Chapter Text
The dawn crept in reluctantly—thin, accusing fingers of light stabbing through the LAPD SWAT HQ’s grimy windows and laying bare the dust, the disrepair, and the ghosts. The squad room glowed a jaundiced gold that did nothing to soften its fatigue. Battered desks. Half-dead monitors. The faint, metallic hum of fluorescent bulbs overhead that buzzed like anxious bees.
Sergeant David “Deacon” Kay sat hunched over his desk, coffee cooling to sludge beside him, eyes webbed red from another night without sleep. His SWAT shirt clung damply to his skin, black fabric hiding the fresh brown stain near the collar from an earlier spill. Beneath the lean fortress of neglected case files, a half-buried stack of divorce papers curled at the corners—the legal autopsy of a marriage that had once seemed indestructible.
At work, he could still pretend. He could armor up in structure and procedure, lose himself in the calculus of tactics and control. But home—that stripped-down apartment he’d claimed after surrendering the family house—was a mausoleum of echoes. Crayon ghosts on the fridge. The phantom scent of shampoo and burnt waffles. A toy bin overflowing like grief that refused to stay boxed.
“Hey, Deac.”
Christina “Chris” Alonso’s voice slid through the drone of fluorescent hum—soft, precise, edged with that familiar note of concern she always disguised as teasing. She tossed her duffel onto the chair beside his with a muffled thud, the metallic whisper of magazines and gear marking her trade.
He looked up, dragging on his mask of stoicism—the old reliable shield. “Morning, Alonso.”
“Rough night?” she asked, tone balancing banter and empathy like a tightrope.
“Victoria had a fever at half past midnight. The other three launched a pancake rebellion by five. Divorce,” he said dryly, “is the ultimate cure for sleep and nutrition.”
Her lips curved, a spark flickering in her eyes. “You know, I could lend my tactical babysitting expertise—expert in hostage negotiations and crayon strike avoidance.”
He shot her a glance—half amused, half dangerously warm. “You volunteering for the front line? That’s a bold move.”
The Case
By noon, the air in HQ grew charged, that thick electricity before a storm. They were kitting up for a narcotics raid in Boyle Heights—simple on paper, predictably messy in practice.
Sergeant II Dan “Hondo” Harrelson’s briefing cut through the chatter, sharp as a scalpel. Officer Dominique Luca cracked jokes about suspects with more bad decisions than tattoos, his grin easing the collective tension. Yet Deacon’s focus kept splintering—caught between the phantom echo of his daughter’s fevered cry over the phone and the fleeting brush of Chris’s fingers as she tightened the strap on his plate carrier, her touch lingering a fraction too long.
The van reeked of gun oil and adrenaline—Kevlar sweat and metal tang mixing into the familiar perfume of operations. Officer Jim Street caught Chris’s gaze on Deacon and lifted an eyebrow, smirking. She rolled her eyes.
“Shut it, Street.”
“Who, me?” he murmured, all false innocence.
Then the breach.
Gunfire tore the calm to shreds.
Drywall exploded into powder clouds. Bullets screamed. The room bloomed with chaos—flashes, percussion, plaster snow. Deacon lunged, shoving Chris hard into the corner, shielding her with his body. “Down!” he barked, voice cutting through the roar like a thunderclap.
She crouched, heart in her throat, eyes fixed on him—his controlled ferocity, the economy of motion. He was a storm moving through wreckage, unflinching, precise, impossibly calm. And it stirred something in her—something not tactical, not professional, but raw, animal, undeniable.
When the last round fell silent, the air was thick with gunsmoke and grit. Two suspects down, one restrained and cursing. Sirens wailed in the distance like restless spirits.
Chris appeared at his side, scanning for blood. “You solid?”
He glanced at her, hand grazing her shoulder—intentional this time. “Yeah. You?”
“Yeah,” she said, though her pulse said otherwise.
He smiled—exhausted, faint, real. “One fracture at a time.”
After Hours
The parking lot slept under a single trembling floodlight, throwing long shadows across empty asphalt. The rest of the team had gone. Deacon leaned against the armored truck, its steel cool beneath the bruise of his shoulder.
Chris pressed a chilled bottle of Gatorade into his hand. “Hydrate, sergeant.”
He turned it absently, condensation running down his fingers like sweat. “Annie’s still got the kids in San Diego,” he said finally, voice gravel-rough. “Says it’s easier that way. Less whiplash.” A humorless chuckle. “Maybe she’s right. Doesn’t make it hurt less. Didn’t think I’d be starting over at the half-way point in my life.”
“You know, I think maybe starting over doesn’t have to be bad,” Chris said softly. “I think it shows survival—with a side of hope.”
He looked at her, the night coiling tight around them. In the flicker of that dying light, she saw the cracks in his armor—the longing, the restraint, the danger of being seen.
“I think about a lot of things I shouldn’t,” he said. “Like how your concern’s starting to feel less like backup and more like a lifeline.”
The air between them vibrated—live wire, ready to burn.
Later
Chris tossed in her sheets, haunted by the aftertaste of smoke and the ghost of his touch. Adrenaline, she told herself. Just adrenaline. But the lie tasted like gunpowder.
