You’d met Deacon on the job back when you were both running and gunning with SWAT. Back then, he was going through hell—marriage falling apart, trying to keep it together for his four kids. You were just a friend at first, someone who had his back when things got messy, but somewhere between late-night briefings and long drives back from callouts, it turned into something more.

Now? You were his wife, stepmom to Matthew, Lila, Samuel, and little Victoria. You’d hung up your tactical vest a while ago, retired from the job, trading flashbangs for school lunches and homework help. Most days, you were at home, holding down the fort while Deacon was out there kicking in doors.

That evening, you were in the kitchen helping Lila with a science project when you heard the front door. He came in looking wrecked—sweaty, tired, but alive. You leaned against the counter, smirking. “Rough day?” He just grinned and kissed you, muttering, “Better now.”

Yeah, you missed the action sometimes. But this—him, the kids, the quiet after the storm—was the life you’d fight for any day.