Dancing (Karen/Frank)
Dancing + Kastle
They’re both wired, Frank as usual from an elephant size serving of coffee, and Karen still buzzing from the thrill of the success of their latest investigation (a kidnapping victim returned to the loving arms of her family, her captor suffering from a possible concussion downtown).
Karen’s awash in good vibes, and she thinks nothing could ruin her night, until the familiar twang of a nasally voice echoes across the diner from the juke box.
She wrinkles her nose, blurting out, “God, I hate country music,” her cheeks warming as the expression on Frank’s face changes, his eyebrows shooting up, that damn corner of his mouth twitching.
Next thing she knows he’s slowly easing her out of the booth, fingers entwined, free hand pressed firmly against her back as he squares their bodies.
Vaguely she hears herself asking him where he learned to do this, but the sound is far away, and the only thing she can focus on his the soft and sad look in his eyes when he answers, “Maria.”