I knew this was hard and risky for her

Not only because being a woman and a cop was hard

But because I was her superior, and dating me, could put her career into jeopardy

If this went wrong, it wouldn’t be my career on the chopping block. I’d be “the bastard who should’ve known better,” sure—but she’d be the woman who proved every tired assumption right. That she slept her way up. That she couldn’t hack it without a man above her pulling strings.

So I kept my distance in public. Too careful. Too cold. I corrected her reports like I would anyone else, maybe harsher, just to make sure no one could say I went easy. I hated myself for it, hated the way her jaw tightened when I did it, the way she nodded and took it without complaint. She was tougher than they ever gave her credit for. That was the cruel irony—she didn’t need me to survive this place. She just needed it to stop trying to prove she didn’t belong.

What scared me most wasn’t getting caught.

It was the possibility that I’d be right.

That one bad call, one ugly ending, and everything she’d built would be reduced to a rumor whispered over bad coffee. That her name would be said with a smirk, not respect. That I’d get to keep mine.

So I played the tough love card, called her by her surname, called her out on the smallest fuck up

“Again,” I’d say, sliding the paperwork back. “You missed procedure.”

Her eyes would flick up, sharp, controlled. No pleading. No anger she couldn’t afford. Just that tight professionalism she wore like armor. “Yes, sir.”

God, I hated that word from her.

We went back out on the streets, she didn’t say anything as I drove, her jaw tight

We pulled up on a routine call—domestic noise complaint, nothing flashy.

Then we got an important call

“Unit Twelve, respond. Officer down. Shots fired. West Briar and Ninth.”

Everything in me went cold.

Her head snapped up at the same time mine did. No hesitation. No fear. Just focus.

“Copy,” I said, already hitting the lights. The siren wailed to life, the city blurring as I pushed the cruiser harder than I should’ve. My pulse roared in my ears, a thousand thoughts colliding—who, how bad, how fast can we get there—and threaded through all of it, the one I didn’t want to acknowledge:

This is where it goes wrong.

She was already checking her weapon, methodical, steady. Hands that didn’t shake. She caught me looking and didn’t soften, didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, like she always did. Like this was any other call.

“Vest?” I asked.

“On,” she said. Calm. Professional. That armor again.

We screeched to a stop two blocks out. Protocol said stage, wait for backup. Instinct said move. I weighed it for half a second—half a second too long.

She was already out of the car.

“Stay with me,” I snapped, sharper than I meant to, fear bleeding through the authority.

“I am with you,” she shot back, and there it was—steel under control. Not defiance. Truth.

The scene was chaos. A patrol car angled wrong, door open. Glass everywhere. Someone screaming from an apartment window above. Another officer crouched behind a dumpster, waving us in.

“Suspect barricaded, second floor,” he yelled. “Partner’s hit—alive, but bleeding bad.”

Every rule in the book lined up in my head, neat and useless. I looked at her. For one selfish, terrifying second, I wanted to tell her to stay back. To guard the perimeter. To do anything that kept her name out of the report if this went sideways.

She read it on my face.

“No fucking way, Cade”

I swallowed, forced myself to think like an officer, like her superior. Tactical first, emotions later. “Cover the stairwell,” I barked, pointing at the cracked hallway leading up. “I’ll breach.”

She moved without a word, fluid and precise. I watched her, this woman I wanted to protect more than I wanted anyone to know, disappear into the shadows with the confidence of someone who’d done this a hundred times