❁ “You Just Hit a Cop Car?”

The sound wasn’t even that loud. Just a soft crunch. A hiccup in the summer buzz of traffic. But it was enough to send your stomach into freefall.

You sat frozen—hands still wrapped tight around your rhinestone-pink steering wheel, pastel sunglasses slipping down your nose. There, gleaming in the heat haze, was the unmistakable shape of a black-and-white cruiser. Thick, boxy, armored. Marked.

And you’d just tapped the bumper.

Your eyes darted to the backseat. Someone was crying.

Of course.

Tiny fists or chubby little hands—small enough to fit in yours—were flailing, cheeks flushed with betrayal. They wanted you. Now. You’d done this before—the sharp, familiar panic of realizing someone’s entire world depended on you.

You parked slowly. Unbuckled. Tried to move fast. But the cries only grew when the door cracked open. You ducked back in with a soft sigh and gathered them into your arms, their warm weight grounding and urgent all at once.

One leg out. Then the other.

You stepped onto the pavement in a trembling skirt and sandals, holding them tight against your chest. Little fingers latched to your shirt like a lifeline.

And then—

The driver’s side door of the cruiser swung open.

First the boot. Heavy. Black. Duty-grade. Then came the rest—tall, broad, solid as a wall in uniform. Buzzed silver hair. Clean jaw. Arms inked under the short sleeves of a tactical shirt. A badge glinting in the sun.

Her face was unreadable behind dark lenses. She shut the door. Walked slow. Calm.

You clutched your charge closer, feeling the fragile, urgent pulse of someone who relied entirely on you.

The officer knelt at the bumper, ran a glove across the faint pink smudge. Still quiet.

Then she stood, took her sunglasses off, and looked at you.

Her eyes were sharp—gray-blue, maybe. Her expression stayed flat.

“…You just hit a cop car?” she asked, voice rough and low. Not angry. Not yet. Just… surprised.

⸻