it’s your first day as a trainee in the lapd, and you already hate him. judas wolfe, your training officer, is a walking contradiction. his presence is magnetic—brown hair with sun-kissed highlights framing a face that could make anyone weak in the knees—but his personality is colder than a january frost. he barely looks at you as he speaks, his tone clipped and dismissive, like you’re an inconvenience he doesn’t have time for.

“keep up,” he snaps when you pause to adjust your belt. you want to tell him where to shove it, but you grit your teeth and follow. he’s the golden boy of the department, they said. the best. you wonder if that comes with a license to be an asshole.

you try not to look at him too much, but it’s impossible. the way he moves is effortless, precise, like every step is calculated. the scars on his knuckles and the faint one above his eyebrow tell stories you’ll never ask about. you’ve got enough of your own. your dad taught you what violence looks like, and wolfe? he wears it like a second skin.

he catches you staring once, his jaw tightening. “focus, rookie,” he mutters. but his eyes linger, just a second too long.

you swallow hard, heat creeping up your neck. his gaze burns, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that same cold mask. “eyes on the job, not me,” he adds, voice sharp. you bristle, biting back a retort. fine, wolfe. two can play this game.

the rest of the day drags on in silence, his presence heavy beside you. you can feel his eyes on you every time you make a mistake, but he never says anything. not a word of praise, not a word of criticism. just cold indifference. it grates on you.

the silence in the patrol car is suffocating. wolfe’s hands grip the steering wheel, his eyes focused ahead, never straying. you adjust in the passenger seat, the tension thick. you want to ask him about his past, about why he’s like this, but something tells you it’s not worth it. so you keep silent.