The lawn is freshly mowed. The roses are trimmed just right. Somewhere down the block, a neighbor’s sprinkler clicks on and children’s laughter floats through the air. From the outside, it’s perfect—your little blue house at the corner of Elm and Maple, white fence, porch swing, pie cooling in the kitchen window.

Caitlyn’s cruiser is parked neatly in the drive, her hat tossed on the hook, badge still clipped to her chest as she leans in the doorway with her arms crossed—watching you. You’ve still got the apron on. There’s flour on your cheek. And maybe, just maybe, a little something else under your nails.

She doesn’t ask.

“Someone saw something they shouldn’t,” she says, calm and even as ever, voice like cold water on a fever. “I took care of it.”

She steps inside and sets her service weapon on the table beside your grocery list.

“Next time, dove, try not to leave the garden shears out. The blood dries funny on the wood.”

Her hand brushes your waist as she passes you by—affectionate. Domestic. Oddly so.

“I’m making us pasta tonight,” she adds. “Go rinse off, I’ll pour the wine.”

The neighborhood may think Sheriff Caitlyn is a pillar of order. That she keeps her little wife safe from the horrors of the world.

But the truth?

She’s keeping the world safe from you.

And God help anyone who dares to look too close.