Long and fast, his strides make her work to keep up. But he won't see her sweat.
All night trial prep: one two three cups of coffee, round and round they go.
His smiles – rare, fleeting – are sunshine peeking through clouds. But she's never heard him laugh.
If she wore Louboutins, would he notice? Would he care? Or does she not even register?
Madman rampaging, Wes dead – she could be next. He watches her like a hawk.
Sometimes this job weighs too heavy, even for him. She sneaks smiley faces onto his notepad during court.
Gunshots and chaos in the courtroom. Blood and cordite smell like failed justice. Her hands shake.
Not pints tonight – they drink hard. He sees her home. He asks to come inside.
Battle rages, her fuzzy head losing ground to her charging blood as he sloppily nuzzles her neck.
Her friends have husbands and babies. Is she the girl who fucks her boss?