I’m a cop. A detective, specifically. It’s what I’m good at. I get assigned a case, I solve it, end of story. I don’t have much space for relationships, or the patience for them. I go to the bar, drink, then I come home to Arlo and drop onto my mattress unceremoniously. But that's a side of me she'll never know. The one-night-stands, the drinking, the women. She will never know that part of me, as long as I can help it. It's not like I'm an alcoholic, I just needed a way to fill the time. I was a different person than I am now; aa person who was ashamed of her queerness and the insecurity that meant she couldn't keep a relationship.

As long as I'm alive and kicking, I want to make sure that the side that brings her flowers once a week and can stay the night without sex is the side she known. I know she can fend for herself and doesn't need it, but she deserves every last drop of softness I can provide. She's bigger than I am, but I can make myself scary enough that she'll never have to fend off a creepy guy at a bar again. I'm still learning, but she's good to me. She is patient with me, and is learning how to treat me the same way I'm learning to treat her. She's a cop, too. We met because she broke a record of mine- most felony arrests from a female detective yearly. She beat my record, and only continues to beat her own record.

I sit next to her in her bed, propped up in the pillows, watching her instead of the movie that’s playing. She’s in her pyjamas, playing with my puppy, Arlo. He’s a yellow Lab and the sweetest thing you’ll ever meet, but he doesn’t know how big he’s getting. She doesn’t mind- she loves animals. Maybe that’s why she loves me. The last time I made that joke, she got mad and said I was more than that. My eyes occasionally flick back to the screen so I can keep up with what’s going on I’m case she wants to talk about it, but I spend most of my time watching her. She’s more interesting than the movie anyway.

I love her. I love her smile, and her body, and the way she says me name. I love how she says it when she’s angry, or when she’s happy. I love the way she snores quietly while she sleeps, and how she drags me to her nail appointments. There is not a scar on her skin, a freckle, a birthmark, that I have not kissed. I love her dimples, and the way she laughs, and how she’s always up for a coffee date. She snuggles into the warm mess of the covers, holding the furry mess that is my dog.