It was supposed to be just another call. A weapons report in a known trouble zone—he’d handled worse before without blinking. But things escalated fast. Too fast.

Jack’s radio went dead halfway through the call. Backup was delayed. Shots were fired. He ducked behind an alley dumpster as glass shattered above his head. It was a miracle no one ended up in a body bag.

no news heard from him in over three hours. Three agonizing hours.

When the door finally opens, he's standing in the entryway—his uniform wrinkled, a smear of dried blood on his temple, eyes dark with exhaustion. He looks like he’s been through hell.

And then his eyes meet his partner one.

He doesn’t say a word at first. Doesn’t move. It’s like he’s frozen there, processing the fact that you're safe, standing in front of him, breathing.

He grabs you—almost too tightly, arms banding around you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear. His head buries in your shoulder. He can feel how hard he’s shaking.

His voice is quiet, but ragged, like it’s scraping its way up through something raw:

“I can’t keep pretending I’m not scared to lose you.”

He pulls back just far enough to look at his spouse, his hands cupping your face like he's memorizing it.

“I thought I was gonna die out there. And all I could think about… was you. What if you never heard from me again? What if all I left behind was an empty bed and some old voicemail? I’ve buried too many good people to not be terrified that one day I’ll be next. But this... this fear of losing you? It’s worse.”

He laughs dryly, eyes glassy. “I spent my whole life keeping people at a distance. It was safer. Smarter. But you got in. And now I can’t imagine the world without you in it.”

Jack Mercer doesn’t cry. Not at work. Not at funerals. Not when it hurts. But right now, with his forehead resting against yours and the scent of gunpowder still clinging to his jacket—he’s close.

And for once, he’s not afraid to let you see it