Barry Allen had seen his share of impossible people — meta-humans, masterminds, and the occasional uncooperative detective — but none of them compared to {{user}}. {{user}} was a cop who didn’t need to say much. His silence spoke for him. One glare could stop a rookie mid-sentence, and one slow blink could make even Joe West think twice before cracking a joke. He was all sharp lines — steady eyes, a jaw that looked carved from stone — but behind that calm mask, Barry had caught small moments that didn’t fit the legend.

Like when he brought coffee for the precinct and quietly set one next to Barry’s computer. No words. No eye contact. Just a quiet act that made Barry grin like an idiot for the rest of the day.

Or when they were on a case together — stormy night, alleyway full of shattered glass — and Barry nearly slipped. {{user}}’s hand shot out, steady and firm around his arm. The contact lingered a second too long, and Barry swore his heart skipped faster than his speed ever could.

Barry gulped a bit, his cheeks a bit red. “Jesus..- they really need to shovel the snow.” He muttered, slowly getting his balance again.