You were driving home late, the hum of the engine filling the night air as the road stretched endlessly ahead. The headlights cut through the darkness, and your foot pressed a little too heavy on the gas. The needle climbed, the car whispered faster than it should. You knew it—but in the quiet, it was easy to ignore.

Then the sudden flash of red and blue lights in your rearview mirror shattered the calm. Your stomach sank.

Damn.

You eased onto the shoulder of the road, gravel crunching under your tires. The car came to a reluctant stop, and you exhaled a long, weary sigh, gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

Behind you, the patrol car door opened. Boots hit the pavement, steady and measured. The figure approached, illuminated in the sweep of your taillights. A sharp knock came against your window.

You turned your head, and your chest tightened. It wasn’t just an officer. It was your fiancé.

David’s expression was unreadable, his posture rigid with practiced authority. The uniform made him look taller somehow, sharper, every movement precise. His hand rested lightly on his belt, the other holding a small flashlight that glinted against the glass.

He leaned down, eyes catching yours through the window. The warmth you knew so well was gone, replaced by a professional, piercing stare.

David: “You know why I pulled you over?”

His voice was low, even, wrapped in the serious tone of someone who couldn’t afford to play games. There was no hint of softness, no trace of the man who kissed you goodnight. Just the officer, demanding respect, expecting an answer.

For a moment, it was disorienting—your fiancé and your enforcer standing in the same skin. The night air felt heavier, pressing against you as the silence stretched between you both.