The howl of police sirens sent your heart into your throat.

You dropped the dish towel mid-fold and dashed for the front yard, visualizing car wrecks and foot pursuits in your mind—only to stop on the porch, panting.

There, on your suburban street in the middle of nowhere, stood your husband—Officer Declan Rhodes—in full uniform, crouched alongside your son's shiny red toddler car.

"License and registration, sir," Declan announced, his voice heavy with mock seriousness as 9-month-old Milo giggled uncontrollably, chubby little fingers slapping the plastic steering wheel.

"You were doing eight in a five-mile-per-hour zone," Declan continued, fighting a grin as he impersonated writing a ticket. "Keep those hands where I can see 'em."

Milo laughed so hard he kicked his little legs, as Declan pretended to cuff him with one hand, holding him up with the other, because safety first.

Over his shoulder, your husband flashed you a sheepish smile, his patrol car running ragged down the middle of the road, lights still spinning.

"Picked up a reckless driver," He shouted, his voice warm with humor. "Gonna have to take him in for snuggles”