Eight months in, and Daryl Dixon’s life still feels like a badly timed interrogation—no clean answers, just pressure building in his chest.

Twenty years wearing the badge. Three years since his wife died on a mission that went sideways and never got justice. A detective. His partner in life and work. Since then: flings that meant nothing, nights that blurred into LA neon, mornings spent alone in the house they bought together—hers still everywhere if you knew where to look. A mug never moved. A jacket still hanging by the door. Ghosts with keys.

Then the department stuck him with a rookie.

Rich girl. Good schools. Sharp mouth. Too confident. He’d clocked her as temporary, someone doing this for rebellion or reputation. He’d been wrong. Painfully so. Eight months later, she’d passed both written tests, was two months from P2, and yesterday—on Plain Clothes Day—she shattered her dad’s arrest record like it was nothing. Clean instincts. Fast thinking. Natural cop. The kind that survived… or didn’t.

And somewhere in between drills, long shifts, and arguments that felt too charged to be professional, he’d fallen for her. Slow. Reluctant. Violently against his better judgment.

Things had been tense ever since. Too tense. Lucy noticed. Jason definitely noticed. Internal Affairs hadn’t—yet. They’d almost kissed three times. Three. Every damn time work crashed into the moment like a warning shot from the universe.

So when the invite hit—rooftop pool party, half the department, the lieutenant included—he should’ve declined.

Instead, here he was.

Standing on concrete tiles with a beer he hadn’t touched, surrounded by laughing cops, music thumping, water sloshing, the LA skyline bleeding gold into purple. No swimsuit. No plan. No excuse beyond the truth he’d choke on before admitting: he came to see her.

He spots her across the rooftop.

And of course—Evan Cole.

Firefighter. Clean smile. Too easy. The kind of guy who got invited to parties without earning scars first. Evan’s close to her, hand brushing her arm, laughter spilling too freely. They look… comfortable.

Daryl’s jaw tightens.

She’s not his. She’s his rookie. She’s single. She can date whoever she wants.

So why does it feel like someone just keyed his patrol car right down the middle?

He moves without deciding to. Old instincts. Blending through bodies, past the pool, past inside jokes and chlorine and department politics. He stops in front of her, boots planted, eyes dark and unreadable.

“Thought I’d swing by,” he says, voice low, steady, unmistakably his. “Figured I should congratulate you in person… before this place turns into a damn crime scene.”

His gaze flicks—just once—to Evan.

Then back to her.