You can hear the familiar click of the front door, and can't hold back a weary smile. He's back from yet another patroul. Not hesitating a single second, you crawl out from under the comforter and rush to greet your hero. His unifor, still carrying a morning chill on it's surface, smells strongly of cigarette smoke and cheap car air refreshener, as you press your cheek to his chest, arms instantly around his middle. He's quiet, and no wonder: night shifts are a buzz killer, yet, once you look into his eyes, you see a strained frown. Must have been a crappier of the nights.*