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The hard wall of his chest muffled her startled scream. His hand cupped the back of her head drawing her in against him. His warm breath whispered over her hair, and his lips nibbled her ear. “I’m sorry.” With his cheek he brushed the top of her head. “I’m so sorry.”

For a long moment they just stood together, their hearts talking together in time to the beat of life. Silently, bodies communicated in the hope brains and minds would soon catch up. He let his hands roam over her back, taking in her warmth, her softness, her generosity, her unconditional acceptance. Sighed when he recognised his meanness of spirit when he’d deliberately trine to destroy that acceptance.

“I can’t find myself.” She stilled under his hands as his whispered words reached her. “I’m a man used to knowing who he is.” He inhaled deeply and ran a finger along the curve of her neck. “In my work I knew what to expect. Not the detail you understand. How can you know what each day will throw at you?” He pulled away and looked down at her. Satisfied he had her attention, her rested his chin on top of her head again. “What I mean, is that I lived for my work, had a place in a team. You have to trust the other members of that team, your life depends on it.” He felt her head bob against him. “When I lost my wife and child, I let work fill the gap they left behind. It became my world. When that world was betrayed, I had nothing left.” He felt her stiffen and tightened his hold on her. “Let me finish. I’m trying to explain, to make you understand.”

When she looked up at him, he held her gaze. “ When Brad died and I was injured, I refused to take sick leave and returned to work as soon as they released me from hospital. They wouldn’t let me go back on the streets, and I hated being tied to a desk. Eventually they gave me a new partner. It didn’t work out. I partnered nearly every damn cop in the precinct, and none of them gelled. I gave each man a bad time, ruined a lot of good friendships, hurt a lot of people who didn’t deserve it. I’d seen it in others, but didn’t recognise it in myself.” His derisive snort lifted a strand of her hair.

“What?” She tipped her head back and fixed her eyes on his face.

“Burn-out.”

“Burn-out?” He heard her test the words, taste them then understand them.

“Any you were the last to recognise what was happening to you?” She confirmed, more than questioned.

“Yes.” I was the last to recognise the symptoms.”

“So you did what?” With a spurt of anger she pushed out of his arms. “You ran?” Her contempt stung. As if she physically slapped him, he could feel the blood rising to the surface of his skin. “Or did you take the survivor’s route?” For a moment her words didn’t register. Then like a soothing balm, they washed over him, healing him.

“I guess.”

“What? She asked again. “What do you guess?”

“A cop suffering from burn-out rarely survives long if he doesn’t step back.”

“Why?”

He knew she was playing devil’s advocate, smiled and answered her question. “His focus becomes suspect. His judgement becomes unreliable, and his reactions become too slow and untrustworthy for another cop to risk his life for.”

“So.” She paused. “You decided yet, what you’re doing? Have you figured out whether you’re running or stepping back?”

“I’m not sure.” He felt his heart lighten, felt the load lift from his shoulders. “That’s what I came to Scotland to do.”

“But…?”

“But, I fell down a hole instead and scrambled my brains some more.”