Unspoken

The buzz of his phone on the nightstand pulled Ben from sleep.

For a second, he just lay there, blinking at the ceiling, willing it to stop. But it didn’t. His hand fumbled for the phone, and when he saw the name on the screen – Chief Cable – he exhaled slowly, already knowing what was coming.

He answered in a low voice. “Yeah.”

“There’s been a stabbing. Hospital’s a mess. You’re the only one answering. Get here now.”

Ben swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his face. “On my way.”

He glanced back at Claire, curled under the blankets, her hair half covering her face. She stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

Moving quietly, he grabbed his uniform from the chair in the corner, tugging it on in the dim light of his phone screen. He laced his boots, pocketed his keys, and grabbed his belt without letting the buckles clink too loudly. Years of this had made him careful.

By the time he was at the bedroom door, he paused, looking back at her. He should wake her. Say goodbye. But she had work in the morning, and he hated pulling her into his hours, into this life, when he didn’t have to.

Instead, he pulled a notepad from the counter and scrawled something quick.

Had to go in. Be safe today. -B

Then, just before he left, he flicked on the porch light. A quiet promise.

Claire woke to an empty bed, but that wasn’t unusual. The faint glow of dawn crept through the blinds, and she stretched before sitting up. The house was quiet. As she made her way to the coffee machine after letting out the dogs, she saw the note.

She read it, rubbing her thumb over the ink, before checking her phone. No texts. No updates.

She didn’t need them.

The day began as it usually did, coffee and news at home for Claire. There was no local news reported yet, so she imagined, as she often did, Ben sitting safely in his squad car, enjoying coffee himself as he scanned his phone. While she knew this was far from the reality, imagining him safe and secure had become her comfort blanket. As she grabbed her keys, she fingered the keychain he had given her shortly after they started dating – a blue heart, and tucked them in her purse.

Ben’s reality was far from this. He had entered the hospital, the bright lights jarring, and the mechanic hum of an ICU team attempting to save a man’s life. Among the groans of the patient, Ben tried to get a cause, a suspect, anything. Instead, he ended up covered in gore, and pushed away by the staff as the patient took his last breath.

“I’m going to need to head out and retrace this guy’s last hours,” he told the Chief.

Ben cleaned himself up, shoving his mask and surgical gloves into a nearby garbage bin. The sharp, metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, a sure sign of an impending migraine. Tucking his phone on his shoulder, he grabbed an excedrin from his pocket, and downed it with some water from the sink. He had come to know that and coffee would do the trick.

“No, you’re going to stay there. We don’t know who might come after this guy or mix things up. I’ll send over some coffee, and you stay put.”

Resigned, Ben did as he was told. Three years of this, and still, it never let up. Valentine’s Day, Christmas, anniversaries—it didn’t matter. The world didn’t stop, and neither could he. Cradling his jaw with his hand, he scanned through his phone, looking for a last minute delivery option. There would be no flowers, and it was too late to send over breakfast. He made himself comfortable outside the room. Picking up his phone again, he punched in a message, thought it over, and tucked it away for later.

The day was busy with students and staff and meetings. She enjoyed the mental and physical demands of being a school principal – she was present and engaged with anyone who came her way, and she relished the mental capacity needed to be available at all times. And yet, she always had her cellphone on hand and turned to maximum volume should she get a call.

In all their time together, she had only missed one call. It was late one night, and by mistake, she went to sleep with her phone on silent. At 3:00 AM, she abruptly sat up, and frantically tried to dial the number that had left 6 missed calls. Learning Ben had been struck by a drunk driver and was in the hospital – stable, thank god – from another officer had been a turning point for her. Never again. From that point forward, her phone remained on since that day three years ago.

Through the morning, her mind often flitted between the demands of the day and the items she often pulled from his uniform before washing it. Used gloves, bullets. Sometimes, a spare handcuff key. While she scolded him for leaving these things for her to find, in her own way, she knew these were signals of the day or night before – unspoken indications that whatever he had shouldered occupied not only his pockets, but also his mind. A text message came through indicating a local stabbing and the suspect at large. Again, she tried to steady an image of him safe and warm in his car.

The morning itself at school had been a flurry of flowers, balloons, and heart shaped confections. As wives and girlfriends proudly came to retrieve flowers that were delivered, Claire looked on. She thought back to the year before, when they’d actually made it to dinner, when he’d pulled out a wrinkled gas station Valentine’s card, grinning. Probably, maybe this evening, they’d finally connect.

By midday, she was at her desk when her phone buzzed. She answered without looking, tucking it between her shoulder and ear.

“Hey.”

“Hey, you,” Ben said, his voice rough but warm. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

She smiled, leaning back in her chair. “Happy Valentine’s Day. Didn’t think I’d hear from you.”

“Wouldn’t want to call any other valentine.”

The words settled in her chest, warm and familiar. She glanced at the clock. “Where are you?”

A pause. Then, flatly, “Guarding a dead body at the hospital.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Romantic.”

“The best,” he deadpanned.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. There was no need. This was them—existing in stolen minutes, filling the space between emergencies with something quiet but steady.

“I’ll see you tonight?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he promised. “Might be late.”

She had expected that. “I’ll leave the porch light on.”

Another beat of silence. She could hear the hum of the hospital behind him, distant voices, the beeping of machines.

“Claire?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for not hating this life.”

She closed her eyes, smiled softly. “Not a chance.”

“I’m sending you a coffee – even asking them to draw a heart on it.”

“Thank you,” she said, a smile taking over her face.

Because it wasn’t the grand gestures that mattered. There would be no card, nor flowers. Dinner reservations were no longer made, because more often than not, they got cancelled. It was this—the early morning notes, the stolen phone calls, the way he always found a way back to her, even from the darkest places.

They would make up for this day, and celebrate a Valentine’s of their own, with a lazy morning in bed, and the ease that comes from something solid and true. With no advance plans, and pleasure in homemade coffee and breakfast. Never leaving the house or their cocoon that sheltered them from the realities of the world.

Claire wrapped her hands around the warm coffee cup, the drawn heart smudged but still visible. She smiled to herself, sipping slowly, letting the quiet warmth settle into her bones.

And really, what more could she ask for?