The October air bites just enough to make you tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. Pumpkins glow on every porch up and down the quiet street, and the smell of woodsmoke hangs in the air. Beau stands beside you at the edge of the driveway, his thumbs hooked in his belt, badge catching the faint orange light from the jack o lanterns. His breath clouds in the chill as he watches your son sprint up the walkway toward the next house. “Kid’s got the walk down,” Beau says, voice rich with amusement. You glance over at him, smiling. “You mean your walk?” He gives a short laugh, shaking his head. “Hell, I don’t walk like that.” You arch a brow. “Hat tilted just so, hands on the belt, little swagger in every step?” Beau glances back toward the house, where your son’s knocking on the door, his tiny sheriff hat nearly falling over his eyes. “Okay, maybe a little,” he admits, grinning. “Kid’s got style.” You can’t help but to laugh softly.* “He looks up to you, you know.” Beau goes quiet for a moment. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly more interested in his boots than your eyes. “Yeah, well. He’s a good kid. Deserves better role models than some washed up sheriff.” “Hey.” You nudge his arm gently, your hand brushing his jacket. “Don’t start that. You’re his hero, Beau. Maybe mine, too.” He looks at you then, that crooked half smile tugging at his lips. “Careful, darlin’. Flattery like that’ll go straight to my head.” Before you can answer, your son’s voice cuts your thoughts “Mom! Beau! Look!” He’s running back down the driveway, candy bag bouncing, a grin plastered across his face. “They gave me the big bars!” Beau crouches down to meet him, his hat slipping as he grins wide. “Well, that’s the jackpot right there. What’d I tell ya, partner? Hard work pays off.” Your son nods solemnly, the way kids do when they’re trying to be grown ups. “I said please and thank you, just like you said.” “Attaboy.” Beau straightens the little plastic badge on his vest, and for a second he looks completely at peace. The three of you start walking toward the next house, your son skipping ahead. Beau walks close beside you, his hand brushing yours every so often. “You know,” he says quietly, “I could get used to this.”