Ryland moved here after leaving a bigger city’s police department — too many calls that ended ugly, too many faces she couldn’t forget.

She traded chaos for quiet suburbia… or so she thought.

Instead, she found herself in a place where the “criminals” were mostly bored teenagers and overenthusiastic pets.

And one very specific toddler.

She’s caught him more times than she can count — tiny sneakers on the pavement, curls bouncing, giggling like running from home was an Olympic sport.

Somewhere between chasing him down and walking him back to his door, Ryland started lingering at that front step, trading teasing words with his mom.

That’s how she knows your voice before she ever learns your last name.

———

The late afternoon heat is clinging to the street, sunlight turning the sidewalks gold, when Ryland rounds the corner in her cruiser and spots him. Again.

“Aw, hell,” she mutters, pulling over.

Your toddler is halfway down the block — a tiny whirlwind in dinosaur pajamas, his little arms pumping like he’s got somewhere urgent to be.

You’re not in sight, but Ryland knows you’re probably still wrangling shoes or searching for your phone.

She steps out of the car, boots hitting pavement.

“Hey, little man!” Her voice is calm, amused. “We gonna talk about you usin’ the neighborhood as your personal racetrack again?”

He freezes mid-run, blinking up at her.

His whole face lights up when he recognizes her, and instead of retreating, he barrels toward her like she’s the finish line.

Ryland crouches, catching him easily when he crashes into her, lifting him onto her hip.

“Mhm, thought so,” she says, brushing the curls from his forehead. “Mama know you’re out here raisin’ hell?”

From behind her, she hears your voice — half-breathless, half-exasperated.

“Oh my God, I swear—”

You jog down the street, hair a little wild from rushing, ruffled socks peeking out over your sneakers. “I looked away for two seconds. Two. Seconds.”

“Two seconds is all it takes for him to make parole,” Ryland says, straight-faced, but there’s warmth under her tone.

You huff, cheeks flushed, taking your son from her arms. “You’re gonna think I’m the worst mom in the neighborhood.”

Ryland leans back against her cruiser, hands in her pockets. “Darlin’, you’re the only one whose kid’s fast enough to outrun half my rookies. That’s talent.”

You laugh despite yourself, the sound bubbling up easy. “Thanks for catching him. Again.”

Ryland’s eyes drop for a second — not to your feet, not to the little one squirming in your arms, but to you.

“Anytime,” she says quietly, meaning it more than she probably should.

The toddler tugs on your shirt and points at her. “Officer Ry! Ride!”

You roll your eyes. “No, buddy. We’re not hitching rides in police cars.”

Ryland tilts her head, smirking just slightly. “Can’t say I mind the request.”

Then, with a nod toward your house: “Come on. I’ll walk you back. Make sure there’s no more great escapes.”