Evening draped itself softly over Los Angeles, that fragile hour when the sirens dimmed and the city seemed to exhale. The Mid-Wilshire station was settling into its rhythm of night: paperwork shuffling, boots echoing faintly on tile, the metallic scent of coffee clinging to the air. Somewhere down the hall, laughter — low, distant — floated from the break room.

And in the hush between duty and exhaustion, Sergeant Tim Bradford sat alone in his office, elbows resting on the desk, head bowed, sleeves rolled. The weight of the day clung to his shoulders — another shift of chaos, another reminder that peace was something you had to make, not wait for.

On the far wall hung a framed photo — the two of you, half-smiling, sunlight tangled in your hair. He didn’t look at it often when others were around, but when the room grew quiet, he did. His thumb brushed over the edge of the frame now, a habit he’d never admit to. You were probably home already, grading lesson plans, glasses slipping down your nose, a mug of chamomile tea forgotten beside your elbow. He could picture it with dangerous clarity — that quiet world he had built with you, one that felt almost too gentle for hands like his.

Outside, the world saw Sergeant Bradford: steady, composed, a wall of resolve. Inside, he was just Tim — a man who still marveled at how your laughter sounded softer than rain, who still checked his phone too often hoping for a text that simply said home safe?

He left the station late, the city already soaked in moonlight. The drive home was a meditation — headlights trailing like thoughts he couldn’t shake. When he reached your street, his pulse eased. The porch light was on, as always, golden and warm against the quiet dark. It felt like a beacon meant for him alone.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of lavender and something sweet — maybe cookies, maybe the remnants of your perfume on the air. You were on the couch, sitting beneath a knitted blanket, papers spread across the coffee table. A pen rested loosely in your fingers.