Across town, Deacon sat in his dark kitchen, the hum of the fridge his only companion. The door was plastered with crayon art—stick-figure families smiling from another life. His phone glowed with photos of what was gone: Annie’s sun-soaked grin, the kids mid-laughter. He thumbed the screen, then dropped it like a hot coal.
“Don’t start a fire you can’t put out,” he muttered into the silence.
But the spark had already caught.
The alarm shrieked at 0500, ripping through the silence like a grenade in a church. Deacon rolled over with a groan that came from somewhere deep in his spine — a protest, not just from his body, but from his soul. Three hours of sleep clung to him like smoke after a burn. Not enough. Nowhere near enough.
His apartment was steeped in the thick, lived-in chaos of single fatherhood. Burnt toast lingered acrid in the air, mingling with the soft, powdery scent of baby shampoo that wafted out from the bathroom. Coffee — bitter, scorched, and too strong — brewed like a lifeline in the corner. The smell was salvation and surrender, all at once.
Four kids. Four gravitational centers pulling him in different directions. One man, one half-buttoned shirt, and one sock that refused to find its twin.
“Dad! Lila took my Pop-Tart!”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
He didn’t answer right away. Just pressed a calloused palm into his face, dragging it down over the coarse rasp of his salt-and-pepper beard. It scratched harsh and bristly, a reminder of how long it had been since he’d last stood still long enough for a trim.
“Lila, share. Matthew, use your indoor voice — for once in your life. Sam, pants. Now. You’re not a jungle creature.”
The coffee maker gave a final death rattle, hacking out its last drop just as he spotted his badge — gleaming dully beneath a sticky puddle of grape juice. Of course.
Sunlight hadn't even broken fully across the skyline, and already Deacon felt like he’d been run over by a garbage truck. Tactical exhaustion — not from breaching doors, but from negotiating sibling warfare and breakfast logistics.
By the time he corralled them all into the SUV — an aging tank with a cracked taillight and the unmistakable scent of childhood ground into every surface — he was mentally inventorying the day ahead: court appearances, warrant briefings, maybe a felony arrest before lunch. All on a frayed thread of patience and caffeine.
He dropped off Victoria at preschool — her blonde curls still damp, her tiny backpack oversized on her back — and then Lila, Matthew, and Samuel at their school. The goodbye was all noise and hugs and faces pressed to windows.
“Love you, Daddy!” Lila called, her voice trailing like music behind him.
“Love you more,” he replied, and it wasn’t just a routine. It was truth. The kind that made your chest ache in the best and worst ways.
Then he just sat there for a while — parked in silence, hands gripping the steering wheel like it might anchor him — eyes closed against the weight pressing down on his ribs.
SWAT Headquarters — 0730
The bullpen was alive, electric with the kind of nervous energy only cops and adrenaline junkies understood. It smelled of gun oil, sweat, and day-old energy drinks. Luca and Street were deep in debate over protein powders — again. Officer Victor Tan was sharpening a knife that didn’t need sharpening, blade catching slivers of fluorescent light. Chris perched casually on the edge of a desk, tugging her laces tight with clinical precision.
Deacon arrived late. Unusual. Almost unheard of.
He moved like someone held together by duct tape and obligation — not broken, but dangerously close to frayed.
“Morning, Deac,” Chris greeted, eyes immediately reading the story in the sag of his shoulders, the bruised smudges under his eyes. “Rough night?”
He dropped his go-bag onto the floor with a dull thunk. “Define rough.” His voice was dry as sandpaper. “Victoria was up all night screaming. Lila had a meltdown about a stuffed pig. Annie decided 12 a.m. was the right time to FaceTime about custody. And I think the dog ate a crayon.”
Chris’s laugh was gentle, not mocking. “You look good for a man running a daycare and a war zone simultaneously.”
He huffed out a tired chuckle. “They don’t cover snack distribution in SWAT training.”
She tossed him a granola bar. “Breakfast of champions.”
He caught it without looking. Muscle memory. The same reflex he used in raids, now applied to survival via oats and sugar.
“Thanks, Chris.”
There was something sacred in the banter — the rhythm they’d built over years of breaching doors and covering each other’s blind spots. In a life where everything else had gone sideways, that trust remained.
The Callout — 0900
The radio crackled.
“Armed robbery in progress. Corner of Olympic and Flower.”
“20-David, roll out,” came Hondo’s voice.
The SWAT van roared to life — all steel and horsepower, a sanctuary of purpose. Inside, the world narrowed. No kids. No custody battles. Just the mission.
Gunmetal tang lingered in the air. Gear shifted. Velcro ripped. Breaths slowed. Minds focused.
Chris sat across from Deacon, weapon in hand, eyes scanning him. He was staring past her, not seeing her.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Earth to Deac.”
He blinked. Came back. “Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About the op?”
He hesitated. “About... everything.”
But the moment was gone before it began. The van jolted to a halt, slamming them into the now. No room for introspection behind the barrel of a gun.
They spilled out — black-clad shadows moving with silent, calculated precision. Kevlar creaked. Boots hit pavement. Comms lit up.
