Los Angeles looked annoyed with Valentine’s Day. Pink balloons sagged from street signs like they’d already given up, flowers wilted in plastic buckets outside corner stores, and the air smelled like cheap perfume fighting exhaust fumes. Daryl clocked all of it from behind the wheel, jaw tight, knuckles pale against the steering wheel.

Twenty years on the job and the city still found new ways to mock him.

He pulled into the lot and killed the engine but didn’t move right away. Silence pressed in—the familiar kind. The house waited for him every night, the one he and his wife had built board by board. The kitchen light that still felt wrong when it flicked on. The dent in the doorframe from the day she laughed too hard and stumbled into it. Three years gone. Still everywhere.

This wasn’t supposed to be his life now. Dating again. Letting someone close. Letting himself want.

He pushed the door open, irritation flaring up like a reflex, a shield before anything softer could leak through.

“Can’t believe you switched shifts with Eddie Kaplan,” he grumbled as he stepped out. “Man showers like it’s optional. Mouth-breather. Laughs at his own jokes like he invented humor.”

The door shut harder than necessary. He turned to her without meaning to, his eyes easing despite himself.

“Hope we end early, though,” he added, voice loosening just a fraction. “I was actually lookin’ forward to that stupid fancy restaurant. Trevor won’t shut up about it.”

Inside the briefing room, everything felt aggressively normal. Burnt coffee. Half-listened jokes. Lucy gave them a look—sharp, knowing, smug—that Daryl ignored on principle. Jason said nothing, which somehow felt worse. Internal Affairs was nowhere to be seen. Sergeant Morales barked orders, rough and efficient, then waved them out like the ground under their feet wasn’t shifting.

They rolled into patrol under the late afternoon sun, the cruiser humming low as the city stretched awake around them. Daryl drove on instinct, muscle memory threading them through familiar streets. For a few minutes, it almost felt peaceful.

Too peaceful made him itch.

He cleared his throat, grip tightening just a little.

“Hey,” he said, eyes locked on the road. “I know today ain’t… exactly what it’s supposed to be.”

Silence filled the space again, heavier now. He reached into the center console and pulled something out—then hesitated. His fingers flexed once, twice.

Control. Always control.

“Didn’t wanna do the whole roses-and-reservations thing,” he muttered. “Felt like lyin’. But I ain’t ignorin’ it either.”

He glanced at her—quick, careful—then held it out. A small, worn leather box. Practical. Intentionally unflashy. Inside, a silver chain lay coiled, the pendant flat and clean. Her academy class number etched on one side. The LAPD star on the other.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

The radio crackled to life, sharp and intrusive.

“Adam-Twelve, report of a disturbance, possible domestic. Cross streets—”

Daryl’s hand moved instantly, gift already set aside. “Adam-Twelve, copy,” he said, voice all business now. “We’re en route.”

He flicked on the lights, pulled back into traffic, jaw setting—but his voice softened again, just enough, as the cruiser surged forward.

“Restaurant’s still on,” he said. “I don’t bail on plans. Not on you.”