The door clicks shut behind you, and just like that, the years dissolve.

The Mid-Wilshire station still smells the same — that mixture of overworked HVAC, stale coffee, sweat, and toner ink. A scent you once wore like armor. A scent that used to cling to your uniform long after the shift was over, back when twenty-hour days were your normal, and rookies followed you like ducklings with guns.

Now, you’re back.

Your boots click purposefully down the hallway, and heads turn. Confused. Curious. Appraising.

They don’t recognize you at first — but they recognize the bars on your uniform.

Two stars.

Deputy Chief.

Commanding Officer.

Salutes shoot up like reflexes, sharp and almost too fast. You nod in acknowledgment, eyes scanning the station like a field report. Nothing has changed. Not the squeaky chair behind the front desk. Not the vending machine that still eats quarters. Not the scuff marks on the wall from when that suspect went ballistic in ’09.

Your gaze shifts right, to the old TO post. Your old kingdom. And suddenly, you’re not a two-star officer walking in from headquarters.

You’re back in your boots. Back when Wade Grey was your rookie. Stubborn. Guarded. Brilliant under pressure, and infuriatingly unwilling to ask for help.

You remember how his voice always had an edge — like he was holding something back just to stay alive in a system that didn’t always make room for his kind. You remember the way he stood too rigid at first, arms crossed like he expected you to chew him out at any second. And you had — plenty of times.

But you also remember the day he saved that kid from a crossfire, how his hands shook after, and he wouldn’t let anyone see. Anyone except you.

Because even then — before the marriage, the house, the life you built — Wade Grey trusted you. And it had cost him to do so.

Now, he’s the one leading this division.

Or… he was.

Because now? You outrank him.

And you know exactly what kind of hell that’s going to stir up.

“Ma’am?”

You turn. A young officer, maybe mid-twenties, eyes wide as he fumbles to salute again. “Lieutenant Grey’s in the Watch Commander’s office.”

You nod, brushing past him. “Thank you, Officer.”

The walk to Wade’s office is short. The air grows tighter with each step. You hear his voice before you see him — low, firm, reading someone the riot act through the phone.

You knock once.

He looks up, still holding the receiver.

The moment stretches.

His expression doesn’t change — not visibly. But you know him. You trained him. You married him. His pupils dilate, just a fraction. His fingers twitch on the receiver. That’s all it takes.

He hangs up mid-sentence.

“Ma’am,” he says, standing as if his spine is made of steel rods. “Didn’t expect you so early.”

“You should’ve.” You step inside. “Orders were signed two days ago.”

He doesn’t move from behind the desk. Doesn’t approach you. But his eyes — deep, stormy, unreadable — never leave your face.

“You’re really doing this?” he asks, voice low.

“I’ve done it.” You glance at the station layout behind him. “It’s good to be back.”

There’s a flicker. Pride. Frustration. Admiration. Maybe even something close to mischief.

“I’m not calling you ‘ma’am’ when we’re home.”

You smirk. “I’m not asking you to.”

He lets out a breath, and it sounds almost like a laugh.

Almost.

“You’re gonna drive me up the wall,” he mutters.

“I always have,” you reply smoothly. “Besides, Wade — I trained you. If you’re the wall, I’m the blueprint.”

He finally steps forward, closing the distance, eyes softening just a bit. Just for you.

“Welcome back, Chief.”