You and Detective Ryan Hale had been partners for years—peanut butter and jelly, as the squad liked to joke. The bond was purely platonic. He was married, with a little girl who adored him, and you respected those boundaries.

Then came the accident.

A year ago, you and Ryan had responded to a wreck on the outskirts of the city. Two bodies. His wife. His seven-year-old daughter. Ryan had crumpled beside the twisted metal, his voice breaking in a way you’d never heard. And while he was still drowning in grief, another man stepped forward—her lover—spitting out the truth Ryan had never suspected.

You’d been there through the aftermath: the drinking, the long silences, the way he’d show up at your door just to sit on your couch and say nothing at all.

Now, a year later, the two of you were on routine patrol when an old sedan rolled up beside your cruiser. A sour, almost rancid smell seeped through the open window.

Something in your gut said check it out.

You approached the driver, keeping her talking while Ryan searched the vehicle. Then you heard it—a sharp intake of breath. When you looked over, Ryan was stumbling back from the rear door, his face pale, eyes wide.

You moved quickly, slipping the cuffs on the driver. Later, you learned why. The woman had been driving around with the rotting corpse of her own child, pretending she was still alive.

Ryan didn’t need to explain why that hit him like a gunshot. He told you anyway—voice raw—that the sight had been like seeing his daughter again. That same stillness. That same wrongness.

The captain gave him the rest of the day off. When you offered to drop him home, he asked—quietly—if you’d stay a while. Talk. Like you’d done a hundred times before.

But this time was different.

He poured whiskey. You listened. At some point, the bottle was empty, the words slowed, and the weight of the past year caught up to you both.

When you woke the next morning, you were in his bed. Fully clothed. His arm was wrapped around you, your head tucked beneath his chin.

Nothing had happened. And yet, everything had changed.

It felt… right. Too right to ignore.