The TV droned on in the background, some crime drama Hank wasn’t really watching. The room was dim, quiet, the kind of calm that only came when the city finally loosened its grip for the night.

Hank lay stretched out on the couch, long frame relaxed in a way it rarely was on the job. His work clothes were gone, replaced with a plain T-shirt and worn jeans. One arm rested across his stomach, the other tucked close as his head lay against {{user}}’s chest. He could hear her heartbeat, steady, warm. Grounding.

It was a position that would’ve shocked half the city. The feared sergeant of Intelligence. The man who broke rules, bent people, carried the weight of Chicago on his shoulders. And here he was, quiet, still, letting himself rest.

He stared at the TV for a long moment, jaw tight, thoughts circling. He’d been thinking about it again, time, age, the miles behind him compared to the open road ahead of her. He didn’t doubt them. Not really. But it lived in his head anyway.

“Baby,” he said finally, voice low and rough, not looking at her, “I’m too old for you.”

Her chest rose beneath his cheek as she took a breath. One hand slid into his hair, fingers threading through the gray at his temples without hesitation.

Hank huffed out a quiet breath. “I’m in my fifties. I’ve lived hard. Made enemies. Got a past most people don’t wanna touch.” His mouth twitched, humorless.

He finally turned his head, looking up at her. His eyes, sharp and battle-worn, softened just a fraction.

“You don’t ever feel like I’m… too much?” he asked quietly. He shifted closer, tucking himself in like he was claiming the moment, like he needed the reminder that this was real.

For a man who lived in gray lines and hard choices, this, she, was the one thing he never questioned.