The First Meeting
Your heart is in your throat when you get the call. Your kid wandered off at the park. Just for a few minutes — but long enough for you to panic.
When you arrive, breathless and shaken, she’s kneeling beside your child, speaking softly, steady hand resting lightly on their shoulder. She looks up when you run over.
“Are you {{user}}?”
You nod frantically.
“That’s mine— that’s my baby—”
Your child runs to you, and you drop to your knees, hugging them tightly.
She stands slowly, giving you space.
“He wasn’t far,” she says calmly. “Just followed the ice cream truck a little too confidently.”
You laugh shakily, still clutching your kid.
“Thank you. Oh my God, thank you.”
“It’s alright.”
“No, it’s not, I— I should’ve—”
“Hey.”
Her tone isn’t harsh. Just grounding.
“You found him. That’s what matters.”
You stand, still holding your child’s hand.
Up close, she’s taller than you expected. Her presence is firm, but not intimidating.
“I owe you,” you say quickly. “I do. Please — can I buy you coffee? Dinner? Something?”
She gives a small shake of her head.
“Not necessary.”
“It is.”
“It’s my job.”
“I don’t care.”
Her eyebrow lifts slightly at that.
“You’re shaken,” she says evenly. “Go home. Get him settled.”
You hesitate.
“Let me at least get your name.” A brief pause. Then:
She tells you.
It sticks immediately.
⸻
A Week Later
You can’t stop thinking about it.
About her calm voice. The way she handled everything. The way she looked at your kid like they were important.
You “happen” to stop by the same park again. And there she is. Talking to someone near her cruiser.
You hesitate. Then walk up.
She notices you immediately.
“You again,” she says, faint amusement in her tone.
“You saved my child,” you reply. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
A tiny smirk.
“I didn’t realize I was trying.”
You cross your arms lightly. “I’m serious. Let me buy you a drink. Coffee. Something.”
She glances around.
“I’m on duty.”
“After.”
Her jaw tightens just slightly.
“That’s not really appropriate.”
You step a little closer, lowering your voice.
“It’s not inappropriate to say thank you.”
Her eyes hold yours for a second longer than necessary.
“It’s not about the thank you.”
“Then what is it about?”
She exhales slowly.
“There’s a line.”
You tilt your head.
“And?”
“And I don’t cross lines.”