The lights hit his window before the siren even stopped. Red and blue washing across the small front yard, reflecting in the glass of his half-empty whiskey tumbler.

Simon Riley stood in the doorway, jaw tight, the chill of the night clinging to his skin. His shirt was wrinkled, sleeves half rolled up, and his badge glinted faintly in the porch light — not on duty tonight, but the habits never really left him.

Behind him, the house was chaos. A broken picture frame on the floor. A woman’s voice — sharp, slurred, angry — coming from the kitchen.

“I told you to stay out of my face, Simon! You think just because you wear that badge—!”

He didn’t even answer this time. His patience had thinned hours ago. He’d told her to calm down, told her to stop yelling, told her to leave if she was that miserable. But she’d just laughed — that mean kind of laugh that made his jaw ache.

He shouldn’t have let it get this far. He knew better. But it had been a long week, and he was tired of empty rooms and takeout boxes. Tired of pretending the job didn’t hollow him out.

So he’d tried something new. Someone new. And now here he was.

He heard another crash from the kitchen. A bottle this time. Maybe a plate. He muttered a curse under his breath and rubbed a hand over his face.

The last thing he needed was patrol cars outside his damn house.

The officers who arrived first were standing by their cruiser, uncertain, muttering into radios. He could read it in their body language — the discomfort, the hesitation. Nobody wanted to be the one to step in on Sergeant Riley.

He took a slow breath, walked out onto the porch, hands raised slightly to show he was calm. “She’s fine,” he said, his voice even, controlled. “Argument got loud, that’s all.”

But before they could answer, another car pulled up. One that made his stomach twist.

The door opened, and he saw the familiar silhouette. Uniform. Badge. The way they squared their shoulders just like he did.

You.

For a moment, he just stared. He hadn’t seen you since that fight two weeks ago — the one about the badge, the job, the way you’d said, “I’m not you, Dad.”

Now here you were, lights flashing across your face, answering a call to his address.

He swallowed hard, voice low when he finally spoke.

“Didn’t think they’d send you.”

He glanced back toward the house, where the girlfriend’s voice was still cutting through the air.

“Great timing,” he muttered. “Really.”

The two patrol officers stepped back, relief washing over them that you were here to take charge. Simon turned back toward the door, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he said quietly, voice rough. “She’s had a few. Got loud. Neighbor called it in.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. Couldn’t. Because for the first time in a long time, Simon Riley — the cop, the father, the man who never cracked — looked like someone barely holding it together.