The Rules Don't Apply in Steam

“Every workplace has its ghosts. Ours just sweat, swear, and call it banter.”

"Hey, Glen!" I called out, my voice cutting through the low hum of conversation and clatter of keyboards that filled the station. I’d caught a fleeting glimpse of him just outside the door, his unmistakable silhouette lumbering past in the corridor. I stepped away from my desk, uncertain if he’d heard me—or worse, pretending not to.

A moment later, Glen’s round face popped back around the corner, his expression already twisted into its usual smirk.

"You called, my dear?" he drawled, stepping into the room with the swagger of someone who thought far too highly of himself. His voice carried that familiar ring of mockery, always two steps short of outright insult. "How may I assist you today?" he added, bowing slightly in theatrical deference, his words syrupy with condescension.

I resisted the urge to sigh. Internally, I rolled my eyes so hard it gave me a headache. Glen Crosswell was the department’s resident irritant—a man equal parts crude and calculating. He had a gift for grating on people, and I’d long since learned that engaging him was like wrestling with a pig: exhausting, and you both ended up covered in shit. Most days, I avoided him like a bad smell. But today wasn’t most days. Today, I needed answers.

"Detective Crosswell," I began, keeping my tone as level as possible, though irritation prickled under the surface. "Did I just hear you say something about Karl?"

Predictably, Glen pounced on the opportunity like a cat with a dying mouse. His smirk widened, and his eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Oh, looking for your late lover already, are you?" he replied, voice low and oily. The gleam of satisfaction in his expression was infuriating.

I shot him a glare, swallowing the retort that rose instantly in my throat. Don’t give him anything, I reminded myself. The station walls had ears, and Glen had a talent for twisting words until they screamed. Instead, I forced my expression into something neutral, professional, clipped.

"Sergeant Claiborne wants to see him immediately," I said, carefully measuring my tone. Calm. Controlled. Detached. I refused to hand Glen any more ammunition.

To his credit—or perhaps his credit’s opposite—Glen didn’t push the point. But the smirk didn’t fade, and I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He was calculating, as always. Glen hadn’t just guessed about Karl and me; he’d known. And it had cost me. More than I liked to remember.

I still recalled the day I’d cornered him in the parking garage, envelope in hand, pride shoved down my throat. The silence of that transaction had been deafening, and the memory of it made my skin crawl even now. I watched him carefully, searching for signs that he might resurrect the debt, leverage the unspoken secret once again.

His eyes lingered on me just a moment too long—sharp, dissecting, like a man stripping paint to find what was rotting underneath. He was looking for weakness. For a slip in posture, a twitch at the corner of my mouth. Anything.

But I didn’t give him the satisfaction.

I straightened, locked eyes with him, and let the silence do the talking. A silent standoff. Glen, with his scalpel of a stare, and me, a wall of polished steel. I wasn’t cracking. Not today.

"I believe he was headed for the showers," Glen finally said, conceding with a tone that still dripped with insinuation.

"Thank you, Glen," I replied coolly, a polite smile ghosting across my lips. It didn’t reach my eyes, but it didn’t need to. It was diplomacy, not warmth. A tactical smile.

He offered a nod—small, tight. Almost respectful. Or as close as Glen Crosswell ever came to it. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and continued down the corridor, his heavy steps echoing against the polished floor like fading laughter.

I watched him go, my fists unclenching slowly at my sides. The game of masks never truly ended here. Not in this building.

And I had the sinking feeling that I had at least one more to wear before the day was done.

The moment Glen disappeared around the corner, I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. It escaped me in a rush, tight and shallow, as though my lungs had only remembered their purpose the second his presence was gone. My heart thudded beneath my ribs, a staccato rhythm of adrenaline and pent-up irritation, fuelling my next move.

I pivoted on my heel and broke into a brisk stride, practically a dash, heading straight for the changing rooms. Every step struck the linoleum with purpose, my boots echoing too loudly in the narrow corridor. I didn’t care. I had no time for discretion—not now.

