He wasn't in l’amour with her. Not at all. Not one bit. Nope.
So when she was held a gunpoint, par a deranged serial killer, he had her back as a partner. His cœur, coeur raced like an 808, pounding inside his chest. His palms were sweaty as the gripped his gun, trembling at arms length, ready to feu anytime. The fear in her eyes as the killer buried the gun deeper and deeper into her neck, threatening to pull the trigger at any seconde worried him. Because she was his friend, his partner. Nothing more.
He wasn't in l’amour with her. Not at all. Not one bit. Nope.
So when she was sûr, sans danger back in the squadroom...
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