"Wondering where Rose is"

You don't believe her. Well, you do but it's certainly not the reason she's here, looking so woeful. You're both worried about Rose but you also have to face the fact that Stella has been employing carefully honed diversion tactics since she showed up – at precisely 11:57pm – to the morgue.

Much to your chagrin, you can replay the whole night in your head with embarrassing precision.

It had started with Stella helping herself to a seat even after you'd made it clear that you wouldn't have anything of interest until the next day. It had caused you to furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

Comfortable, Stella?

She'd been too busy chowing into her nails to notice. Stella Gibson wasn't the kind to seek out another just for company – sex, obviously, and maybe even physical closeness – but not for tea and scones and have-you-read-that-new-Grisham-crime-novel? Human companionship may have been a primal need, but this was Stella Gibson, and she truly believed she was a cut above mankind's primal needs. It was the first sign, albeit almost imperceptible, that something was wrong.

You'd always had a misguided sense of superiority when it came to doing something others could not. The 'high-achiever-syndrome' your mother still called it. It extended far past your job and into your personal life, where Stella tentatively existed. You would have thought the pride over being able to call Stella's bluff when hardly any could would have been more satisfying, but watching her sit there chewing her nails and avoiding your eyes had inspired anything but satisfaction in you. Instead you'd felt a strange kind of maternal affection for the stony blonde.

I want to protect you, Stella. I don't know what from.

Then the next time you'd looked over she'd been asleep and it had thrown you even further. For the first time you'd had to let go of the silly notion that your sudden desire to swaddle her in a blanket was simply a misplaced motherly instinct. Stella was a grown woman; your senior even, and logical explanations for your heart melting on the spot were few and far between.

Don't be an idiot, Tanya. You had your chance. You're from Croydon.

You'd reminded yourself harshly that there was a certain resignation to vulnerability, a certain trust that came with being able to fall asleep in someone's presence. Neither came easily to Stella and so, under no circumstances, was it to be taken advantage of. You had to be content with staring.

And stare you had; noting the contours of her face, the fading remnants of gold eyeshadow and not least the overbite – Jesus, that damn overbite – that she'd let you explore with your tongue the night before. Her features had given off the impression that she was devoid of anxiety but her hands had remained tightly clasped at her stomach, as if she couldn't quite let go. The tiny snores and splayed legs had done nothing to quell your mounting adoration, nor had the powdery blue of her sleepy eyes when you'd finally, with aching regret, had to wake her up.

Maybe after that you expected her to take her finely crafted façade of impregnability and bolt, yet it's close to three when you emerge from the showers, and she's there invading your cool room.

When you speak it's with annoyance, yet not for Stella's intrusion or her curiosity, but for your shame – shame because while you've been replaying the night in your head, discreetly brushing your nipples through the material of your black tanktop while you changed, she's wandered off to look at dead people.

She's feeding you the Rose bullshit but you're not listening. Not really anyway. Instead you're eyeing her exhausted frame hanging off the side of the gurney and trying to figure out if it's all worth the argument.

Give her the benefit of the doubt, Tanya. Maybe this is about Rose.

You know you can't, because you know it's not – and because sometimes you can't let go of that excruciatingly obnoxious child that had to prove they were always right.

Either grow some balls or go home, Reed.

"Stella – " you get one word in. One lousy fucking word and one lousy fucking step in her direction, before she looks up and you freeze. Her expression no longer gives away an air of bone-tired stoicism but something much more heart wrenching.

No, no, no, no, no. Oh God, Stella. I can't have you cry. I won't cope.

There's a telltale welling in her eyes, accompanied by a devastating chin quiver. The haphazard constellation of freckles that dot her cheeks and nose refuse steadfastly to blend into a backdrop of rapidly reddening skin. Suddenly nothing else matters, not your skills of perception, or your lack of sleep, or even that you're going to have to send the girls off to school with money in a few hours because there's no way you're going to get round to packing lunch. Nothing matters in that moment except the fact that Stella is standing in front of you; stripped bare, and you've fallen in love.

"What's going on, Stella? What's happened? It's alright, tell me"

She tells you everything.