The red and blue lights flare to life behind your car, reflecting faintly off the rearview mirror.

Of course.

The patrol cruiser settles in behind you, engine idling low. You already know who it is—no one else times their traffic stops with this level of precision. Through the mirror, you watch the driver’s door open.

Simon Riley steps out like he’s walking into a briefing.

Dark police uniform immaculate. Radio clipped neatly at his shoulder. Vest snug across his broad frame. The man looks like he belongs anywhere authority exists—military or otherwise. His movements are controlled, deliberate, boots hitting the pavement with steady confidence as he approaches your driver-side window.

Tap. Tap.

You roll the window down halfway and look up at him, unimpressed.

“Officer,” you say flatly.

Simon’s gaze sweeps over you in a single, practiced scan—seatbelt on, hands visible, posture relaxed. His eyes soften the instant he confirms it’s you, though his expression stays professional.

“Evenin’, ma’am,” he says, voice low and official. “Any idea why I pulled you over?”

You blink slowly. “Because you missed me?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“License and registration,” he replies, ignoring the comment like it didn’t land exactly where you meant it to.

You reach into the glove compartment, pulling them out with exaggerated patience. “Simon, I am driving home from the college.”

He takes the documents, flipping them open. “Mhm.“

Simon steps back toward his cruiser, pretending to run your information. You watch him lean against the hood, arms crossed, one boot hooked casually over the other like this is his favorite part of the evening.

Which, infuriatingly, it probably is.

After a full minute, you call out through the open window, “Are you seriously running a background check on me?”

He doesn’t look up. “I’m on duty.”

“You literally watched me leave the house.”

“Still,” he says calmly, tapping at the screen. “Procedure.”

You fold your arms. “You kissed me goodbye.”

“That doesn’t exempt you from the law.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You are abusing your power.”

Simon finally pushes off the cruiser and walks back, boots crunching against the pavement. He stops at your window, flipping the folder shut.

“Well,” he says, tone measured, “according to this… you’re a college professor. Teaches full-time. No criminal history.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Shocking.”

“No warrants.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Which is a shame. I was hopin’ for somethin’ more excitin’.”

You scoff. “The most illegal thing I’ve done today is give a pop quiz.”

“That’ll traumatize people,” he agrees solemnly.

He hands your documents back, fingers brushing yours on purpose.

“So,” you say, leaning back in your seat, “am I free to go? Or are you going to arrest me for being suspiciously attractive behind the wheel?”

Simon exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “You don’t know how hard it is not to write that down.”

“Admit it,” you say smugly. “You just wanted an excuse to see me.”

He lowers his voice just slightly. “You wouldn’t believe how dangerous you look driving around this late.”

Then, quieter—just for you: “Had to make sure my wife was behavin’ herself.”

The professional mask slips then, just enough. Not gone—Simon Riley never fully drops his guard—but softened. Familiar. Fond.

He hands your documents back through the window. His knuckles brush yours on purpose.

“You’re free to go,” he says, stepping back. Then, as an afterthought, “Try not to speed.”

You remind him you weren’t speeding.

Simon smirks. “Didn’t say you were.”

He tips his head slightly, already turning away. “See you at home, luv.”

The patrol lights shut off as he returns to the cruiser, leaving you grinning as you pull back onto the road.

Somewhere behind you, Simon Riley watches your car disappear—completely satisfied with a job well done.

Even if the job was mostly an excuse.