledge. She looked up—startled—just as something behind the panel gave a loud hiss and burst.

A jet of water sprayed out at full force, catching her square in the chest.

“Jesus—!” Jane staggered back, coughing as cold water soaked her tank top in seconds.

“Oh no—” Maura stepped forward instinctively.

Jane looked down at herself, blinking. Her dark hair was damp and curling at the edges, and the cotton of her shirt clung tightly to her skin.

Maura froze.

And immediately turned around.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine, Maur,” Jane said flatly, wringing water from her shirt. “Guess the pipe didn’t care.”

Maura kept her back turned, trying not to sound flustered. “Do you need a towel?”

“Wouldn’t say no.”

“I’ll go grab one—”

“You can look, Maura. It’s not like I’m naked.”

Maura hesitated. Then turned back slowly, eyes staying pointedly above Jane’s shoulders. “You’re… dripping.”

“Yeah,” Jane muttered, pushing her wet bangs off her forehead. “I got that.”

Maura crossed to the linen closet, retrieving a folded towel and holding it out with slightly more formality than necessary.

Jane took it with a raised brow. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Maura said crisply, folding her arms once her hands were free. “You just startled me. And then I startled you.”

Jane smiled—wry and amused. “We’re even.”

She patted herself dry with the towel, wincing a little. “Not how I thought today was gonna go.”

“Nothing serious?”

“Just pressure built up in the wrong line. Easy fix—once I stop freezing my ass off.”

Maura smiled faintly, then leaned her shoulder against the doorframe. “At least it wasn’t the upstairs toilet.”

“That was Tuesday.”

Maura laughed, and Jane glanced up at her—still wiping her arms, still soaked, still somehow managing to look effortlessly good even while annoyed and dripping.

“I talked to my dad earlier,” Jane said, more casually now. “Fittings are delayed till Monday, so… he gave me the next few days off.”

Maura’s brows lifted. “That’s nice of him.”

“Yeah. Said I’ve earned it.” Jane paused, then shrugged. “Guess I have.”

There was a quiet moment, broken only by the sound of rain ticking softly against the window.

“I was thinking…” Jane said, her voice a little rougher than usual. “If you’re not busy tomorrow—”

Maura tilted her head, curious. “I usually am.”

“Right,” Jane nodded. “I just meant, if you wanted a break. Even just an hour or two. I know you’re busy, I just…”

She scratched the back of her neck, eyes briefly flicking toward the floor.

“I thought maybe you’d want to do something. Something not in the guesthouse. Or the bathroom.”

Maura studied her. Jane wasn’t blushing—Jane didn’t blush—but her posture was just a little tighter, like she was bracing for rejection even as she tried to sound casual.

“I’d like that,” Maura said softly. “I’ve been meaning to get away from the books for a bit.”

Jane looked up, surprised. “Yeah?”

Maura nodded. “What did you have in mind?”

Jane huffed a small laugh, the sound breathy and a little self-conscious. “Honestly? I didn’t get that far. I was still working up the nerve to ask.”

Maura’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Hmm. Well. You’ve asked.”

Jane ran a hand through her damp hair, water still dripping from the ends. “I’ll think of something. Just… something not covered in tile dust or medical flashcards.”

“Good.” Maura tilted her head, her tone light but her gaze steady. “I’ll look forward to it.”

They stood in that space between conversation and something else—something neither of them had quite named yet—for a second too long. Jane glanced toward the open access panel again, almost grateful for the excuse.

“I should… probably finish this,” she said, nodding toward the mess of pipes still hissing faintly behind her.

“Of course,” Maura replied, her voice a little softer now.

She turned to go, fingers curling tighter around the spine of the book she hadn’t opened since lunch, then paused in the doorway.

“Let me know if you need help finding a dry shirt.”

Jane smirked. “I’ll just walk around like this. Might distract Hank Jr.”

Maura didn’t even blink. “God forbid.”

Jane was already crouching back down when Maura took a step into the hall. But something made her stop again, hand on the doorframe, still smiling to herself in spite of all her better judgment.

Jane looked up just as Maura glanced back.

“I’ll pick you up at one?” Jane offered casually, her voice carefully level—but there was a glint of something beneath it. Hope. Nerves. Excitement, barely contained.

Maura’s smile bloomed fully now, bright and unfiltered. “One o’clock,” she echoed. “It’s a date.”

And before Jane could reply—before she could panic or deflect or crack a joke to cover the way her heart skipped—Maura turned and walked down the hallway, her ponytail bouncing gently, the book still pressed against her side.

She didn’t look back.

But she was smiling the whole way.

And Jane, still kneeling in a puddle of water and copper fittings, grinned like a complete idiot.

***

Maura stood in front of the mirror with her third outfit of the morning clutched against her chest and a steadily growing sense of panic humming in her ribcage.

“It’s not a date,” she muttered.

Except, of course, it was.

She’d said the words herself—It’s a date—with a smile she hadn’t managed to wipe off her face for the rest of the day. But now, with the clock ticking toward noon and her closet reduced to chaos, the weight of that choice had fully landed.

This wasn’t a dinner party. It wasn’t brunch with her mother’s colleagues or a lecture at Boston Cambridge. This was Jane. Jane Rizzoli.

Jane, who wore boots like armor and tank tops like second skin. Jane, who could take apart an entire sink in fifteen minutes but got bashful when complimented. Jane, who had laughed—really laughed—at lunch yesterday, full and loud and completely unguarded.

Maura exhaled, slowly, and laid the third outfit on the bed beside the other rejected options: one too formal, one too casual, and one that had somehow managed to feel like both.

She checked the time: 11:52.

Eight minutes until she’d tell herself to stop fussing and get dressed.

She settled on a skirt and a soft, cream-colored blouse with sleeves that fluttered just slightly at the wrist. She paired them with flat sandals, simple jewelry, and, after some deliberation, a navy cardigan she could pretend she wasn’t hiding behind.

Once dressed, she turned back to the mirror and assessed the damage.

It was fine.

Safe.

Maybe a little boring.

Her hands hovered near her hair—half-tempted to curl it, pin it, do something—but she stopped herself. Jane wasn’t the kind of person who would notice a chignon. Or maybe she was. Maybe she noticed everything and just didn’t say it.

Maura sat on the edge of her bed, heart thudding in her chest.

What if she was reading this wrong?

What if Jane had asked her because she was bored? Or because Maura was the only person in the house not trying to set her up with Hank Jr.? What if it was just friendly, and she was the one turning this into something else?

She pressed her hands flat to her thighs.

No. There was something. There was. In the way Jane looked at her. In the way she’d said I was still working up the nerve to ask—like it mattered.

And that smile. That crooked, stupid grin Jane gave her when she thought Maura wasn’t looking. That wasn’t nothing.

The knock came at 12:59.

Right on time.

Maura stood, wiped her palms on her jeans, and told herself to breathe.

Then she opened the door.

And there Jane was—clean and casual in a dark gray tee and soft denim, her damp curls pushed off her forehead, her hands shoved into her pockets like she didn’t quite know what to do with them.

