Chapter 33: The Third Date
Wednesday, November 21, 2018 - Perch Restaurant, Downtown LA, 7:34 PM
The restaurant sat on the fifteenth floor of a converted bank building, all exposed brick and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Candlelit tables, soft jazz playing, the kind of place where people proposed or celebrated anniversaries.
Emma looked beautiful. Navy dress, hair down for once instead of pulled back for hospital work. She'd put in effort. So had I—actual slacks, button-down shirt, the watch my uncle had given me when I graduated the academy.
"This is fancy," she said, studying the menu.
"Is it too much? We can go somewhere else—"
"It's perfect. Stop overthinking." She reached across the table, squeezed my hand once. "Though I'm still splitting the bill."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to. Equal partnership, remember?"
The waiter arrived. We ordered—her choice was seared salmon with risotto, mine was steak. She got wine, I got sparkling water (still on call rotation, even off-duty).
My lie detection stayed quiet. No deception. Just Emma being Emma.
"Tell me about your family," she said after the waiter left. "Your real family, not the deflection version you give everyone else."
I'd prepared for this. The original Ethan's backstory, studied through diaries and photos and recalled perfectly.
"Parents died when I was twenty-two. Car accident, black ice in Colorado during a ski trip. My dad ran a commercial real estate firm, my mom was a philanthropist—organized charity events, fundraisers, that kind of thing. They left me the money, the house, trust funds for causes they cared about."
"I'm sorry. That's young to lose both parents."
"Yeah. My aunt and uncle helped—Rebecca and Martin. She's a congresswoman now, he runs the family business. They were supportive when I said I wanted to be a cop, even though it confused them."
"Why did it confuse them?"
"Because I had money. I could do anything. Travel, business, whatever. They didn't understand why I'd choose a dangerous job that pays terribly." I turned my water glass, watching condensation slide down the side. "But my mom always said money means nothing if it doesn't do something. And I wanted to do something that mattered."
Emma's expression softened. "That's why you donated a million dollars for the heist. And why you're planning to do it again next year."
"How did you—"
"Lopez told me. We talk. She likes you, by the way. Says you're 'surprisingly not annoying for a rich kid.'" Emma smiled. "High praise from Detective Lopez."
The food arrived. We ate, conversation flowing easier than our previous dates. She told me about medical school—the debt, the brutal residency hours, nearly quitting after her first patient death.
"My parents wanted me to be a lawyer," she said, cutting her salmon into precise pieces. "Corporate law. Safe, profitable, respectable. They didn't understand why I'd choose surgery. Long hours, emotional toll, malpractice risk."
"Sounds familiar."
"Right? Both our families wanted us to take the safe path. And we both chose the hard one." She paused. "Do you ever regret it?"
"The job?"
"Yeah. Yesterday you saw something terrible. Today you're here with me, pretending to be normal. Tomorrow you'll go back and maybe see something worse. Does that ever make you wish you'd chosen differently?"
My recall played Miguel's empty eyes. Maria's blood. But also: Jackson's gratitude after his saves. Tim's rare praise. The heist laughter. Emma's kiss in the parking lot.
"No," I said. Honest. "The hard parts are hard. But the good parts make it worth it. Saving people. Building something that matters. Finding—" I stopped, not quite ready to finish that sentence.
"Finding what?"
"People who understand. Team. Family. You."
She set down her fork. "That was smooth, Officer Mercer."
"I'm trying this honesty thing. How am I doing?"
"Better than expected."
Post-Dinner Walk - 9:17 PM
We walked through downtown LA, the city alive with evening energy. Street performers on corners, couples holding hands, the distant sound of traffic and sirens.
Emma stopped at a fountain outside the Broad Museum, the water lit with colored lights.
"I need to say something," she started, then laughed at herself. "God, that sounded so serious. I'm bad at this."
"At what?"
"Dating. Relationships. Normal human interaction that doesn't involve scalpels and trauma."
"You're doing fine."
"I kissed you in a hospital parking lot after you dealt with a traumatic call. That was me being impulsive and probably inappropriate."
"But you're not sorry," I said, remembering her words from that night.
"I'm not sorry," she confirmed. "But I'm also not... I don't know. I don't want you to think I'm using you as my emotional support cop. Or that I only see you as someone who understands the job."
"What do you see me as?"
She turned to face me fully. "Someone I like. Someone who makes me laugh. Someone who deflects constantly but occasionally lets me see the real person underneath. Someone who kissed me back in that parking lot even though his day had been terrible."
"I'd like to do it again," I said. "The kissing part. When we're not both processing horror."
"Right now?"
"Right now."
She stepped closer. "Here? In front of the museum and the fountain and approximately fifty strangers?"
"Unless you'd prefer somewhere private."
"No. Here's good. Public commitment. Makes it real."
She kissed me. Different from the parking lot—not comfort or impulse, but intention. Her hand cupped my face, my arms went around her waist. The fountain burbled behind us. Someone whistled. We ignored them.
When we broke apart, she was smiling. Really smiling, the kind that reached her eyes.
"That was better than the parking lot," she said.
"Practice makes perfect."
"Cheesy line, Officer Mercer."
"I'm trying new things. How am I doing?"
"Keep trying."
