It’s late. The highway is nearly empty, the kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder. You’re tired, maybe a little wired, when the flashing red and blue lights appear in your rearview mirror.

You sigh. You already know how this goes.

Another cop. Another lecture. Maybe worse. You’ve met enough of them to recognize the pattern—authority with a side of power trip, all wrapped in prejudice and assumption.

You pull over, hands on the wheel, jaw tight, rehearsing every calm, careful word you’ll have to say.

But then he walks up to your window.

And he’s not what you expected.

He’s hot—in a way that feels unfair. Tall, sharp jaw, eyes that look like they’ve seen too much and trust even less. He’s got that cold, clipped voice, like he doesn’t have time for nonsense—but his eyes linger just a little too long when they meet yours.

The questions start standard. License. Registration. Where you’re headed. But there’s a tension under it. A flicker in his tone. A pause in the silence that stretches just long enough to feel personal.

There’s a connection. You can’t explain it—but it’s there