The background noise of the station blurred into a distant hum—phones ringing, muted conversations, the scrape of chairs and the hiss of a coffee machine. All of it faded, irrelevant against the singular thought pounding in my skull: Find Karl. Now.

The urgency twisted in my gut like a vice. Louise’s words hadn’t just unsettled me—they’d ignited something deeper, more primal. A protective instinct I hadn’t fully acknowledged until now. Karl was at the centre of this storm, whether he realised it yet or not, and I needed him grounded and focused—not fumbling through a hangover while everything unravelled.

The corridor seemed to stretch ahead unnaturally long, every fluorescent light overhead buzzing like an anxious insect. My footsteps sounded too loud in my ears, syncing with the imagined tick of an invisible clock—each beat a second lost, each moment another grain of sand slipping through the hourglass.

I reached the changing room door, my palm grazing the metal handle, already braced for what I might find. Whether Karl was just waking up to reality or already halfway to coherence, I’d have to drag him across the line. There was no space left for softness. Not today.

Ignoring the surprised glances from several officers as I swept into the men's changing room, I kept my gaze fixed ahead. Conversations dipped momentarily, eyebrows lifted—but no one stopped me. They knew better. I moved through the space with the kind of urgency that overruled protocol.

The room echoed with the usual dissonant chorus: lockers slamming shut, towels flung over benches, boots scuffing against tiles. The air was thick with the familiar mix of deodorant, damp towels, and the faint sting of industrial disinfectant. It was oddly comforting in its mundanity, but I barely registered it. My focus was razor-sharp.

Navigating between the benches and rows of lockers, I moved with purpose. I didn’t pause. Didn’t hesitate. The soles of my boots clicked with a steady rhythm, each step punctuated by the hollow echo off the tiled walls.

Only one of the shower cubicles was in use—the curtain, a cheap plastic sheet already yellowing around the edges, hung loosely on its rail, failing to close completely. Through the gap, I caught just enough of a glimpse to confirm what I already suspected: Karl. The steam rolled around him, distorting his outline, but the slope of his shoulders, the familiar arch of his stance—unmistakable.

The water thundered against tile. He hadn’t heard me. Not yet.

I positioned myself just outside the cubicle, silent and still, arms crossed, the cool air brushing my skin as I waited. No need to announce myself. He’d know soon enough.

Over the years, my presence in the men’s changing room had become an unspoken fixture—normal, in a way that defied logic. I’d been in and out of this space too many times to count, always in pursuit of a case, a partner, or an answer. The first time had been awkward. The second, less so. By the tenth, it had simply become habit.

I’d seen most of the male officers in various states of undress at this point—some unfortunate, some far too proud—including Claiborne, who’d once stepped out of the showers like a statue cast in steam and indifference. That particular image still haunted me from time to time, though mercifully without detail.

It struck me, briefly, how absurd it was—how easily this exception had been made for me, and me alone. If any other female officer wandered in here unannounced, there’d be a formal complaint filed before the steam had cleared. But with me, there were no protests. No side-eyes. Just resigned acceptance. Maybe it was the years I’d put in. Or maybe it was the way I walked through this building like I had a right to be wherever the job required me to be.

Still, the thought itched at the edge of my focus. The strange elasticity of workplace boundaries. The unspoken allowances made for certain people in certain roles. But I shoved the thought aside. No time for philosophising.

The urgency of the case cut through everything else. Louise Jeffries’ voice echoed in my skull: “I believe Luke may have done harm to both of them.” Claiborne’s watchful, unreadable stare. His cryptic words. Pay very close attention. The stakes were already climbing, and Karl—hungover, late, and oblivious—was still trying to shake the fog from his mind.

The curtain jerked aside with a sharp rasp.

"Shit, Sarah!" Karl exclaimed, eyes wide, hand instinctively pulling the curtain back across his midsection. His voice was a mix of surprise and irritation, his skin flushed from the hot water and sudden exposure. "What the fuck are you doing in here?"