She looked up—and smiled.

“Hey.”

Maura’s heart fluttered.

“Hi,” she said, stepping aside. “You’re punctual.”

“I was early. I waited outside so I wouldn’t look desperate.”

Maura laughed despite herself. “You failed.”

Jane shrugged. “Worth it.”

And as Maura closed the door behind them, she thought—

God help me, I really hope this is a date.

The gravel was still damp from yesterday’s rain, soft under their sneakers as Maura followed Jane down the long driveway toward the pickup truck. The sun had finally come out—hot and unfiltered—and the air smelled like pine needles and fresh-cut grass.

Jane walked ahead with her hands in her back pockets, shoulder blades shifting beneath her gray T-shirt.

Maura, meanwhile, was very aware of everything: how her pulse picked up every time Jane glanced over her shoulder, how the short walk from the guesthouse to the truck felt like a slow march toward something that wasn’t quite a date, but also… wasn’t not one.

When they reached the truck, Jane pulled open the passenger door for her without a word. Maura hesitated only a second before climbing in, smoothing her skirt beneath her as she settled onto the bench seat. The interior smelled faintly like soap and old vinyl, a Boston Red Sox air freshener swinging from the rearview mirror.

Jane slid into the driver’s seat a second later and adjusted her side mirror with one hand. The engine started on the second turn.

“So,” Maura asked as casually as she could manage, “where are we going?”

Jane didn’t answer right away—just smirked faintly as she pulled onto the road, fingers drumming the steering wheel.

“Salem,” she said finally.

Maura blinked. “As in the witch trials? That Salem?”

Jane nodded. “Figured we could check out the museum. New exhibits opened last week.”

Maura turned fully toward her, eyebrows lifted. “You want to go to the Salem Witch Museum?”

“What, you don’t?”

“I do, but…” She narrowed her eyes, lips twitching. “This outing is suspiciously tailored to me.”

Jane shrugged, one corner of her mouth lifting. “Maybe I wanted to impress the weird girl in the guesthouse who talks in her sleep about 17th-century legal reform.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” Jane said, grinning. “Last week, you mumbled something about spectral evidence and increase mather while you napped on the couch.”

Maura flushed. “I was studying.”

“Sure,” Jane said, tapping the wheel. “But for the record, I’ve always thought the witch trials were interesting. Just never had anyone to go with.”

“No one?”

Jane shook her head. “Tried to talk my Ma into it once when I was a kid. She said talking about witches brings them into the house, and made me take a Saint Anthony medal to school the next day.”

Maura laughed softly. “That sounds a little dramatic.”

“Then I tried to check out a book on the trials from the library. She said it was Satanic.”

“That’s… not historically accurate.”

Jane glanced sideways at her, amused. “You don’t say.”

Maura was still smiling. “So you’ve been interested for a while.”

“Yeah,” Jane said. “Ever since middle school. My history teacher told us about Giles Corey being pressed to death and I was like, Okay, that’s messed up—I’m in.”

Maura tilted her head. “And you thought this would be a good outing for us?”

Jane shrugged again, this time a little more sheepish. “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not like I know a lot of people who’d get excited about 1692 court transcripts.”

Maura folded her hands in her lap, trying to tamp down the flutter in her chest.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely.

Jane glanced at her, eyebrows raised. “For what?”

“For choosing something you care about too.”

Jane blinked, then gave a half-smile and looked back at the road. “Yeah. Well. I figured if I’m gonna make a fool of myself on a date, it might as well be somewhere that has gift shop pencils shaped like broomsticks.”

Maura’s heart flipped a little at the word—date.

She hadn’t said it again since she’d teased it yesterday. But now it sat there, lightly but undeniably, between them.

Jane must’ve sensed the pause because she added quickly, “I mean, if you’re still up for it. I know it’s not exactly a five-star restaurant or anything—”

“I’m up for it,” Maura said, maybe too quickly.

Jane smiled again—smaller this time, but warmer. She didn’t say anything else, just tapped her fingers against the wheel in rhythm with the road.

Maura turned to look out the window, lips twitching into a smile she didn’t bother to hide.

She was absolutely up for it.

***

The truck rumbled steadily along Route 1A, windows cracked open just enough to let in the early summer breeze. The radio was turned low, the static-filled edge of a local rock station murmuring beneath the hum of the tires and the occasional squawk of gulls flying overhead.

Jane kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting against the window, her fingers drumming a lazy rhythm she probably didn’t even realize she was doing.

Maura, in the passenger seat, sat with her knees drawn slightly in, her cardigan folded neatly on her lap. She glanced out at the passing trees, then back at Jane, thoughtful.

“I‘ve never seen much if Boston,” she said, quiet but sure.

Jane glanced over. “No?”

Maura shook her head. “I was born here. The Isles adopted me right after—well, right after I was born. But we moved around a lot. Geneva. Montreal. London for a little while. My father was always chasing the next research project, and my mother… well, she had gallery openings to attend.”

Jane smiled faintly. “Fancy.”

Maura gave a soft laugh. “Exhausting, more like. Every time I’d start to feel settled, we’d be packing again. I think I went to four different schools in five years.”

Jane whistled. “That explains the whole—” she made a vague swirling motion with her hand “—encyclopedia-brain thing you’ve got going on.”

“I read a lot,” Maura admitted. “It was easier than trying to make new friends every time.”

Jane didn’t tease her for that. Just nodded, eyes back on the road. “Still. Pretty cool to have seen so much.”

“It was. In the end it was me who handed them brochures for boarding school, just so I could belong somewhere for more than a few months.”

Jane hummed low in her throat. “That sucks, Mar.”

Maura turned slightly toward her. “What about you? You said you hated being away from your brothers this year?”

“Yeah.” Jane’s voice warmed instantly at the mention. “Frankie’s only a couple years younger than me. He wants to follow me into the academy. Thinks I’m some kind of badass.”

“You’re not?” Maura teased.

Jane gave her a crooked grin. “I’m insulted you’re asking.”

Maura smiled and leaned back in her seat, watching her.

“And Tommy?” she asked.

Jane’s expression softened. “He’s a pain. Ten going on thirty. Thinks he’s too cool for everything. Won’t let anyone touch his Game Boy.”

Maura tilted her head. “Is that the one you gave him?”

Jane blinked. “How’d you know?”

“You mentioned it. Lunch, I think. That he was more interested in Tetris than your academy stories.”

Jane let out a laugh, surprised. “Right. Yeah. That’s him.”

“You missed them.”

Jane didn’t deny it. “I did. But… I needed the space, you know? The academy’s tough, but in a good way. It gave me time to breathe. Think about what I actually want.”

Maura glanced at her, curious. “And do you know?”

Jane was quiet a moment.

Then: “Not everything. But I know I want to be a cop. A good one. Not just a tough guy in a uniform. I wanna do something that matters.”

Maura’s eyes lingered on her profile—on the way her jaw tightened with conviction, on the way her hands flexed just slightly on the steering wheel.

She opened her mouth to ask something more, something deeper—but Jane beat her to it.

