It starts with a form.

Specifically: Departmental Disclosure of Interpersonal Relationships – LAPD Form 417-D.

Tim reads it like it’s a bomb manual. She reads it like it’s a Cosmo quiz.

“Relationship status?” he mutters, pen hovering.

She leans in. “You gonna check something or stare at it until it fills itself in?”

He glares. “None of these fit.”

There are six options: • Married • Domestic Partnership • Dating • Engaged • Divorced • Other (explain)

They both look at Other like it personally insulted their badge numbers.

“We’re not dating,” he says. “That’s… too casual.”

“And we’re not married,” she replies. “Yet we’ve filed joint taxes and share a Costco card.”

A beat.

“Domestic partnership?” she tries, skeptical.

Tim grimaces. “I mean… we also argued about whether or not to buy the organic toilet paper.”

Later…

Her living room. It’s 11 p.m. A spreadsheet looms.

Scrawled across the top: WHAT THE HELL ARE WE

Bullet points: • Tactical partners w/ fringe benefits • Emotionally exclusive cohabitants • Functionally married but nobody said it out loud • Situationally engaged • Codependent gym buddies

He’s pacing in uniform. She’s sitting cross-legged in his hoodie with a laptop open and a legal pad in her lap.

“I swear to God,” she mutters, scrolling. “There’s a quiz for everything except us.”

“Do we need a quiz?” he says. “We know what this is.”

“Do we?”

He frowns. Which, for Tim, is like yelling.

⸻

Much… MUCH later

She gasps.

“Oh my God.”

Tim doesn’t even look up from the Keurig. “What now.”

“According to California law, we’re common law married.”

He pauses mid-pour.

“That’s not real.”

“It is real! Look—cohabitation, shared finances, intent to be married—”

She gestures at the living room. “We have a dog, Tim. And a laundry schedule. We’ve picked out throw pillows together.”

He stares. Long beat. “…So do roommates.”

She throws a pen at him. “Roommates don’t file medical directives, Tim.”

He shrugs. “I got shot. You panicked.”

“You made me your emergency contact!”

“You’re organized.”

She just growls and collapses onto the couch, muttering about emotional repression and male fragility.

⸻

Who even knows what time it is now?

She’s half-asleep with her head in his lap. The spreadsheet now includes: • Legally unclear • Emotionally undeniable • Too exhausted to unpack this

He’s gently rubbing her back with one hand, staring at the form like it might bite.

“You realize we’re probably gonna be written up for insubordination by semantics, right?” she mumbles.

“Let them try,” he says. “Grey already calls you my wife.”

“…wait, he what?”

“Yeah. ‘Where’s your wife?’ ‘Tell your wife she still owes me that chili recipe.’ I didn’t correct him.”

“Tim.”

“I didn’t disagree either.”

She sighs, eyes fluttering shut.

“We’re a nightmare.”

“But logistically effective,” he says softly, checking the box that reads:

Other – Functionally Married, Emotionally Evasive, Logistically Committed.

⸻

Next morning.

Grey flips through the form without blinking.

“Took you long enough.”

“What?” they both ask, stunned.

“There was a bracket. You lost me twenty bucks.”