Steam curled around him in thick plumes, clinging to his skin, rising off his shoulders in lazy spirals. His hair was slicked back, beads of water running in rivulets down his chest and across the curve of his collarbone.

His reaction was understandable—but it didn’t move me.

I was here on business. And Karl’s discomfort was the least of my concerns.

Before I could respond, Glen’s voice sliced through the steam like a rusty blade.

"Looking for some action, I'd say," he sneered, leaning against a nearby locker with that ever-present grin plastered across his pudgy face. His voice, thick with mockery, seemed to cling to the walls as unwelcome as mildew.

I hadn’t even noticed him enter—so focused had I been on finding Karl. Typical Glen, slipping in like a bad smell, always arriving when least wanted. He wore nothing but a threadbare towel, clinging desperately to the swell of his belly, looking more ridiculous than intimidating. And yet, his presence darkened the room instantly.

He sauntered past me with slow, deliberate steps, brushing against my arm with the kind of touch designed to provoke—a subtle violation wrapped in the guise of accident. The air thickened with his scent—cheap cologne and sweat—and I resisted the urge to recoil.

Without a hint of shame, Glen let the towel fall to the floor as he stepped into the cubicle beside Karl’s. For a moment, he stood exposed, flaunting himself as if daring a reaction. None came—only silent disgust—before he finally yanked the curtain shut with theatrical nonchalance.

"In your dreams, pal," Karl shot back, his voice ringing off the tiled walls.

"Eew, please no. Don’t encourage that fat prick," I said, unable to keep the revulsion from my tone. Glen’s sleazy humour, his lazy provocations, his unfiltered fantasies—I’d endured them all. And the idea of being reduced to one of his locker-room punchlines made my skin crawl.

It was baffling to me why Glen even bothered with such antics. There was little about him that was appealing, especially in his current state of undress.

What baffled me most was the duality of his life. I’d met his wife several times—a gentle, soft-spoken woman with eyes that crinkled when she smiled and a warmth that made you feel instantly welcome. What she saw in Glen remained a mystery I didn’t care to solve. The contrast was staggering—her kindness against his vulgarity, her grace against his groping ego. It was a cosmic mismatch that defied logic. And frankly, so did the fact that he was still employed.

In every measurable way, Glen was sloppy—unrefined, unbothered, and barely competent. His detective work was the procedural equivalent of a shotgun blast—messy, unfocused, and riddled with gaps. Yet somehow, he remained. A relic of the old guard no one seemed prepared to confront.

"Towel," Karl said gruffly, nodding towards the bench where his belongings lay in a casual pile. His voice pulled me back to the present.

Grateful for the redirection, I grabbed the towel—a plain white standard-issue, still warm from the heat of the room—and stepped forward. "Hurry up. You'll want to hear this," I said, pushing it into his hand.

As I did, my fingertips grazed his chest—firm, lightly furred beneath the tight buzz of damp hair. The heat of his skin, the subtle rise and fall of his breath, the tactile reminder of every shared moment between us—it all surged through me in an instant. I pulled away quickly, but the contact had already unsettled me.

Focus, I told myself. Not now.

I turned without a word, walking briskly towards the door, needing space. The moment had passed, but the echo of it remained—humming beneath my skin.

As I moved, I let my hips sway—not exaggerated, but deliberate. The energy shifted. I could feel eyes tracking me from behind, a subtle hush settling over the room. It wasn’t arrogance. It was calculated. A quiet declaration in a world that often demanded I shrink to fit. They could look. They always looked. But they’d never touch.

There had only ever been one exception.

Karl.

A grin tugged at the corner of my lips as I stepped into the corridor, the cooler air a sudden contrast against my flushed skin. For just a moment, I allowed myself that thrill—the buzz of control, of knowing I could command a room simply by walking through it. In a world where power so often had to be clawed for, there was satisfaction in taking it back—however small the moment.