“What about you?” she asked, glancing sidelong. “Any big summer romance I should be jealous of?”

Maura blinked. “Me?”

Jane shrugged, trying for casual. “You’re smart, gorgeous, and can pronounce Latin without flinching. I’m assuming there’s a line of suitors just waiting.”

Maura raised an eyebrow, hiding her smirk. “Suitors?”

“It’s 1692, right? Gotta keep the theme going.”

Maura rolled her eyes. “No, no suitors. My last attempt at romance involved a fellow biology major who believed monogamy was ‘biologically unnatural.’”

Jane winced. “Yikes.”

“Quite.”

They drove in silence for a beat, before Maura looked at her again, this time a little more pointed.

“And you?”

Jane nearly choked on air. “What, me?”

“Yes. Are you entertaining any summer romances?”

Jane fumbled for her water bottle, took a long sip, and cleared her throat. “Define romance.”

Maura’s eyes twinkled. “I assume it involves fewer punches to the nose than your last suitor.”

“That was not a suitor,” Jane groaned.

“Well?”

Jane glanced over, caught Maura watching her, and flushed—actually flushed. She rubbed the back of her neck.

“I’ve been a little… busy,” she said finally. “And, uh, selective.”

Maura tilted her head. “Selective?”

Jane nodded, eyes on the road. “Let’s just say… nobody I’ve met recently has made me wanna risk a lecture from my father or an awkward family dinner.”

Maura let that sit for a moment, studying the curve of Jane’s jaw, the flicker of something careful in her eyes.

Then, softly, “But hypothetically—if someone did?”

Jane glanced over, just once, a quick sideways look. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, hesitant but real.

“I’d say…” she began, then paused, tapping her fingers on the wheel. “She better like museums.”

Maura arched an eyebrow. “She, huh?”

Jane froze for half a second—just long enough to register it—then tried to cover with a shrug, her voice quick. “I mean—they. Whoever. Doesn’t matter, guy or girl or—whatever.”

Maura didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned back a little in her seat, lips curling in the barest smirk.

Jane cleared her throat and kept her eyes locked firmly on the road.

“Right,” Maura said, her tone dry. “A very gender-neutral she.”

Jane exhaled through her nose. “You gonna hold that over me?”

“Absolutely,” Maura said smoothly. “I’ll even write it down if you’d like. ‘She better like museums’—Jane Rizzoli, 1995.”

Jane groaned. “Great. Immortalized.”

Maura smiled, then leaned in just a fraction closer, her voice lower, warmer. “For the record… I like museums.”

Jane glanced at her again—this time slower, her gaze lingering on Maura’s face, the confident tilt of her chin, the way her eyes sparkled with something more than amusement.

“I’d noticed,” she said.

They sat with that a moment—nothing but the quiet hum of the road, the wind lifting gently through the cracked window, and a shared awareness pulsing quietly between them.

Maura looked away first, back out at the passing trees, but her smile didn’t fade.

And Jane, still blushing faintly, kept driving toward Salem like her whole day had just tilted on its axis in the best possible way.

***

Jane kept her hands on the wheel.

Ten and two. Classic. Safe.

The wind whipped gently through the half-cracked window, and the road stretched ahead in a quiet ribbon of pine trees and afternoon sun. But her heart was pounding loud enough to drown it all out.

She.

She’d said she.

Not they, not someone, not a person. She.

And Maura caught it.

Of course she caught it—Maura caught everything. Of all the people in the world to slip in front of, she had to go and do it with the walking embodiment of a human microscope.

Jane exhaled through her nose, trying to play it cool. She shifted slightly in her seat, one hand tapping restlessly on the steering wheel.

She’d corrected herself, hadn’t she? Backtracked, played it off—nothing too obvious. She could pass it off as casual. A quirk of language. A joke. A misstep. People did that all the time.

Except Maura hadn’t let it slide.

Maura had leaned in.

She’d smirked.

“A very gender-neutral she.”

And Jane’s stomach had flipped, not from panic, but from something way worse: hope.

Because Maura hadn’t looked disgusted. She hadn’t recoiled, or gone quiet, or turned the radio up to change the subject. She’d smiled. Teased. Kept the moment alive like it didn’t scare her.

And that? That was new.

Most of Jane’s life had been a balancing act. Tightrope walking between who she was and who her family thought she should be. She could talk sports and drink beer and roughhouse with her brothers. She could date guys long enough to keep the questions quiet. She could grin and deflect and make fun of herself so no one else got the chance to do it first.

But this? This was real.

Maura, in the passenger seat. Elegant and curious and sharp as glass. Saying things like I like museums with that look in her eyes—like she knew exactly what Jane meant and wasn’t running from it.

Jane could still feel the echo of it under her skin.

That look.

The almost-challenge in her voice. The way she hadn’t flinched, hadn’t looked away.

Jane’s fingers tightened briefly on the wheel.

She hadn’t meant for this to happen. She hadn’t expected Maura Isles—prim, brilliant, completely out of her league—to become the only thing she could think about on a loop every time she closed her eyes. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

It was just a summer job.

A break between semesters.

But now they were on the highway, driving toward a museum full of executed women and half-truths, and Jane’s chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with wanting.

And Maura?

Maura had said it was a date.

And she hadn’t taken it back.

***

They were twenty minutes from Salem when the truck rounded a bend and the treetops opened up to a wide, grassy clearing. Jane barely registered the change until a flash of color caught the corner of her eye—bright reds and yellows flickering through the trees like flame.

Maura sat up straighter in her seat. “Is that—?”

Jane glanced over.

A small traveling carnival was being set up in the open field just off the road. Rusted trucks and trailers were half-unpacked, and a handful of workers in ball caps were hoisting metal poles into place beneath a flapping striped tent. A half-assembled Ferris wheel stood like a skeletal promise against the sky, and the scent of sugar and fried batter drifted faintly on the wind, even through the open windows.

“Oh,” Maura breathed.

She shifted without thinking—leaning slightly across the seat, her hand reaching out to touch Jane’s arm just above the elbow. Warm fingers pressed against bare skin.

“I’ve always wanted to go to a real American carnival,” she said, quiet and a little breathless. “You know, with cheap food and wonky rides and… tacky prizes.”

Jane’s brain blanked at the touch.

It was barely anything—just the soft weight of Maura’s hand on her forearm—but it lit a fuse under her skin. Her mouth had gone dry.

“You’ve never been to one?” she asked, voice a little hoarse.

Maura shook her head, still watching the setup through the windshield like she was seeing something magical instead of a half-constructed funnel cake stand.

“My mother doesn’t believe in them. Said they were unsanitary and intellectually degrading.” She smiled, a little sad. “When I was a kid, I’d see photos of them in library books and imagine what it would feel like to ride the carousel.”

Jane swallowed. Hard.

Maura’s hand was still there. She hadn’t moved it. Her thumb had started to gently tap against Jane’s arm in rhythm with the music on the radio—completely unconscious.

Jane’s heart was thundering.

“Then we’ll go,” she said, the words leaving her before she could talk herself out of it.

