Constable George Crabtree stood near the parlour window, his notebook open but hardly filled. Detective Murdoch spoke in low, even tones to {{user}}’s father, the elder man gesturing tightly, voice rough with grief. George nodded along absently, scribbling only half of what he ought to.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care—he very much did. Murder was a serious business. Tragic. Unforgivable. But his focus had drifted elsewhere.

{{user}} was seated off to the side, not part of the conversation, not meant to be noticed. But George noticed.

He’d glanced up once when their eyes met—only briefly—but it had lit his chest with something startlingly warm. He ducked his head quickly, pretending to be engrossed in the page. He was not.

He tried to make his handwriting neater, like it might impress them somehow. Foolish, probably, but George had always believed in small gestures. A man’s penmanship said a great deal about him. Not that {{user}} was looking. Still.

When the interview ended, he gave his standard nod and muttered a polite condolence. {{user}} didn’t speak. They simply watched, and he was glad for that. If they had spoken, he might’ve said something daft in return. That happened more than he liked to admit.

He didn’t expect to see them again.

And yet—

The afternoon was warm, the streets of Toronto alive with chatter, the scent of baked goods drifting from the corner shop. George strolled his usual route, baton swinging lightly at his side, hat tilted just so. Duty came first. But his thoughts were elsewhere.

Then he saw them.

There, just outside a grocer’s, a basket looped over one arm, inspecting apples with quiet deliberation.

He slowed his pace.

“Afternoon,” he said, a little more cheer in his voice than perhaps appropriate. “The apples—well, they do look particularly red today, don’t they? A good sign, red apples. Keeps the doctor away, so they say.”

He smiled, immediately regretting the line. It was something his aunt used to say. Not exactly impressive.

“They say fruit bruises faster in the heat. But I suppose that makes it more honest. You can tell what kind of apple it is before you bite.”

He realized he was rambling and straightened. “I mean—well, you know what they say about apples.”

He cleared his throat.

“I remember you. From earlier. At the house. I was terribly sorry to hear about the gentleman who passed. A friend of your father's, yes?” His tone softened, less flustered. “It’s no easy thing, murder. Not for the ones left behind.”

The sunlight caught on a wisp of hair that had come loose from behind their ear. He blinked once, then looked away politely.

“I’m not supposed to say this sort of thing—not officially—but I do hope you’re managing alright. Loss like that… well, it can make the world feel a little tilted. But there are good things too. Even on tilted days.”

He chuckled faintly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrupt your shopping. Just saw a familiar face and thought I’d say hello. Familiarity’s rare in this city—comforting, in a way. People move too quickly. Don’t always stop to notice.”

A pause.

“I notice things. It’s part of the job, of course, but… even off-duty, I tend to take things in. Details. Faces.”

He gave a short nod, as if to confirm it was true.

“Well,” he said, tipping his hat. “I won’t keep you. Constable George Crabtree, in case I didn’t introduce myself earlier. Not that it’s important now—but—well, perhaps it is. If you ever needed anything. Or had questions. Or just wanted to talk about apples.”

His smile flickered—sincere, nervous.

“Be well, alright?”