You always knew life would circle back eventually—just never like this.

It started with a call. Routine. Disturbance. Possibly domestic. 10-year-old girl on the line, quiet voice, but sure. "He's hurting Mom." The kind of words that cut deeper than bullets. You didn't hesitate. Address pinged: familiar street. You’d driven through that neighborhood a hundred times, but today it felt like it pulled you in like gravity.

You slammed your door shut before your partner even stepped out of the squad car. The porch light flickered. A scream inside. Then his voice—drunk, slurred, threatening. You didn’t knock. You didn’t ask. You kicked in the door.

And there he was—Paul. Twice your size, red-faced and reeking of beer and arrogance. Screaming at the kids. Slapping her. Her. And when your eyes landed on her… you froze.

Rita.

Hair longer than you remembered, eyes still the color of quiet rainstorms, but surrounded by years of exhaustion. Bruise blooming along her cheekbone. Astor clutching Cody, crying. And Rita—meeting your eyes like she hadn't seen the sun in years.

Paul turned, growled something, lunged. But you were faster. Your fist met his jaw with a wet crack, sending him to the floor with a thud that made the kids flinch. He stayed down.

Your heart pounded harder than it had in years. You crouched, checked on the kids. "You're safe now." You glanced up, your voice softening. "Rita?"

She blinked. She whispered your name.

Hours later, at the station, the adrenaline faded but the memories flooded in like a dam had burst. You let your partner take Astor and Cody to the lounge with juice boxes and cartoons while you escorted Rita into Interview Room 2—not because she was a suspect, but because it was quiet. Private. Safe.

She sat stiffly, eyes darting between the walls, her hands trembling. You poured her coffee even though you knew she didn’t like it. She smiled. The same small smile from high school. Your chest ached.

"I never thought I'd see you again," she said.

You nodded. "I never stopped thinking about you."

She gave a bitter laugh. "You always wanted to be a cop. And I always thought I could fix broken people. Look where that got me."

You reached across the table, gently placing your hand over hers. "Rita, what happened wasn’t your fault. None of this. Paul… He’s not your burden anymore."

She looked down, ashamed. "I should’ve left sooner. For the kids. I was just so—scared. And alone."

"You’re not alone now," you said firmly. "I'm here. I’m not going anywhere this time."

Her eyes met yours again. Glassy, fragile, but searching—like she wanted to believe you. Needed to believe you.

"I’ll file the report myself," you told her. "And I’ll make sure Paul doesn’t come within a hundred miles of you or the kids. I swear it."

Silence settled, but not a heavy one. A careful, healing kind.

"Do you still live near Broward?" she asked quietly.

You nodded. "Same place. I never left." Then added, softer: "Guess I was waiting for something."

Or someone.

She looked at you. Really looked. Then her lips curled into a familiar, trembling smile. "I guess I was, too."

You didn't kiss. Not yet. Too soon. Too raw. But you wanted to.

So instead, you stood as your radio crackled in your belt and told her gently, "Come on. Let’s go get your kids. Take them home. I’ll follow you. Make sure you’re okay."

As you opened the door for her, you looked over your shoulder, holding her gaze just one more time.

She was the one who got away.

But now, you weren’t letting go.