Maura turned toward her. “What?”

“To the carnival. When it opens.” Jane’s pulse roared in her ears, but she kept her tone steady. “You’re not leaving this summer without getting your wonky rides and tacky prizes.”

Maura blinked, surprised—and then smiled, slow and radiant.

“That’s… very sweet of you.”

Jane shrugged, biting back her own smile. “I have my moments.”

Maura didn’t look away right away. Her fingers finally slid from Jane’s arm, a soft trailing motion that felt like it left a mark. She folded her hands back in her lap, but her smile lingered.

Jane tightened her grip on the steering wheel and reminded herself not to crash the truck.

***

The truck rumbled into the small parking lot just past a crooked sign that read:

Salem Witch Museum – Est. 1972.

Brick walls, pointed archways, and stained-glass windows gave the building an eerie, church-like quality—equal parts charming and ominous.

Maura was already unbuckling before the engine even shut off.

“I can’t believe I’ve never been here,” she murmured, practically buzzing with restrained energy. “They use mannequins to recreate the trials, you know. It’s all staged in a circle around the room—voiceover, spotlights, the whole thing.”

Jane blinked, her hand still resting on the key in the ignition. “You’ve memorized the brochure, haven’t you?”

Maura looked at her, unrepentant. “It’s not often I get to indulge in such a specific historical obsession.”

Jane grinned. “And here I thought you were in it for the souvenir mugs.”

Maura climbed out of the truck with a smile and Jane followed, slightly behind, shoving her hands into her back pockets as they crossed the lot toward the front doors.

She could feel her heart thudding—not from nerves, exactly, but from something else. Something warmer. Something a little dangerous.

Because Maura was excited.

And not in her usual, quiet, academic way—this was the kind of excitement you couldn’t fake: bright eyes, fast footsteps, hands that kept brushing her sides like she didn’t know what to do with them.

And watching her like this—lit from within by curiosity and joy—it did something to Jane. Made her want to see it again. Made her want to be the reason for it next time.

They stepped through the heavy front doors into a dimly lit lobby that smelled like old wood, dust, and printed brochures. Jane glanced around at the waxy displays, the flickering candles set into sconces on the walls, the faint murmur of audio playing in the next room.

Maura inhaled like she was standing in a cathedral.

“Oh, this is wonderful,” she whispered. “It’s just the right amount of kitsch and historical drama.”

Jane snorted. “That’s your ideal combo?”

“You have no idea.”

They moved toward the first room, where a bored teenager in a maroon polo handed them tickets and waved vaguely toward a set of red velvet ropes.

As they waited for the next show cycle to begin, Maura leaned in close to study the timeline on the wall—fingers skimming the dates like they were Braille.

Jane stood beside her, pretending to read, when in truth all she could focus on was the way Maura tilted her head, the way her voice dropped when she read to herself, the way her hand brushed Jane’s wrist once—light, accidental, and enough to send a buzz down her spine.

“You’re really into this,” Jane said, a little hoarse.

Maura turned to her. “Aren’t you?”

Jane hesitated. Then smiled. “Yeah. I kinda am.”

The lights dimmed then, and a voice overhead asked them to step into the next room. Jane moved first, her shoulder brushing Maura’s as they passed through the doorway into the circle of history—dark, close, and full of stories neither of them were quite ready to tell.

Chapter Text

The room was nearly pitch black.

The walls curved in a circle around the perimeter, dotted with shadowy mannequins frozen mid-panic—villagers pointing accusatory fingers, a young girl with her mouth open in silent scream, a judge with one hand raised high. Red light spilled from above in slow pulses as the voiceover began, crackling slightly through old speakers.

“In the year sixteen ninety-two, the town of Salem, Massachusetts descended into fear… hysteria… and injustice.”

Jane sat beside Maura on a worn wooden bench, arms crossed loosely, shoulders brushing. The musty scent of dust, old fabric, and theatrical fog hung in the air.

Maura was completely mesmerized.

Her spine was straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, but her eyes—wide, focused, flickering with every lighting cue—tracked every tableau with reverence. Jane could see the exact moment when Maura mouthed along with a line from the voiceover. Could feel her barely-there intake of breath when the voice described the first hanging.

But Jane?

Jane didn’t hear most of it.

Not really.

Because all she could see—barely lit by the red glow of faux candlelight—was Maura.

The light caught in her lashes. Painted her cheekbones in crimson and gold. And Jane couldn’t look away.

She told herself it was the atmosphere. That weird, out-of-body pull of sitting in a museum designed like a haunted church.

But that wasn’t it.

It was the way Maura leaned forward slightly when the story reached its climax. The way her mouth softened into something near heartbreak as Giles Corey’s death was described. The way her brow furrowed in quiet outrage when the narrator mentioned spectral evidence—again.

It was… everything.

Jane swallowed, tried to look away, failed. She barely noticed the spotlight shifting across the final display. She was still watching Maura when it ended.

And Maura noticed.

As the lights gently returned and the museum guide’s voice announced that guests were free to explore the next gallery at their own pace, Maura turned her head, slow and deliberate.

She caught Jane still looking. And smirked.

“I take it the mannequins didn’t hold your attention.”

Jane blinked, then gave a casual shrug, attempting nonchalance. “They’re creepy. Your face is way less nightmare-inducing.”

Maura arched an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”

“That depends,” Jane said, standing as casually as she could. “Is it working?”

Maura stood too, the smile tugging at her lips both fond and knowing. “You really didn’t watch any of that, did you?”

Jane didn’t answer.

Maura leaned in slightly, her voice dropping just enough to tickle the edge of a whisper.

“You’re lucky I plan to buy the companion guide in the gift shop.”

Jane smirked, heart pounding for a reason that had nothing to do with colonial injustice.

“Maybe you can read it to me later,” she said.

Maura blinked once—just once—and then gave the smallest nod. “Maybe I will.”

They moved toward the hallway together, closer now than they had been an hour ago. Closer in every way that mattered.

And Jane, for the first time in a long time, let herself hope that maybe—just maybe—this summer was going to change more than just her job title.

The lighting in the rest of the museum was brighter—just enough to make out the scuffed hardwood floors, the cracked display cases, the faded text on old paper placards. Dust floated in soft beams of light that filtered through narrow stained-glass windows overhead.

Jane and Maura wandered the halls in no particular order. There were no crowds—just the occasional couple speaking in hushed voices, the distant squeak of an old floorboard.

Maura stopped in front of a glass case containing a rusted set of shackles and a half-rotted Bible, her head tilted with quiet fascination. Jane came up beside her, arms crossed, her shoulder brushing Maura’s.

“They really knew how to keep things light back then,” Jane murmured.

Maura smiled faintly. “Fear makes people cruel.”

“Yeah,” Jane said, looking at the chains. “But so does boredom.”

They lingered there a moment longer, neither of them moving away.

Eventually, they drifted toward a section on colonial medicine—Maura’s eyes lighting up at the sight of a reconstructed apothecary cabinet and hand-written prescriptions.

Jane mostly watched Maura.

