The town was small. Too small. Everyone knew you, knew your job, and they never let you forget it. A walk to the grocery store was enough to hear whispers. A stop at the diner meant catching the waitress’s pitying glance. It was humiliating, but you swallowed it, because you had to.

Still, Colin was different. He never laughed, never judged, never treated you like you were less. Maybe that was why you found yourself at the police station that night, clutching a paper bag with a sandwich and a soda inside. It was stupid, probably, but you knew he’d been working late, and you wanted him to eat.

When you pushed open the door, a couple of officers looked up, smirking in that way that made your stomach twist. But Colin was at his desk, pen in hand, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked tired, eyes ringed with shadows. You walked over quietly and set the bag down in front of him.

“I thought you might be hungry,” you said softly.

He froze, his jaw tightening. His eyes darted to the bag, then to you. And then something in him snapped.

“Jesus Christ—what the hell are you doing here?” Colin hissed, leaning closer so the whole room wouldn’t hear. His voice was low but edged with anger. “You can’t just show up like this. Do you know what people are already saying? You think this helps me? You think this helps you?”

The sharpness of his words hit harder than you expected, heat rushing to your face. You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, pushing the bag back toward you like it burned.

“Don’t come here again,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes. “Not like this.”