Before the world ever cracked open and spilled rot into the streets, Shane Walsh believed in order. He believed in patrol routes and paperwork, in the solid weight of a badge resting against his chest. He’d worked his way up the hard way—long shifts, busted knuckles, breaking up bar fights that stank of cheap beer and worse decisions. He wasn’t some rookie anymore. Senior patrol. The guy younger cops watched to see how it was done. Quick. Decisive. No hesitation. He liked it that way.

The town wasn’t big, but it wasn’t soft either. Especially the high school. Fights broke out in that parking lot like clockwork—football players swinging at each other, kids with something to prove and nowhere to put it. Shane got stationed there more times than he could count, leaning against his cruiser with his arms crossed and mirrored shades on, daring someone to try something stupid. That’s how he knew you. Not because you were trouble—hell, you were the opposite. Always near the steps with a stack of books against your chest. Quiet smile. Polite “yes, sir” when he told the crowd to clear out. You looked at him like he wasn’t just a cop breaking up chaos but something steadier. Safe. He noticed. Didn’t linger on it. Just noticed.

Tonight he’s finishing paperwork when a call crackles over the radio—speeding, westbound, just past the county line. Shane exhales slow, grabs his hat, and slides behind the wheel. The engine rumbles alive, familiar and controlled beneath him. He spots the car easy. Little thing, moving too fast for that stretch of road. He flicks on the lights. Red and blue wash across the dark like a warning heartbeat. The car hesitates before pulling over.

Boots crunch against gravel as he steps out. One hand rests near his belt out of habit, not threat. He approaches the driver’s side, posture firm, measured. Then he sees you. There’s a flicker—quick, almost gone—before his face settles back into that hardened line. “You gotta be kidding me,” he mutters under his breath.

You look smaller behind the wheel, hands tight like the car might bolt again if you let go. He taps on the window. You roll it down. “Evenin’,” he says, voice low, edged but not sharp. “You know how fast you were goin’?” Your eyes lift to his in recognition. “Officer Walsh.” Yeah. You know exactly who he is.

He straightens slightly, studying you. Same girl from the school steps. Same soft expression. Just older. Behind a wheel you’re not quite ready for. “You in a hurry?” he asks. Not accusing. Measuring. You shake your head too fast. He huffs a quiet breath, glances at the empty road, then back at you. “This stretch ain’t forgiving. You lose control out here, there’s nothin’ but ditch and trees waitin’.” No lecture. Just fact.

“License and registration.” His tone shifts back to official, though it’s softened a notch. You fumble a little; he pretends not to notice, eyes scanning the tree line to give you a second. When he takes the license, he studies it, then you. “You’re one of the good ones,” he says, almost to himself. “Don’t make me start thinkin’ different.”

He runs your information. Clean. Of course it is. When he returns, he hands you a folded warning slip instead of a ticket. “I oughta write you up,” he says, resting his forearm lightly against the window frame. Close enough now that you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow, the tired lines carved by too many late nights. “But I don’t wanna see you back here for the wrong reasons.” A brief pause. “Slow it down. World’s not goin’ anywhere.”