“Okay, so… explain this one to me,” Jane said, pointing at a diagram of humors and bodily fluids that made her mildly nauseous. “How is yellow bile different from regular bile? And how the hell was that ever a real thing?”

Maura laughed softly, stepping closer. “Well, you see—”

As she moved beside her, her hand brushed against Jane’s. Light. Barely-there. But neither of them pulled away.

Jane’s breath hitched.

Maura didn’t comment, didn’t even glance down. She just kept explaining, gesturing toward the diagram with her free hand, her pinky grazing against Jane’s knuckle now and then as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jane didn’t say a word about it. She couldn’t.

Her fingers felt electrified.

Maura leaned forward to peer at a jar labeled tincture of mandrake, and Jane leaned too, as if drawn in by gravity—not toward the exhibit, but toward the warmth of the woman beside her.

For a minute, they didn’t talk. They just stood side by side, hands so close it hurt, eyes on yellowed paper and glass.

Then Maura turned her head slightly, voice soft. “You’re very quiet.”

Jane cleared her throat. “I’m… concentrating.”

Maura smiled, not looking at her. “On what?”

Jane hesitated. Then, carefully, “Not spilling anything embarrassing about myself.”

Maura glanced sideways, finally. Her smile curled. “Shame. I think I’d like to hear those.”

Jane’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “I bet you would.”

Their hands brushed again—this time more deliberate.

Maura let her fingers linger. Just for a second.

And Jane’s heart raced like they were back on the academy obstacle course, sprinting toward something dangerous and thrilling and impossible.

But for once, she didn’t want to run the other way.

They wandered without direction now, content to linger in whatever exhibit caught Maura’s attention. A few visitors passed them here and there, but most kept to themselves. The quiet hum of old lights and the occasional creak of warped floorboards were the only constant sounds besides the soft rhythm of Maura’s voice.

Jane didn’t speak much.

Mostly, she just listened—content to let Maura fill the space with explanations of the Puritan judicial system, herbal lore, and how unscientific witch-hunting practices eventually gave way to better methods of gathering evidence.

Maura, for her part, seemed relaxed. She walked with her arms folded loosely in front of her, her shoulder often close enough to brush Jane’s.

But it was their hands that kept meeting—unintentionally at first, then less so.

It was always brief. A knuckle grazing a knuckle. The side of Maura’s hand sliding against Jane’s fingers as they both reached to point at the same weathered document under glass. The barest brush when they stepped a little too close in a narrow hallway.

Jane didn’t move away.

Neither did Maura.

At one point, as they paused in front of a tall display of trial transcripts, Jane caught Maura glancing sideways at her instead of the glass. Her voice was quiet, like the flicker of a match.

“You’re not bored, are you?”

Jane met her eyes, and gave her the softest smile. “I’m exactly where I wanna be.”

Maura’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly—but she recovered quickly, lips twitching upward. “Well,” she said. “That’s… good.”

They turned a corner into a dimly lit room where crude wooden tools and instruments lined the walls. A hanging sign read:

Colonial Discipline: The Tools of Order.

Jane raised an eyebrow at the array of restraints, cuffs, and rods. “Okay, now I’m bored and mildly concerned.”

Maura chuckled, that quiet, melodic sound that always hit Jane somewhere in the chest. “I’ll spare you the demonstration.”

“You say that like you have one prepared.”

Maura gave her a sly look but said nothing.

Their shoulders touched again. Jane didn’t move.

The final exhibit was tucked into the far back—a quiet, reflective space with a single plaque that listed the names of the twenty people executed during the trials, and a small stone basin filled with water where visitors could leave flowers or coins in remembrance.

Maura stepped up first, solemn and reverent, her fingertips brushing the edge of the basin. Jane came to stand beside her. They didn’t say anything. And still, their hands brushed once more, slow this time.

Maura didn’t pull away.

And neither did Jane.

***

The Salem Witch Museum café wasn’t anything special. It was small, a little run-down around the edges, and the laminated menus looked like they’d been printed sometime in the mid-eighties and never updated. The tile floor squeaked. The walls were painted a dusty colonial blue. A framed portrait of a very unimpressed Puritan woman glared down at the tables like she regretted every life choice that led to her becoming wall art.

Jane loved it immediately.

Maura, to Jane’s mild surprise, didn’t seem horrified by the less-than-stellar ambiance. If anything, she looked charmed. “There’s something comforting about it,” she said as they stepped into line, scanning the overhead menu.

Jane grinned. “Let me guess. You’re about to tell me how cafeteria lighting has a calming neurological effect on the prefrontal cortex.”

Maura tilted her head thoughtfully. “Actually, I was going to say that the outdated aesthetic reminds me of my dorm’s student lounge, but yours is more creative.”

“You’re welcome,” Jane said, smirking.

They reached the counter. Jane ordered grilled cheese, a side of fries, and a root beer. Maura—ever the picture of control—opted for a salad with lemon vinaigrette and sparkling water.

When Maura pulled a twenty from her purse to pay, Jane stepped in with her wallet already open.

“I’ve got it,” Jane said.

Maura blinked. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. My idea, remember?” Jane handed the cashier a few bills before Maura could protest again. “You can get the souvenir mug.”

Maura raised a brow. “How generous of you.”

“I try.”

They took a seat in the far corner by the window, sunlight spilling across the table, casting warm gold stripes across Jane’s knuckles. She leaned back in the wooden chair, long legs stretched slightly under the table, watching Maura as she arranged her napkin across her lap like they were in a five-star restaurant.

Maura unfolded her salad container with practiced precision and stabbed a piece of arugula. Jane, meanwhile, popped open her root beer and picked up half of her grilled cheese, gooey and golden.

Maura eyed it with something close to curiosity.

“You really eat like a ten-year-old,” she said.

“Excuse you,” Jane said around a mouthful of cheese. “This is a classic.”

“A classic… what? Dietary offense?”

“National treasure.”

Maura smiled, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Well, then. I suppose I should try it.”

And before Jane could react, Maura reached across the table with her fork and delicately speared one of Jane’s fries—slow, confident, utterly unapologetic.

Jane blinked.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t tease. Just watched with quiet amusement as Maura dipped it in ketchup and took a bite like she was conducting a scientific experiment.

“Well?” Jane asked.

Maura nodded thoughtfully, chewing. “Salty. Greasy. Surprisingly satisfying.”

Jane smiled—just a little. She reached for another fry and popped it into her mouth, still watching Maura with that small, crooked grin she hadn’t realized she was wearing all day.

They talked easily after that.

Maura asked Jane if her brothers ever visited her at the academy. Jane told her that Frankie Jr wrote her a letter once that was just a drawing of a middle finger, and she kept it in her locker for luck. Maura laughed, told her about her high school roommate in Geneva who tried to convert her to veganism by hiding bacon. Jane told her she would’ve committed a felony in that situation.

They shared more fries.

Jane watched Maura slowly relax into the moment—leaning forward slightly, her knees nudging Jane’s under the table now and then without apology. Maura’s laugh came easier here, unguarded, rich and soft all at once.