Groundwork Coffee - 10:02 PM
We ended up at the same coffee shop where we'd had our first date. Full circle. Emma ordered her usual double Americano extra hot, I got black coffee. We found a corner table, the place mostly empty this late.
"I need to say this clearly," Emma started, wrapping both hands around her cup. "Because doctors and cops are both terrible at emotions. I like you. I want to keep seeing you. But this job—both our jobs—they're heavy. If we do this, we have to be honest when it's too much. When we need space. When the trauma gets in the way."
"I can do honest."
"Can you?" She tilted her head. "You deflect constantly. Humor, stories, changing the subject. I recognize it because I do it too. But if we're going to be together—actually together, not just casual dating—I need to know you'll tell me when you're struggling."
My danger sense stayed quiet. This wasn't a threat. This was vulnerability meeting vulnerability.
"Yesterday I saw a seven-year-old kid who'd watched his father beat his mother nearly to death," I said. Raw honesty. "I'll remember his face forever. Perfectly. Every detail. That's what my brain does—perfect recall. It's useful for the job but it means I can't forget the bad calls. They're always there, crystal clear."
Emma didn't flinch. "That's the cost of caring. Same with me. I lose patients. I remember their faces. I remember telling families their loved one didn't make it. It accumulates."
"How do you handle it?"
"Therapy. Exercise. Wine on bad nights. And now, apparently, dating a cop who understands." She leaned forward. "You deflect because the alternative is drowning in perfect recall of trauma. I get it. But Ethan? With me, you don't have to deflect. You can just... be honest. Even when it's ugly."
"I'm working on it," I admitted. "You make me want to try. Actually try, not just perform trying."
"Good. Because I like the real you more than the performance."
My lie detection had been active this entire conversation. Emma was completely honest. No games, no hidden agendas, no deception. Just a woman who understood trauma work and wanted something real with someone who got it.
This is trust. Actual trust. She's not scared of my darkness because she has her own.
"So we're doing this?" I asked. "Official relationship, not just coffee dates?"
"We're doing this. With ground rules."
"Which are?"
"One: We're honest when work is too much. Two: We make time for normal things that aren't trauma-related. Three: We don't let the job consume everything." She paused. "And four: If you die doing something heroic and stupid, I'll be very angry with you."
"Noted. Any other rules?"
"Probably. We'll figure them out as we go." She finished her coffee. "Your place or mine?"
"What?"
"Not like that. I mean, which place are we going to so you can properly kiss me goodnight without an audience?"
I grinned. "Mine's closer. And has significantly better coffee."
"Sold."
Ethan's Mansion - 10:47 PM
Nolan's porch light was on. He waved from his window as we pulled into my driveway, gave me an exaggerated thumbs up. I shook my head, but smiled.
"Your neighbor's subtle," Emma observed.
"Nolan's many things. Subtle isn't one of them."
We went inside. Emma whistled at the entryway—chandelier, marble floors, the fountain visible through the windows.
"You actually live here. I keep forgetting."
"It's too much house for one person."
"Good thing you're not one person anymore." She kicked off her heels, immediately shorter. "Show me around?"
I gave her the tour. The ridiculous Italian-phase dining room (she laughed), the home theater (she claimed dibs on movie nights), the pool (she said we'd test it when weather warmed), the kitchen where the team gathered for post-shift decompression.
We ended up on the back patio, overlooking the pool lights reflecting on dark water. LA's glow painted the sky orange. Emma leaned against the railing.
"This is where you come when you need to think," she said.
"How did you know?"
"Because it's peaceful. And you need peaceful after days like yesterday."
She turned to face me. "Thank you for tonight. For being honest. For letting me see past the deflection."
"Thank you for not running when you saw what's underneath."
"Why would I run? Underneath is the good stuff." She pulled me closer by my shirt collar. "Now kiss me properly. No fountains. No witnesses. Just us."
I did. Properly. Taking our time. Her back against the railing, my hands in her hair, her fingers gripping my shoulders.
When we finally broke apart, my recall had captured every detail. The way she tasted like coffee and wine. The soft sound she made. The feel of her hands pulling me closer.
"I should go," she whispered. "Early shift tomorrow."
"You could stay."
"Not yet. Let's do this right. Slow." She kissed me once more, quick. "But soon."
I walked her to her car, kissed her goodnight one last time. She drove away with a wave, taillights disappearing down the street.
Nolan appeared from his front yard. "You're smiling at nothing again."
"She's... really great, Nolan."
"I can tell. You look like someone who's actually happy instead of pretending to be happy."
"Is there a difference?"
"Huge difference. Pretending is exhausting. Being happy is effortless." He squeezed my shoulder. "You deserve this, man. Something good that's just yours. Not about the job, not about proving yourself. Just... Emma."
After he left, I stood in my driveway, recalling the entire night. The restaurant, the fountain, the coffee shop conversation, the kiss on my patio.
Emma's mine. My choice. My present. The first thing in this life that has nothing to do with transmigration or meta-knowledge or preventing TV show deaths.
Just two people who understand trauma, choosing each other anyway.
I went inside, texted her: Thank you for tonight. For everything.
Her response came quickly: Thank you for being real with me. Sleep well, Officer Mercer.
You too, Dr. Shaw.
I locked up, climbed the stairs to my bedroom, and for the first time since Miguel's case, my recall played happy memories before sleep instead of trauma.
Progress.
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