You’ve been staring at the door for ten minutes straight, shoulders stiff, hands trembling no matter how tightly you try to grip your glass. The bar around you is warm, buzzing with laughter and music—Lucy is half-singing along with Jackson, John and Nyla are arguing over darts, Tim is pretending not to enjoy himself—but all of it feels like static in your ears. Every time the door creaks open, your heart spikes, your breath catches, and you’re back in that alley, back facing the man who raised you and then pulled the trigger without hesitation.
You’ve been staring at the door for ten minutes straight, shoulders stiff, hands trembling no matter how tightly you try to grip your glass. The bar around you is warm, buzzing with laughter and music—Lucy is half-singing along with Jackson, John and Nyla are arguing over darts, Tim is pretending not to enjoy himself—but all of it feels like static in your ears. Every time the door creaks open, your heart spikes, your breath catches, and you’re back in that alley, back facing the man who raised you and then pulled the trigger without hesitation.
The bullpen is louder than usual when the call comes in—too loud, too careless for the kind of silence that follows. A K-9 unit handler. Female. Taken off-grid during a routine sweep.
The second you push open the door to the bar, the noise hits you first—music pulsing, squad laughter rolling across the room, the neon sign buzzing faintly above it all. You’re only here because everyone insisted. Because they miss the old you. Because you’ve been half-alive since Grace detonated your world in front of the entire precinct.
The maternity ward is buzzing like a hive—phones ringing, monitors beeping, nurses speed-walking everywhere. But underneath all of that is a different kind of energy. Tense. Focused. Emotional.
You and Angela can't stand each other. Sarcastic comments fly left and right between you two. But is it really just pure enemy tension? Or is there something else going on? Or are you both holding on to something you can't ignore anymore?
The morning buzz of the precinct swirls around you—phones ringing, boots thudding, detectives shouting over each other—but it all fades the second Angela Lopez strides through the doors. She always walks in like she owns the place, badge glinting, expression sharp… until her eyes land on you.
The bar is already loud when you walk in, but it’s nothing compared to the way the squad lights up the second they see you—like they’re starved for something they haven’t tasted in months. And maybe they are. You haven’t laughed, smiled, joked, or even looked like yourself since the night Grace detonated your world.
The world feels like it stops the second your radio cuts to static. One moment, you were in Angela’s ear—her wife, her partner, her anchor—your voice steady despite the tension of the bust. The next, nothing. Dead silence. The feed goes offline, the tracker blinks out. Every officer in the room stiffens, but Angela’s heart plummets straight through the floor.
The bullpen is alive with laughter and clinking mugs, the kind of noise that always follows a celebration. It’s Grace Martin’s birthday—your girlfriend’s birthday—and half the squad’s gathered to watch her blow out the candles someone stuck on top of a box of donuts. You’re smiling, trying to keep it together under the teasing and the good-natured ribbing, until Grace turns to you with that playful grin that never bodes well.
The roar of Chef Ramsay’s voice cuts through the heat and chaos of Hell’s Kitchen like a blade. You’re barely keeping up—steam rising off the pans, the smell of scallops and butter thick in the air, your heart hammering behind your ribs. It’s the first dinner service of the season, and you’re manning garnish… except Robyn’s drowning on fish.
You can still hear the laughter echoing through the bullpen long after Grace leaves. Her lipstick smudge still burns on your cheek—faint, mocking, permanent in a way you wish it wasn’t. The rest of the squad pretends to get back to their reports, but the sideways glances are knives. You keep your chin up anyway, fingers curling tighter around the small velvet box still hidden in your jacket pocket.
You’ve barely stepped off the ice, blades still echoing against the tunnel floor, breath clouding in the cold arena air. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by that hollow ache you always get after a game where you gave every last piece of yourself. Toronto vs. Washington had been brutal. Fast. Loud. Everything your sport is meant to be.
The precinct feels quieter than usual this morning — that heavy kind of quiet that settles after a long night of chaos. You’re sitting at your desk, still pale from yesterday’s mission, the one that had every nerve in your body frayed to breaking point. You can still hear the static from your radio, the sound of sirens fading, the pulse in your ears that wouldn’t slow down even after the all-clear.
The precinct is still buzzing from the successful close of the mission, the kind of case that leaves everyone riding that high of adrenaline mixed with exhaustion. You’re filing away your notes, trying to keep your head down like always—pretending the tightness in your chest whenever Angela’s near doesn’t exist. She’s your training officer. She’s sharp, commanding, the type who notices everything—and lately, it feels like she’s been noticing you too much. Or maybe that’s just your stupid heart projecting.
You can still hear the sound of the exam results notification pinging in your head. It’s been hours since you opened that email, and yet the words blur together in one cruel repetition — “We regret to inform you…” Six times. Six damn times.
You’re sitting at your desk in the bullpen, staring at that same damn piece of paper that’s been haunting you for months now — the word “Failed” burned into your brain like a cruel inside joke from the universe. Sixth time. Six times you’ve put your heart, your hours, and your sanity into that exam, only to fall short again. You’ve been through shootouts, hostage negotiations, and undercover ops that would break most people — but nothing compares to the sting of this.
The sound of running water fills the kitchen as the late afternoon sun filters through the window. You hum softly to yourself, swaying a little as you rinse off another dish, the faint sound of “Wheels on the Bus” playing from the living room. Jackson’s giggles carry through the air, a sound that never fails to melt you.
The bullpen is too quiet for a Monday morning. Phones ringing, printers humming, footsteps echoing—yet somehow everything feels muted, like the whole station is holding its breath. Or maybe it’s just you, sitting at your desk, staring at the grainy coffee in your cup like it personally offended you.
The day’s supposed to be routine patrol — nothing special, just you and Jackson West covering your quadrant while Angela wraps up paperwork at the precinct. The wedding’s in two weeks. Two weeks. You can still hear her teasing you that morning before roll call, brushing a stray hair off your uniform collar and whispering, “Don’t get shot before I walk down the aisle, cariño.” You’d laughed, kissed her cheek, and promised.
The bar is loud, crowded, alive with off-duty cops and neon light, the kind of night that’s supposed to feel safe—family, laughter, celebration. Grace’s birthday. Your girlfriend. The squad’s excuse to drink too much and forget the job for a few hours.
The LAPD baseball field is loud with laughter, heckling, and the crack of a bat as you jog back toward the dugout, wetsuit swapped for a department jersey, hair still damp from an early-morning dive. Years in the Diver Unit have taught you how to handle pressure—but not this.