Halfway through her sandwich, Jane caught her looking at her—not in the usual analytical way, but in a kind of focused warmth that made Jane’s heart skip for reasons she wasn’t ready to name.

And then, without preamble, Maura asked, “Is this a real date?”

Jane inhaled her soda too quickly and sputtered into her straw.

Maura blinked, alarmed, and reached forward like she might start patting her back. “Are you okay?”

Jane coughed once, waved her off, and took a shaky sip of water instead. “What?” she croaked.

Maura tilted her head. “I asked if this was a real date. You’re the one who picked the museum. You insisted on paying. You’ve let me steal at least three of your fries. I just… wondered.”

Jane cleared her throat and looked away for a moment, pressing her napkin to her mouth. Her cheeks were on fire.

“I don’t know,” she said, trying to sound casual. “Do you want it to be?”

Maura’s expression didn’t change right away. But her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin, her voice gentler than before. “I think… I already decided it was.”

Jane looked up sharply.

Maura smiled—shy, but sure. “I’ve never been on a real date before.”

Jane blinked. “Wait, never?”

Maura shrugged, but her eyes held hers. “Not like this.”

Jane didn’t speak for a second. She just looked at Maura—really looked. At the way the light hit her hair, at the way her salad was half-forgotten, at the brave and terrifying honesty behind those words.

Then, quietly, Jane said, “Me neither.”

Maura’s gaze softened.

Their hands weren’t touching, but they were close and in that tiny café filled with peeling paint and history books in the gift shop, Jane realized something that made her heart beat so loud she could barely hear herself think.

She didn’t want this to end.

***

After lunch, Jane muttered something about needing to use the restroom and disappeared, leaving Maura to gather up their tray and toss the trash with careful precision.

She lingered by the exit for a moment, glancing down the hall to make sure Jane was out of sight.

Then she turned and walked, with purpose, into the gift shop.

It smelled like old paper and cinnamon-scented candles. The shelves were lined with witch hats, keychains, thick museum guides, and an entire rotating rack of black t-shirts that said I Got Hexed in Salem in varying fonts.

Maura bypassed them all.

She made a beeline for the glass case near the register, where small trinkets sat beneath the warm glow of a desk lamp. Pendants, polished stones, and a single row of delicate pewter pins shaped like little broomsticks, each barely the length of a thumb.

They were probably meant to be silly.

Maura didn’t care.

She picked one out—a little broomstick pin, the smoothest, cleanest casting—and laid it gently on the counter. She added a bookmark with a faintly gothic design and a quote from Anne Bradstreet:

“If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant.”

When the cashier rang it up, Maura reached for her purse before the total even finished.

She folded the receipt neatly and tucked it into the bottom of her bag, then slid the small paper bag the cashier handed her. That went into her purse, too—right between her wallet and her little travel-size bottle of hand sanitizer.

By the time Jane came out of the restroom, running a hand through her hair and pretending she hadn’t just checked her breath in the mirror, Maura was standing casually near the front entrance, hands folded.

Jane glanced at her, smiling as she walked over. “Miss me?”

Maura tilted her head, cool and unreadable. “I was strongly considering leaving you behind.”

“Harsh.”

“You would’ve found your way back eventually.”

“With your help.”

Maura allowed the tiniest smirk. “Naturally.”

Jane held the door open, and Maura stepped out into the warm afternoon sun. The air smelled faintly of fried dough from the nearby street stalls and freshly cut grass. Jane fell into step beside her, hands in her pockets, shoulder brushing hers briefly.

The town was alive in a way Jane hadn’t expected.

Not loud, exactly — Salem wasn’t that kind of place — but present. The afternoon sun spilled over cobbled sidewalks and brick façades, warming the ivy-covered windows and the bright awnings of small, local shops. The breeze carried the scent of something sugary and cinnamon-rich from a nearby cart. Bells on doors jingled as people passed in and out of bakeries and bookstores.

Jane hadn’t planned for this. The museum had been the plan.

But when Maura had glanced down the road and said softly, “Do you have to be anywhere right away?” Jane’s mouth had opened and said, “Nowhere but here.”

And now they were walking side by side down Chestnut Street, where crooked historic homes stood like sleepy sentinels in the July heat.

Their shoulders bumped now and then. Jane wasn’t sure if it was intentional. She wasn’t sure if she wanted it to be—except she absolutely did.

She was trying not to think too hard about Maura’s smile. Or the way Maura kept stopping to read plaques in front of houses. Or how, every now and then, Maura would ask a quiet, unexpected question like “Do you think ghosts are real?” and then really listen to the answer.

And every time their hands brushed—every single time—it felt like a question neither of them had asked out loud.

They neared a crosswalk.

The light was red.

They stopped at the edge of the curb, Jane’s sneakers half over the line, Maura standing perfectly centered like someone raised to obey rules down to the letter.

And then—

Without a word, without even looking—

Maura’s pinky reached out and hooked Jane’s.

It was so small. So light.

Just the soft curl of her smallest finger around Jane’s, warm and certain. A touch that said nothing and everything.

Jane froze.

Her breath caught, but she didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Just looked down—slowly—at where their hands brushed. Her pulse jumped in her throat.

Maura was still staring straight ahead. Calm. Composed. But the pink in her cheeks betrayed her.

The light turned green.

They crossed the street.

Maura didn’t unlink their fingers right away. Neither did Jane.

And when she finally did, it was only because they reached the bakery window, and Maura stopped to admire a tray of marzipan ghosts in the display. Her hand dropped to her side, but her shoulder lingered close, brushing Jane’s as they looked inside.

Jane couldn’t stop smiling.

***

The bookstore was quiet in that way only small town bookstores could be — all muffled creaks and low jazz music playing softly from a dusty corner speaker. The air smelled of old paper, wood polish, and incense that had probably burned out hours ago but still lingered in the rafters.

Jane had followed Maura inside without protest, hands shoved in her jean pockets, shoulders relaxed. She wasn’t exactly a book person, but she liked the calm. The rows of uneven shelves. The old man behind the register who didn’t seem interested in customers unless they asked about poetry.

Maura was instantly at home, moving through the aisles like she knew them, trailing her fingers along the spines.

Jane wandered behind her, a step or two back, her eyes drifting lazily across titles she didn’t recognize.

And then Maura turned a corner and stopped.

Jane caught up — and saw where they were.

A shelf nestled into a side wall. Unlabeled. Easy to miss.

It held worn copies of titles with names like Stone Butch Blues, Rubyfruit Jungle, Zami, and Annie on my Mind.

The covers were soft from handling. Some had cracked spines. Dog-eared corners.

Jane stilled.

Maura didn’t say anything. She simply reached for a book — Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit — and turned it in her hands like it was something delicate.

Jane looked away.

She shifted her weight, scratched the back of her neck, her heart suddenly loud in her ears. A tension crawled up her spine like she’d been caught doing something wrong. Like she should not be here.

Maura noticed.

She glanced over her shoulder. “You okay?”

Jane gave a small, stiff shrug. “Yeah. Fine.”

