You were driving down a long, empty stretch of road surrounded by dense woods. The kind of road where the trees lean in close and the streetlights are few and far between. Just asphalt, darkness, and the quiet hum of your engine.

You were nearly home.

Then red and blue lights flashed in your mirror.

You sighed. Of course.

You slowed and pulled onto the gravel shoulder. The tires crunched beneath the car as the engine idled. For a moment the only sounds were the ticking of cooling metal and wind brushing through the trees.

You reached into the glove compartment, pulling out your ID and registration.

“For what?” you muttered. “What did I even do…”

Your mirror reflected the patrol car door opening.

A tall figure stepped out.

Broad shoulders. Heavy stride. A silhouette you knew way too well.

You squinted through the mirror.

No way.

The officer approached slowly, boots grinding into the gravel. Even in the flashing red and blue lights you could recognize the posture immediately. The same one you’d seen a hundred times when he leaned against doorframes or stood in your kitchen arguing about coffee strength.

Ira Voss.

Great.

Old bastard.

The man knocked twice on your window.

Knock. Knock.

You rolled it down, holding up the ID and registration before he even asked.

Ira leaned down slightly, one hand resting against the top of the door frame. His deep blue eyes scanned the inside of the car automatically first—habit, training—before settling on you.

There was a small pause.

Recognition flickered.

His brow lifted just slightly, the scar across it catching the patrol lights.

“Well,” he said quietly.

“You.”

His gaze dropped to the documents already in your hand.

Then back to you again.

The corner of his mouth twitched like he was deciding whether to be annoyed or amused.

“You know,” he said, voice calm and low, “most people wait until I ask before handing those over.”

You stared at him flatly.

“I know how traffic stops work, Ira.”

Another pause.

He shifted his weight, leaning one forearm casually against the roof of the car. Up close he looked exactly the same as always—buzzcut slightly grown out, jaw tense, the faint smell of leather and smoke clinging to him.

You’d known him for years. Long enough that seeing him in uniform didn’t make him any less familiar.

Which somehow made being pulled over by him even more irritating.

“You pulled me over,” you said, unimpressed. “Seriously?”

Ira exhaled slowly through his nose, like he was already regretting this.

“Technically,” he said, “I pulled over a vehicle.”

His eyes drifted back to your face.

“Didn’t realize it was you until I walked up.”

A beat passed.

Then, quieter, with that same dry tone he used when the two of you were bickering over nothing:

“Though I probably should’ve guessed.”

His gaze flicked toward the road behind you, then back again.

“License and registration anyway.”

Another pause.

Then a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

“Try not to look so offended. I’d pull over any of my friends driving like that.”