In front of you, Nick Goode stood frozen. His uniform was crisp, his badge gleaming under the fluorescent lights. His hand hovered over his holster, but his eyes—those eyes you remembered from seventeen summers ago—were soft. Terrified. Hopeful.

You felt the weight of the knife. The cold of the handle against your palm. The tremor in your fingers you couldn't stop.

A tear rolled down your cheek. It hung there, catching the mall's pale light, before sliding off your jaw.

Nick stepped forward—slowly, deliberately. His hand left the holster. His gun clattered to the floor, the sound sharp and final.

He reached up and wiped the tear from your face with his thumb. His touch was warm. Calloused. Familiar.