Maura didn’t push. Not at first. She set the book back gently and ran a finger along another worn cover. “I read most of these during undergrad,” she said casually. “Cambridge’s library didn’t exactly have an expansive queer lit section, but… you learn to look.”

Jane’s jaw clenched.

Maura turned toward her now, slower. “You sure you’re alright?”

Jane let out a breath through her nose, eyes locked on the floorboards between them.

“I’ve just… never been in a space like this,” she said quietly.

Maura frowned slightly. “Like a bookstore?”

Jane shook her head. “Like a space where that—” she gestured vaguely at the shelf “—is just… normal. Out in the open. No big deal.”

Maura softened. “It is normal, Jane.”

“Not where I’m from it isn’t.”

Maura’s voice was gentle. “Your family?”

Jane’s laugh was hollow. “Forget my family. I haven’t even told myself half the time.”

She looked up, finally, and the expression on her face was something raw and uncertain and so un-Jane it made Maura ache.

“I’ve spent so long hiding,” Jane said, voice quiet. “In every room. Every conversation. Every time someone said something and I didn’t correct them or laugh along or just… smiled through it. I don’t even know what it feels like to not be on guard.”

Maura stepped closer, slow, deliberate. She didn’t touch her. Just stood there, close enough that Jane could feel the warmth of her without pressure.

“Then maybe this is the start of that,” Maura said. “Being unguarded. Even just a little.”

Jane exhaled.

Then she looked at the shelf again. Not flinching. Just… looking.

“You said you read these in undergrad,” Jane said. “All of them?”

“Most.”

Jane’s eyes flicked sideways. “Which one’s your favorite?”

Maura considered. Then picked up Annie on My Mind and held it out. “It’s a little sentimental, but… maybe start here.”

Jane took it slowly. Turned it over in her hands. Her fingers brushed Maura’s as she did.

“You don’t have to buy it,” Maura said, voice soft.

Jane met her eyes.

“I think I do.”

***

The park sat quiet beneath the late-afternoon sun, the kind of golden hour that made the world look softer than it was. Grass shimmered. Leaves glowed. The breeze carried the scent of something floral and sun-warmed, and the hush between Jane and Maura stretched comfortably as they followed the path beneath a canopy of swaying branches.

Each of them held a small paper bag from the bookstore. Jane’s grip was looser now, but her knuckles were still white. Maura’s bag sat snug against her chest, protected like it held something breakable.

They walked past the duck pond, where the water lapped gently against the rocks. A couple sat on a nearby bench, quiet and close, fingers intertwined.

Maura slowed near a wide oak tree, then turned toward a low wooden bench nestled in the shade. She paused. “Want to sit for a minute?”

Jane nodded.

They sat side by side, their knees just brushing.

The quiet lingered until Maura, still looking out over the path, said softly, “I wasn’t sure if I should bring it up again.”

Jane didn’t answer at first. Her eyes were focused on the pond, her thumb tracing the edge of the paper bag in her lap. But she didn’t tense. Didn’t pull away. That alone felt like progress.

“I want you to,” Jane said eventually. Her voice was low, cautious. “I just… I don’t know how to say any of this.”

“You don’t have to get it perfect,” Maura said, voice gentle. “There’s no one way to tell the truth.”

Jane breathed out a soft laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It’s not,” Maura admitted. “But I’ve had a little more practice.”

Jane glanced sideways.

Maura offered a small smile. “I’ve… liked girls before. Had crushes. I kissed a few boys in school — always felt like I was acting through it. Like I was trying to be the version of myself other people expected.”

Jane looked at her fully now, her gaze steady. “So… you knew?”

Maura hesitated. “I knew I didn’t feel about boys the way most of my classmates did. And when I finally did kiss a girl — when I was sixteen — it was like something made sense. I didn’t have to pretend to feel anything. I just did.”

Jane swallowed hard. “I don’t think I’ve ever had that.”

“Have you ever kissed a girl?” Maura asked, soft but open.

Jane gave a wry, crooked smile. “In my dreams.”

Maura arched an eyebrow, but didn’t tease.

Jane looked down at her hands. “I had a crush on a girl at the academy. Short hair. Smirk like she could knock you on your ass and then kiss you after.”

Maura’s lips twitched.

“I used to time my showers so I’d run into her in the locker room,” Jane said, smiling faintly. “Never did anything. Just… looked. Thought about it more than I should’ve.”

“And before that?”

Jane exhaled. “Joey Grant. Junior prom. He was this tall, loud guy with a backwards cap and a truck he loved more than life. Everyone expected me to go with him, so I did.”

Maura tilted her head. “How was it?”

“Like kissing a damp sock,” Jane deadpanned. “I faked a twisted ankle halfway through the dance just to leave early.”

Maura laughed, head tipping back slightly.

Jane watched her, heart tugging in her chest. She wanted to live in that sound, in the warmth that bloomed in her ribcage whenever Maura smiled without restraint.

Then, softer, she added, “I think about you. A lot.”

Maura stilled.

Jane wasn’t looking at her now. Her eyes were on her hands again, voice low. “I think about your laugh. The way you scrunch your nose when you’re trying to focus. The way you look when you talk about something you love. And then I think about how this is temporary. How we’re from two different worlds. How my dad still thinks Hank Jr. is gonna sweep me off my feet.”

Maura turned toward her fully. “Jane—”

“I’m scared,” Jane admitted. “Not of you. Of… what it means. What happens next.”

Maura didn’t rush to answer. She reached out slowly, palm up between them, fingers open.

Jane looked at her hand for a long moment.

Then, without a word, she placed her hand in Maura’s. Warm. Honest. Shaking just slightly.

Maura closed her fingers gently around hers.

“We don’t have to name anything,” Maura said softly. “We don’t have to decide anything today. But if you want to keep thinking about me… I’d like that.”

Jane blinked fast. “Yeah?”

Maura nodded. “Very much.”

They sat like that — hands clasped, shoulders brushing, the evening settling around them like a secret.

For the first time in a long time, Jane didn’t feel like she was hiding.

***

The walk back to the truck was slower than it had been that morning.

Neither of them was in a hurry now.

The golden glow of early evening wrapped around them like a blanket. The town had softened too — streets a little quieter, shop windows dimming, the smell of roasted nuts and sugar drifting faintly from a cart Maura made a note to visit next time.

Jane said very little, but her hand kept brushing Maura’s.

Not by accident.

Maura didn’t pull away.

When they reached the truck, Jane opened the passenger side door for her without a word. Just a glance. A small half-smile. Maura climbed in, folding her bag on her lap. She watched as Jane walked around to the driver’s side, her hair catching light like embers where the sun hit it.

They drove in silence for a while.

The roads unwound beneath them in long stretches of dappled pavement, the trees throwing shadows that danced across the dashboard. Jane kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on her thigh. She was humming faintly to a song on the radio — something bluesy and old, soft static in the background.

Maura glanced sideways more than once, quietly taking her in.

The strong line of her jaw. The way her profile looked in the gold of the setting sun. Her freckles. Her bitten bottom lip.

