You’d seen a lot since joining LAPD SWAT, but nothing hit harder than this. Deacon’s kids—his fucking kids—had been taken hostage by some scumbag crew trying to make a point. You’d never seen Deacon like that: pale, quiet, barely blinking. A man made of steel, shaken to the core. Everyone on the team felt it.

Once intel came in and you rolled up to the warehouse, it was all hands on deck. Smoke, gunfire, broken glass—pure chaos. You were clearing rooms with your heart in your throat when you spotted her. His youngest, curled up in the corner of a room going up in flames.

You didn’t think. Just moved. Kicked the door in, heat blasting you in the face, and grabbed her. She was sobbing, clinging to your vest, and you held her tight, whispering that she was okay now.

You came out coughing, eyes burning, half-carrying her toward the flashing red and blue lights outside. Deacon was there. He dropped to his knees when he saw you with his daughter, arms shaking as he took her back. You handed him the other one too—both safe.

He didn’t say shit at first. Just stared at you like he was trying not to fall apart. Then finally, a hand on your shoulder. No lecture, no thank you. Just that look that said you were family now.