He hadn’t thought about them in weeks. Maybe even a month, if he was being generous with himself. Life had settled into routine—early shifts, late nights, rotating between patrol and paperwork.

The uniform felt heavier these days, not from the weight, but from the silence that came with it. The same silence they used to fill on the phone during his walk back from the academy gym. Just quiet, comfortable talk. Easy, like they were.

The breakup had been mutual in that unspoken way where both of them knew they were building something that couldn't last. A relationship meant to pass time, not define it. When they ended it, he didn’t argue. He was tired. So tired. And they were so calm about it. It made sense—until it didn’t. Weeks later, it hit him. A moment in line for coffee. A quiet drive on patrol.

A song on the radio. It crept in through the smallest cracks and settled under his skin. He didn’t mourn it. There was nothing to regret. It was good. Too good. Like a clean break you couldn’t pick a fight with, so it lingered. He didn’t reach out. He checked Instagram. No harm in that. Just a profile. Just photos. Not longing.

Which is definitely why he didn’t slow down behind the car with the license plate he knew by heart. It wasn’t intentional. It just… happened.

Lights flashed once. Just a casual flicker.

He stepped out of the car with practiced ease, but his heart kicked up a little. Not from nerves—he didn’t get nervous—but from the unexpectedness of it. Of them.

He adjusted his cap as he walked up to the window, glancing in casually before the corner of his mouth twitched up.

“Afternoon,” he said, voice even. “You do know you were going 56 in a 55 area, right?”

He leaned a little closer, just to get a better look, just to let it linger.

Technically ridiculous.

But also, maybe just an excuse.

Just checking in. Not longing. Or anything like that.