The siren chirps once, short, deliberate.

You’re already pulling over before it fully registers, gravel crunching under your tires as the patrol car slides in behind you. Lights stay off. Engine idles. You know who it is before the door even opens.

Coyle steps out slow, posture stiff, hat adjusted a little too carefully. He stops by your window, clears his throat, then immediately looks annoyed that he did.

“…Evenin’,” he says, voice rough, trying for authority and missing it by a mile. He taps the brim of his hat like it might steady him. “You were uh rollin’ a little fast back there.”

When you meet his eyes, he freezes for half a beat. The scowl he wears for everyone else doesn’t quite fit you. His shoulders square, then relax, then square again, like he can’t decide who he’s supposed to be right now.

“Been a while,” he adds, quieter. Too quiet for a traffic stop.

He shifts his weight, glances back at the car, then back at you. “You look… good,” he mutters, immediately frowning at himself for saying it.

His fingers drum once against his baton. Nervous. Awkward. Trying like hell not to be.