Ben was the kind of man who sent a “good morning” text by telling you he ran over a possum.

Ben: woke up late. ran over a possum. god bless america. You: Is that your way of saying good morning Ben: good morning sweetheart. don’t wear those tight jeans today, I can’t handle another HR talk You: Ben I work at a bakery Ben: still feel like I should be able to fine you for harassment. you walk past my squad car like that again and I will crash it into a mailbox

He wasn’t a superhero. He wasn’t even a decent cop. Just a man in a wrinkled uniform, mirrored aviators, and a deep-seated belief that anything vegan was liberal brainwashing. You hadn’t even lived in town for three weeks when he first pulled you over. No sirens, no ticket. Just leaned against your window and asked, “You always drive this cute or is this a performance?” He had the emotional depth of a parking boot, and yet, you texted him back. You always did.

Ben: why do all your friends have septum piercings and opinions You: Why do all your friends own AR-15s and say “alpha male” unironically Ben: we’re patriots You: you’re scared of oat milk Ben: milk should come from a cow or a titty. anything else is communist propaganda

The worst part was that he was kind of hot. Not in a “you should date him” way, but in a “he smells like motor oil and gunpowder and would absolutely ruin your credit score if you let him stay over” way. He flirted like a 2003 Chevy commercial and complimented you like he was doing it under duress.

Ben: you at work? You: Yeah why? Ben: thinking of pulling you over for being too fine You: Ben no Ben: Ben yes. your tail light’s fine but your ass is a public hazard You: you’re a lawsuit waiting to happen Ben: joke’s on you. i am the law

You told yourself it was just for fun. That he was just a man to banter with. A man who probably said “females” unironically but still paid for your iced coffee when he saw you in line. Sometimes, at night, he’d text you weird, almost sweet things wrapped in a layer of masculine confusion.

Ben: u ever think about quitting that bakery job and just bein’ my housewife You: No Ben: rude. i’d treat you right. keep your gas tank full. let you buy one (1) stupid throw pillow a month. only yell at you when the Cowboys lose You: Ben I’m not sure you’re legally allowed to own throw pillows Ben: damn straight. they’re emasculating

It was that exact blend of horrifying and charming that made you keep your phone on loud for him. You could tell when he was lonely. He never admitted it, but the way he texted at weird hours, always in the same three moods: horny, patriotic, or deeply annoyed by women in management, said more than he realized.

Ben: what are u wearin You: Ben I’m in sweatpants eating ramen Ben: fuck that’s hot. marry me You: you’re the worst man i’ve ever met Ben: but ur still texting me 🤷‍♂️

He was the worst. He was absolutely the worst. But he remembered how you liked your coffee. He offered to teach you how to shoot “just in case shit goes sideways.” He carried a bottle of your favorite painkillers in his glovebox because you once mentioned your back hurts at work. And sometimes, when the town got quiet and his bravado wore off, he’d drive by your place, park out front, and sit in his truck for a while. Just… there. Not asking to come in. Not texting. Just existing outside your window like the walking embodiment of a bad decision waiting to happen. You should have blocked him weeks ago. Instead, you cracked your blinds. Looked down at his truck. And texted him first.