Maura had always appreciated beautiful things — paintings, sculptures, architecture — but there was something about Jane Rizzoli in a quiet moment that felt more honest than all of them.

And then — halfway down the stretch of road leading out of town — Jane reached over.

Not fast. Not impulsively.

She simply slid her hand across the seat and laced her fingers through Maura’s.

She kept her eyes on the road.

Her thumb stroked the back of Maura’s hand once. Twice.

Maura looked down at their joined hands — the contrast between Jane’s long, calloused fingers and her own more delicate ones — and then back at Jane.

Jane didn’t say anything.

She didn’t need to.

Her shoulders were tense, jaw tight, like she wasn’t sure if Maura would let it happen. Like she wasn’t sure what it meant to do something so public — even if it was just them, in her truck, on a near-empty road.

Maura smiled.

She squeezed Jane’s hand gently, reassuring.

Jane let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

And they drove on, the silence between them no longer heavy but humming. Full. Charged with something brand new.

Hope.

Maybe even joy.

Maura didn’t let go.

***

The sun was just starting to sink behind the trees as Jane parked her truck beside the guesthouse. The golden light filtering through the branches made everything feel quieter — like the world had dimmed itself to a whisper just for them.

Neither of them moved for a moment.

Jane’s hand rested between them on the seat, still warm from Maura’s. She stared straight ahead, lips slightly parted, heart beating somewhere up in her throat.

Maura glanced over at her, that soft, crooked smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You gonna walk me to the door, Officer Rizzoli?”

Jane huffed a laugh and shook her head, pulling the keys from the ignition. “I thought you didn’t like unnecessary chivalry.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Maura replied, pushing open her door. “I said it was performative.”

Jane rounded the truck in two long strides and caught up to her as they made their way up the stone path to the guesthouse. The cicadas had started to hum in the background, a rhythmic buzz that echoed around them like a heartbeat.

At the steps, Maura turned and smiled at her again. “Thank you for today.”

“You’re thanking me?” Jane smirked. “You’re the one who taught me about colonial torture devices.”

Maura gave a dramatic sigh. “Well, if you’re going to make it sound romantic—”

Jane chuckled, shoving her hands in her back pockets, trying not to look like her knees had gone soft. “It was a good day.”

Maura hesitated, then reached for her purse dangling over her arm.

“I almost forgot,” she said, rummaging through it. “I got you something. At the museum. When you were in the restroom.”

Jane blinked. “What? Why?”

Maura pulled out a small folded paper bag, the top neatly creased. “Because I wanted to.”

Jane took the bag slowly, their fingers brushing for just a second too long.

Inside was a small pewter pin — shaped like a broomstick. Underneath it, folded into a narrow rectangle, was a heavy-stock bookmark, printed in elegant script with a quote Jane recognized but had never thought much about until now.

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant.

—Anne Bradstreet

Jane stared at the gift for a long moment. Then looked up.

Her mouth opened. No sound came out at first. Just a smile — small, stunned, genuine.

“This is…” She cleared her throat. “Really thoughtful, Maura. Thank you.”

“It reminded me of you,” Maura said, quieter now. “The broomstick… mostly because you’ve been swearing at plumbing fixtures like a witch for two weeks.”

Jane let out a short laugh.

“And the quote,” Maura added, “because… well. I think spring would suit you.”

Jane looked at her.

Really looked.

She stepped forward, still holding the gift in one hand, her other hand sliding out of her pocket like she didn’t quite know what to do with it.

“Can I—” she paused, her voice catching.

Maura tilted her head. “Hmm?”

Jane exhaled slowly. “Can I hug you?”

Maura smiled. “I’d be insulted if you didn’t.”

The hug was awkward at first — Jane’s arm half-caught between the bag and Maura’s waist, Maura’s chin bumping Jane’s shoulder. But after a second, it settled. Maura’s arms looped around Jane’s back, her cheek resting near Jane’s collarbone. Jane held her like she meant it.

When they pulled back, Jane didn’t move far.

She paused.

Held still.

Her eyes met Maura’s, wide and hesitant and intense all at once.

“Can I…” she whispered, barely above a breath, “can I kiss you?”

Maura didn’t answer right away. Her chest rose once, sharply, like she hadn’t expected the question to land the way it did.

Then—

She nodded.

Not just once.

Twice.

Quickly.

“Please,” she whispered.

Jane moved before she lost her nerve.

It wasn’t a perfect kiss — not polished or practiced. But it was real. Gentle. Slow. Maura’s lips were soft and warm and tasted faintly of spearmint and sunshine, and Jane’s hand rose instinctively to Maura’s jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her cheekbone.

Maura leaned into it.

Let it deepen.

Let it mean something.

When they finally pulled apart, neither spoke. They just stood there, foreheads almost touching, eyes barely open, breath mingling in the narrow space between them.

Jane grinned. “So… that’s a yes to another date?”

Maura laughed — a quiet, joy-soaked sound — and kissed her again.

Their lips lingered, breaths brushing in the space between.

Jane didn’t move. Neither did Maura.

The kiss had started soft — hesitant and sweet — but now it hovered in that quiet afterglow, neither of them quite willing to pull away. The porch light had flickered on above them, casting a pale gold halo around Maura’s curls and making Jane’s dark eyes look impossibly deep.

They kissed again.

Slower this time.

Jane’s hand was still cupping Maura’s jaw, her thumb tracing the delicate skin just below her ear. Maura’s fingers curled loosely in the fabric of Jane’s shirt, not pulling, just holding.

When they finally broke apart, Maura was smiling — wide and breathless, cheeks pink with heat.

Jane looked equally dazed.

“Well,” Maura murmured, lips still barely an inch from Jane’s, “I suppose I should say goodnight.”

Jane didn’t let go.

She tilted her forehead forward until it bumped softly against Maura’s. “I don’t want to go.”

“You have to,” Maura teased gently. “Your dad will think you’ve run off with the historical society.”

Jane chuckled under her breath. “Could be worse…besides they’re all away for the weekend.”

Maura grinned.

She let the silence settle for a moment, then—still close, still barely resisting the magnetic pull—asked softly, “Would you like to stop by tomorrow? For lunch?”

Jane blinked. Then smiled shyly. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Maura gave a slow nod, eyes flicking to Jane’s lips again. “Good.”

Jane hesitated just a beat longer. Then, before she could think better of it, she dipped back in, stealing one more kiss — quick, sweet, a little clumsy in the best possible way. Maura let out the softest laugh against her mouth, chasing her lips like she wasn’t quite ready to stop either.

But Jane did pull away this time.

Reluctantly.

“I’ll, uh… see you tomorrow,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck as she stepped backward down the stairs.

Maura leaned against the doorway, watching her go. “Sleep well, Jane.”

“You too, Mar.”

She flashed one last grin before turning toward the truck, her boots crunching on the gravel, her shoulders just slightly straighter than they’d been earlier that day.

And Maura stood in the doorway long after the truck disappeared down the drive, fingers touching her lips, trying to decide if it had really happened or if she’d dreamed the whole damn thing up.

She didn’t go inside until the porch light flickered off on its own.