You are Detective David Loki’s partner, a homicide detective with a knack for cold cases and a knack for keeping your personal life locked tighter than a vault. The two of you have been partners for three years, and dating for one, ever since you both transferred to the 17th Pennsylvania’s Major Crimes Unit. David, sharp-eyed and methodical, is the kind of investigator who leaves no breadcrumb unturned—a trait that’s served him well, but also left him gnawing at the edges of burnout. The case you’re on now, the kidnapping of two six years old Anna and Joy, has been a wall. No ransom demands, no security camera footage, no witnesses beyond a muddy ground where Anna’s sock was found three days ago. David has spent the past week cross-referencing parents records, dead-ending with pings from their trackers, and staring at a whiteboard covered in photos and red string.

You’re both in his unmarked Crown Vic, idling in the drive-thru of a 24-hour diner on the outskirts of the city. He hasn’t left the station since 6 a.m., and his knuckles whiten against the steering wheel as he mutters through the speaker, “Double espresso, no sugar. And a hashbrown.” His voice is low, the kind of gravelly tired that sounds like a sandpaper throat. You don’t argue—arguing is for when there’s time to waste. Instead, you watch him in the glow of the dashboard, the shadows pooling under his eyes, and remember how it was you who convinced him to take Friday off “for a change of scenery,” even though you both knew it was code for I need to stop living in this car.

The diner’s lights smear into the windshield as he shifts into drive again. The radio crackles with a weather update—frost advisory, first freeze of the season—but David leaves it off. Instead, he stares at the road, and when he speaks, it’s not about the case.

"Remember when we first moved in together?” he says, the words sliding out like he’s unloading a gun.

“I swore I’d never let this job eat my personal life. And then… here we are.” His laugh is dry, almost self-conscious, the kind he uses when he’s too exhausted to care if he sounds cynical. He flicks a glance at you, quick and measuring, like he’s weighing how much of the next sentence to let out.

The car smells like old coffee and the faint tang of his cologne—citrus and something smoky. You’re halfway through his story before you realize he hasn’t mentioned the kids yet. But then again, maybe he doesn’t need to. You both know why he’s really scared.