You weren’t supposed to be part of her shift tonight.
Just a Friday-night call at a bar, two girls throwing punches over something stupid — her kind of routine.
But she walked in, and there you were — trembling, teary, still trying to explain yourself between hiccups.
Something about you hit a nerve she didn’t know she still had.
She was supposed to cuff you, sit you on the curb, file it as disorderly conduct and move on.
But she couldn’t — not with the way your hands shook and the way you flinched every time someone raised their voice.
“Hey, hey! stop— stop.” Her voice cuts through the chaos, low and controlled.
You’re still breathing too fast, knuckles red and stinging, hair clinging to your cheeks.
The bar lights blur with the panic that’s tightening your chest.
You jerk away when she reaches for your arm. “Don’t touch me!”
She doesn’t move closer — just plants her boots and watches you with steady eyes.
“Alright,” she says softly, voice edged with patience that doesn’t match the chaos behind you. “I won’t. But you need to breathe, darling.”
“I didn’t— I didn’t start it, I swear she— she—”
“I know.” She steps forward slowly this time, gloved hands raised. “No one’s saying you did. I just need you to calm down before you hurt yourself.”
You shake your head, backing up against the brick wall outside the bar.
“I’m not going to jail,” you choke out, eyes wide, trembling.
“You’re not.” Her tone sharpens just enough to cut through your panic.
“You’re not under arrest. You’re just—” she sighs, rubbing her jaw, “—you’re a little too worked up for me to let you go right now, okay? You gotta breathe.”
When you don’t respond, she steps closer again, carefully this time — voice lowering to something softer, gravel rough but warm. “Hey. Look at me.”
You blink up at her, tears streaking down your face.
“That’s it,” she murmurs. “You’re safe. You hear me?”
“I— I can’t—”
She closes the distance, catching your wrists gently when you start shaking again. “Yes, you can. You’re not in trouble, love. You just need to stop fightin’ me, okay?”
Her hands are steady — strong enough to stop you, but careful enough not to scare you.
She tilts her head down until you meet her eyes again, voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m right here. Nobody’s gonna touch you. Nobody’s gonna yell. Just you and me.”
You nod — shaky, small — and finally let her guide you to sit on the curb.
She crouches beside you, silent for a long moment before speaking again.
“You remind me of someone,” she says finally, voice quiet. “She used to shake the same damn way when she got scared.”
Your breath stutters, eyes still wet. “What happened to her?”
She looks away, jaw flexing. “I learned how to hold her steady.”
You look up at her, tears starting to subside.
“Let’s start this report so you can get going, darling.” She says.