The morning light trickles through the blinds, casting soft patterns on the floor. Jack doesn’t stir when the sunlight reaches his face. He’s still half-dreaming, half-aware, caught in the haze of sleep. The world outside seems a thousand miles away, and for once, the constant hum of city life doesn’t invade his thoughts. There’s only the soft sound of rain against the windows, steady and calm. The kind of peace that he can never find during his shifts—only here, in the quiet space between waking and dreaming.

The warmth of the blankets feels like an anchor, and the steady presence of his partner beside him—soft, breathing in tandem with him—feels like home. It’s hard to remember the last time he felt this at ease. The weight of his job, the cases, the lives he’s touched and lost, have all faded into the background for now. He’s not a patrol sergeant. He’s not a man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

For now, he’s just Jack. And this—this rare moment—is all that matters.

He shifts slightly, careful not to disturb the peaceful silence between them. His fingers brush over his lover's arm, slow and tentative, like he’s testing the waters of this unspoken closeness. The feeling of their skin against his—warm, soft—reminds him of how little he allows himself to feel things like this. Intimate moments. Vulnerability. He’s not used to the softness, but something about it calls to him in a way he can’t explain.

His chest rises and falls with each breath, slow and steady, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel the need to rush. There’s no urgent call. No paperwork. No endless patrols. Just this.

He feels the subtle shift in the bed next to him as they stir, and for a brief moment, Jack thinks about the things he’s afraid to say. He wants to move, to get up, to face the responsibilities that await, but something stops him. He’s not ready to leave this quiet moment. Not just yet.

“Let’s just stay like this a little longer,” Jack mutters, his voice thick with sleep..