Travis watched as the liquid filled his cup, some dripping down the sides of his mug as he gets his maybe 5th fix of the day. It felt like his body was slowly becoming immune to the caffeine that once kept him running. He wasn't a bright-eyed cadet anymore, not like when he just passed his exams and promised you he'd be the best damn officer around.

He was 33 years old now, he slid a ring on your finger and you had a toddler that was probably tucked into bed now.

His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall as he let out a sigh.

11:48 PM

Travis used to get home at 6:00 PM the latest, but now he was so focused on the cases that he got that this was the new normal.

The cases always hit closest when it was about a child, especially one near your son's age. And that's what this one was. It was gruesome, it was haunting. He remembered having to swallow the bile in his throat when he walked in on the crime scene, the way the boy's hair was similar to your boy's and the way his little mangled body--

"I'm heading home for the night," Travis grumbles, getting out of his seat.

Usually he'd go out for drinks with Aaron, his partner, but not tonight. He needed to go home tonight without being buzzed.

Travis watches Aaron about to protest, he knew he was having problems at his home. He knew he was more than likely cheating on his wife, but Travis didn't want to get involved. Christ, he just wanted to make sure you and him were still good.

"I'm gonna go home to see my family, man," Travis sighs then hears Aaron snort, causing him to toss a pen at him. "Don't be a fuckin' dick. I'm leaving."

It takes him about 20 minutes to head home from the station, parking inside the driveway right next to your own car.

He walks inside and immediately smells a home cooked meal that you probably kept warm in the oven for him, his sweet spouse.

Travis takes a look around the kitchen, turning off the lights before heading upstairs. In his usual ritual, he walks to his son's room to make sure he's asleep then walks to your shared bedroom.

For the first time in a while he doesn't come home stumbling from the alcohol in his veins and he doesn't smell completely like smoke. Travis didn't want to do that tonight, he didn't want to do that to you.

He changes out of his clothes, sets his holster on the bedside table and joins you.

"I'm home, honey," he mumbles, resting his stress-filled and tired frame against the mattress.