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Their house.
That’s what it was now.
Not Tim’s house.
Not her boyfriend’s house.
Their home.
The sun had dipped below the tall LA buildings while Lucy was rattling around in the kitchen, racing to have dinner ready for Tim once he got home.
She hated it when their days off didn’t align but the Mid-Wilshire station needed their best watch commander today.
She couldn’t blame them.
But she could be annoyed.
Waking up on what was meant to be their official day to recharge and coddle each other after Lucy’s undercover assignment in Baja to her boyfriend already gone, a little post-it left on her phone where it lay on the bedside.
“Good morning baby. Got called into the station. I’m sorry we couldn’t spend the day together. I promise I’ll make it up to you. Call me when you wake up. I love you - Tim”
Yer initial annoyance had been defeated by the grin spreading across her face as she had read it.
As Lucy pulled their dinner out of the oven, she heard the unmistakable sound of light rain pattering on the windows, wind picking up speed and singing against the glass.
She was finished in the kitchen and Tim has still not arrived so she decided to set the mood for when he did.
There were lots of things she loved about living with him, but a big one was his record player.
Because, of course, Tim Bradford has a record player.
And now, they have a record player.
It rests on top of a wood cabinet, the vinyls all lined up in a basket resting in the drawer below.
Lucy kneels and sits on her haunches and she pulls out the basket and begins shuffling through them when something catches her eye.
In the back of the drawer, as if hiding from her, lay a sole record.
She reaches in and examines it before her stomach twists.
“Dream a Little Dream of Me”
No wonder Tim hid it.
Her mind flashes back to places best left forgotten before she can help it.
Her breathing becomes shaky and she finds herself transported, lying on a table under a tattoo gun.
Hoisting herself into the barrel.
Feeling the impact of being kicked into the hole Caleb had dug.
Tears well in her eyes as she stared at the record as if she can destroy it by sheer force of will.
And then something changes.
Caleb is dead.
Rosalind is dead.
She won.
She survived.
And she’s overcome with an overwhelming urge to prove it to herself.
Lucy pulls herself up and inserts the disc into the player and waits.
The rain falls heavier outside, the wind howling as the soft melody fills the house.
Lucy can do nothing but stand there and stare at the spinning disc, mocking her.
Just as tears begin to fall, the door opens.
Lucy jumps before registering the voice.
“Honey, I’m home,” he calls.
Tim.
He catches sight of her, mouth opening to question her state before he realises what song is drifting through their air.
His expression softens beyond what she thought was possible, as if her pain was a physical ache he carried.
Tim crossed over to her in long strides, placing his hands on either side of her face.
They’re freezing, sending a jolt through her but it’s strangely comforting.
Grounding.
Or maybe it’s just him.
“Lucy, baby, what are you doing?”
He speaks so softly, so gently, that it makes her cry even more.
She takes a breath.
Then another.
Then she speaks, her voice shaky and unsteady in a way that makes Tim’s heart hurt.
“This used to be one of my favourite songs. I don’t want them to take it from me. I don’t want to lose,” she whispers, fresh tears racing down her face, onto his hands.
That does it.
Tim removes his hands from her face and they instantly move to her back as his arms circle her, tugging her close.
She wraps herself around him, arms linking around his neck.
Lucy nuzzles her cheek into his chest, seeking refuge from the melody of terror in her mind, bred from the tune still filling the room.
“When I’m alone and blue as can be”
Tim soothes her, one hand running up her shirt and rubbing at her back as he whispers into her ear, his smooth voice rivalling the wicked music.
The longer they stand there, Tim gently swaying them, the steadier her breathing becomes.
The drier her cheeks and the quieter her sobs.
“It’s not their song, Luce. You can’t let it be. Make it ours,” he murmurs into her ear, her free hand burying himself in her hair at the back of her head.
“Make it ours.”
So she does.
Each lyric becomes theirs.
“Night breezes seem to whisper, ‘I love you’”.
As the those last three words leave the record player, Tim croons them simultaneously, pressing them into the curve of her ear.
“I love you”
The rain keeps battering on the window, the wind picking up even more.
The cacophony pounds at the house, desperately trying to reach them.
But it can’t.
They’re safe with each other.
“I love you too”.