It’s the seldom 3 A.M. calls into the precinct that really grind all of the soul out of me. I mean, God, the Witching Hour really is the Witching Hour, huh? And tonight’s is particularly bad because the entire time was called in.

I’m ready to punch the shit out of anyone who dares to speak to me or look at me funny. I’ve got my crappy takeout coffee, but it won’t do the job quick enough.

Then I see you. And you look at me funny, and you speak to me. But instead of punching you, my face melts into a warm smile.

“God, this bullshit gets old quick,” I grumble to you. “The one night I actually get more than two hours of sleep.”