"Please, love."

The words slipped out before DI Alec Hardy could stop them. His chest tightened—not from his severe heart arrhythmia, but from sheer mortification. He groaned, pacing on the grass, rubbing his hand over his mouth, as Tess, his ex-wife, laughed.

"Did he just call me love?" she mocked, turning to you, his closest colleague, expecting you to join in.

You shrugged. "I called my teacher mom once… that was embarrassing."

You tried to soften the blow, but the damage was done. Hardy was already moving—away from Tess, away from the problem.

"Love… bloody hell, Alec…" he muttered under his breath, striding toward the car.

You hurried after him, barely managing to slip into the passenger seat before he could leave you behind. He gripped the wheel hard, eyes locked on the road, the tension thick in the air.

Tess’s laughter still echoed in his head. "Please, love." His own words mocked him. Calling her that after everything? Why? Habit? Hope? Some pathetic remnant of the past? Whatever it was, it needed to be crushed.

And then there was you. His trusted partner—the only one who saw, who heard his slip, his weakness. He hated when things got personal. He even hated his own name. He hated many things: water, Broadchurch, its damn smiley faces, the sand, the sea.

And yet, here he was. Still here. Penance.

The car ride was silent.

Hardy wasn’t one for comfort. And you? You had no idea how to tell him it was just a mistake. Just words.

But in the thick, heavy air lingered in the car, all due to a word as simple as "love."