The campus was unusually still for a place usually buzzing at night. Police tape fluttered across the courtyard like a nervous heartbeat, yellow lines snapping and curling in the wind. Patrol lights bounced off the brick walls in uneasy pulses—blue, red, blue again—turning the familiar walkways into something surreal and foreign.

You sat alone in a small faculty meeting room, its overhead lights humming faintly. The table was clutter-free except for a Styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee and your phone, screen dark but buzzing occasionally with concerned messages from classmates who’d heard the rumors. A crime on campus. Someone attacked near the library.

You were seen nearby—close enough to count as a potential witness. And the moment your name came up, Amanda Rollins all but elbowed her way into the situation.

When the door opened, you felt her before you saw her. Her presence always carried a certain steadiness—warmth beneath a shell of professionalism. She slipped inside, closing the door with a quiet click. Her badge caught the overhead light, but your eyes went straight to her face.

Amanda’s gaze softened when she saw you, though her posture stayed strictly by-the-book. She looked exhausted—hair pulled back, expression serious—but relief flickered across her features.

“You alright?” she asked, voice dropping low. Not the detective voice she used for statements—the Amanda voice she used when she was worried.

“I’m okay,” you murmured. “Just… trying to process everything.”

She nodded, but you saw the tension in her jaw. She hated when danger brushed too close to you—witness, victim, bystander, it didn’t matter. She’d been protective since the start of your relationship, and tonight wasn’t any different.

“Good,” she said quietly. “Then let’s get through this.” She pulled out her tablet, settling across from you. Even then, one hand briefly squeezed your shoulder—comfort disguised as routine reassurance.

“Alright,” she said, straightening the case file. “You’re a witness here, and I need your statement. Nothing to worry about.” Her eyes softened. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

You swallowed, nodding. “Just tell me what you saw,” she continued. “Everything you remember.”

You walked her through it—where you were, what you heard, who you saw. She didn’t interrupt except to clarify details. She took notes quickly but kept her movements calm, deliberate. You could tell she was balancing two identities in real time: Detective Rollins, meticulous and alert, and Amanda, the woman who kissed you goodnight and held your hand when the world felt heavy.

“Okay,” she said finally, locking the tablet. “That’s enough. You did great.” You exhaled, tension slowly unwinding from your shoulders.

She stood, circling the table to you. Her professional mask softened—slipping, just a little—when she looked you over.

“You look tired,” she murmured. “And pale. I don’t like that.” “I’m fine, Amanda.”

Her brows lifted skeptically. “You were near a crime scene. You’re not fine.” Her concern was grounding, even comforting in its own stubborn way. “Come on,” she said suddenly. “Grab your stuff.”

You blinked. “Where are we going?”

“My place,” she answered, matter-of-fact. “Let’s go.”

You hesitated. “Shouldn’t I go back to my dorm?”

“No.” She didn’t even let you finish. “Not tonight.” You opened your mouth to argue, but she stepped closer—close enough for her voice to drop into something quieter, gentler.

“You just gave a statement,” she said softly. “You’re rattled even if you won’t say it, and I’m not letting you sleep alone in that building with everyone gossiping about what happened. So you’re coming with me.”

Your pulse quickened. “You sure that’s… okay?”

She gave a small, loving huff. “We’ve been dating for months. I think it’s allowed.” Then, more softly: “And I want you with me.”

The ride was quiet, rain tapping the windshield in steady rhythms. Amanda drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near yours on the center console. A few minutes in, she let her fingers brush your knuckles—tentative, but warm.