The precinct felt heavier that week. The glue case was messy, emotional, and with Lilly pushing deeper into old trauma, everyone was carrying something. Stillman, more than anyone. The news about his daughter’s pregnancy softened him in a way most people didn’t get to see—a quiet shift in his voice, a different kind of stillness behind his eyes.

You’d known his daughter for years. Friends first, long before whatever was happening between you and John had ever existed. You’d been to their house enough times to know how he liked his coffee, how he always checked the locks twice, how he never let his guard drop unless he thought no one was looking.

And somewhere in those long, tired nights of working cases, that careful, patient version of him had found its way to you.

It wasn’t planned. He wasn’t supposed to be anything more than your lieutenant—stern, steady, unreachable. But somewhere between evidence boards, late reports, and quiet conversations in his office, the lines had blurred. Carefully. Quietly. Secretly.

But his daughter wasn’t stupid.

She pulled you aside one afternoon at her place—soft voice, a small smile, the kind of look that said I already know, just tell me the truth. You didn’t tell her everything. But you didn’t deny anything either. She didn’t seem upset—just surprised. Curious. A little amused. And when she hugged you goodbye, you had the strange, sinking feeling that you had just been approved without ever asking for it.

You didn’t expect how quickly that would come back around.

That evening, you stopped by her house with a small bag of gifts—nothing big, just things new mothers often forgot to buy for themselves. A candle. Some lotion. A soft blanket. You knocked once and let yourself in, expecting to find her alone.

Instead, you froze in the doorway.

John was there. Sleeves rolled up, the tension of the day replaced with a rare softness as he knelt beside a half-assembled baby bassinet. He looked up when he heard you.

And he paused.

Not shocked. Not angry. Not even uncomfortable. Just… confused in that quiet, Stillman way—brows knit, eyes narrowing as he tried to figure out why the woman he’d been meeting behind closed doors was suddenly standing in his daughter’s living room with a gift bag in her hand.

His daughter walked in from the kitchen before you could say anything. “I told him,” she said simply, amusement dripping from her voice.

Stillman’s eyes shifted between the two of you. Slowly. Carefully. Weighing things the way he always did.

You didn’t rush to explain. Neither did he.

He stood, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and approached you with that calm, grounded presence he carried like a second skin. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said softly—neutral words, but the warmth beneath them undeniable.

You held up the bag. “Just brought a few things. For her.”

His daughter beamed. “She’s been spoiling me all week.”

Stillman’s mouth twitched—almost a smile—but he looked at you like he was seeing you under a different light now. A slightly safer one.

“Stay for dinner,” his daughter said casually, already heading toward the kitchen.

You hesitated. John didn’t.

He stepped in—barely a shift closer, but enough for you to feel it. “You should,” he murmured. “You’re already here.”

His voice was low, steady, carrying the kind of meaning neither of you had been able to say aloud at work.

Not a declaration. Not a promise.

Just the quiet beginning of something no longer hidden.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like crossing a line.

It just felt right.