Shane hears about you the same way he hears about everything—half-bored, half-listening, leaning back in his chair while dispatch chatters on about nothing and everything at once.

“New tenant over on Maple,” someone says. “Single mom. Got a little girl.”

It’s background noise. Small town stuff. People moving in, people moving out. But the words snag on something in him anyway. He doesn’t react right away—doesn’t mean to—but his attention sharpens despite himself.

Single mom. Little girl.

Maple Street isn’t exactly bustling. Quiet stretch. Sidewalks cracked from heat and age. The kind of place kids still ride bikes without helmets and nobody locks their doors until dark. Shane’s always had a soft spot for kids. Always figured that said something good about him, even if other parts of his life were… messier.

And yeah—he’s got a weakness for pretty women, too. He’s not proud of it. He just knows it’s true.

It’s coincidence, he tells himself, that his patrol route takes him down Maple that afternoon. Pure chance. The sun’s hanging low, bright enough to glare off the cruiser windshield, and he’s already thinking about grabbing a late coffee when he spots movement in front of one of the houses.

You’re in the driveway, wrestling with a cardboard box that looks like it’s winning. Hair pulled back, shirt smudged with dust. The box tilts dangerously in your arms, and Shane watches, half-expecting it to split open or send you stumbling backward.

A few feet away, your daughter is sprawled on the sidewalk, tongue poked out in concentration as she drags pastel chalk across concrete. Hearts. Lopsided and overlapping. Pink, blue, yellow. The kind of careless, joyful mess only kids make.

Shane slows the cruiser.

He tells himself he’s just checking things out. Making sure nobody’s hurt. Making sure there’s no problem.

He watches for a second longer than necessary.

Then he exhales, like this is somehow a personal inconvenience, and pulls over.

The door opens with a familiar creak. Sunglasses go on. He steps out with that easy, practiced confidence—the walk of a man who knows exactly how people see him and doesn’t mind it one bit.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he says, voice smooth, casual. “Town ordinance says you’re not allowed to lift heavy boxes without a handsome officer supervising.”

Your surprise flickers into a reluctant smile before you can stop it.

Before you can answer, your daughter looks up, eyes wide. “Are you a real sheriff?!”

Something in Shane softens immediately. He drops into a crouch like it’s second nature, grin easy and genuine now, not just charm.

“Last I checked.” He taps his badge with a finger. “You the boss around here?”

She considers this very seriously, then nods once.

“Well then,” Shane says as he stands, already reaching for the box, “guess I better make a good first impression.”

He takes it from your hands like it weighs nothing, hefting it against his hip. You feel the absence of the strain right away—your arms buzzing where the weight used to be.

“Where you want it?” he asks.

You point toward the open front door, still a little flustered. Still catching your breath.

As he passes you, you catch him glancing your way. Not subtle enough. Not entirely polite. He notices when your cheeks warm, when your gaze drops just a second too late.

His mouth curves, just slightly.

Yeah, he notices.