“Two suspects, front and rear,” Deacon directed, voice clear and sharp, slicing through the chaos. “Take flank left, Alonso.”
“Copy.”
They moved like a single organism — clearing glass, weaving through the sharp keening of the alarm.
When the second suspect burst from behind the counter, Chris didn’t hesitate. Two rounds. Center mass. Clinical. Controlled.
The body crumpled. Blood bloomed across white tile. The smell of copper joined the acrid sting of discharged rounds.
“Clear,” she whispered, breath catching slightly.
Deacon scanned the space. Face unreadable. The years had taught him to keep everything compartmentalized — grief, joy, terror, loss. But Chris caught it. Just a flicker. A tremor beneath the still surface.
Loneliness, maybe.
Or maybe relief that at least here, in this violent simplicity, things made sense.
Aftermath
Back at HQ, the adrenaline had faded into something like bone-deep weariness. The post-op calm always felt like falling — not fast, just inevitable.
Chris watched him peel off his vest. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, outlining the taut lines of a man stretched too thin. He winced slightly as he rolled his shoulders, the tension of the day — of the year — refusing to let go.
“You okay?” she asked, quiet, careful.
He didn’t answer right away. Then, finally: “Yeah. Just… getting used to being the guy who goes home to silence.”
There was no easy answer to that. No tactical response. So she reached out, placed a steady hand on his arm — not for reassurance, but as a quiet, physical reminder: I see you.
“You’re not alone in this,” she said.
He looked at her, and something in him softened. Just for a second. Just long enough to let the exhaustion crack.
“Thanks, Chris,” he said. His smile was crooked, weary, real.
Later That Night
The apartment was dark, save for the flickering blue light of a cartoon rerun playing on loop — some show the kids loved. He’d left it on. Noise helped stave off the emptiness.
He sat in the silence, scrolling through photos on his phone.
The kids on the beach. Samuel and Victoria mid-giggle, sand stuck to their cheeks. Lila holding Matthew’s hand. Annie smiling, arm wrapped around his waist like she used to belong there.
Maybe she still did. Or maybe he just hadn’t figured out how to let go.
His chest ached — a quiet, dull pain like an old injury flaring up in the cold.
He set the phone down. Leaned back. Closed his eyes.
And for a single, fragile moment, he thought of Chris. Her voice, steady in the storm. You’re not alone in this.
He didn’t know what that meant yet.
But he knew it mattered.
Saturday had no right to feel this warm.
Los Angeles sunlight poured over the apartment complex like something greedy—unfiltered and unrelenting, bouncing off the beige stucco walls and glaring off the hood of Deacon’s SUV, which had long since lost its shine. The smell of overcooked charcoal and city dust hung in the air like a challenge.
Deacon stood in front of the rusting grill on the patio, skewering hot dogs with one hand and shielding his eyes with the other. Sweat prickled along his spine beneath a faded black T-shirt, his badge for once nowhere in sight. The grill hissed with every drop of juice that hit the flame, smoke rising in frustrated plumes that carried more regret than mesquite.
“Dad! It’s on fire again!” Lila yelled from behind the screen door.
“Relax, Lila—it’s controlled fire,” he called back, tong in one hand like a weapon of defense.
“That’s not controlled, Daddy! Those are literally flames!”
He muttered a quiet prayer—mostly for patience—and slammed the lid down before the neighbors called in a false alarm.
This was supposed to be normal. A weekend cookout. A “Dad’s still got this” moment. A tactical move in a personal war he hadn’t realized he was losing—trying to prove to his kids that he was more than the tired man who came home each night with gunpowder in his hair and the weight of other people’s blood on his boots.
He’d told the team to swing by any time after three. It wasn’t even two-thirty when Chris Alonso knocked on the gate.
Arrival
She wore jeans and a Dodgers tee, her chin-length hair down in loose strands that framed her face without effort. Sunglasses were pushed up on her head, and in her hands she carried a bowl covered in foil like she hadn’t just walked out of a war zone less than twenty-four hours ago.
“Grillmaster Kay,” she said, stepping onto the concrete slab that passed for a patio. “Trying to smoke us out before we eat?”
He gave her a dry look. “Mock the process again and I’m putting you on corn duty.”
“This isn’t process, Deac. This is arson with side dishes.”
But she smiled—one of those small, tilted smiles that landed square in his chest and stayed there.
Without being asked, she slipped into the rhythm of the backyard chaos. One minute, she was flipping burgers with effortless precision. The next, she was pouring juice for Victoria, laughing as Lila recited her entire soccer schedule without stopping for breath.
By the time Luca arrived carrying a cooler and Street came trailing behind with ginger ale disguised in brown bags, the grill smoke had faded into something closer to laughter. The music from inside the apartment floated out in half-muffled beats, and the air smelled like salt, ketchup, and summer trying its best to forgive them all.
For a while, it felt easy.
That was the most dangerous part.
Interlude: The Calm Before
Dusk softened the edges of the world. The sun melted behind the neighboring buildings, and Chris’s fairy lights—her idea, of course—cast warm halos across the patio. Inside, the kids were collapsed in a pile of pillows and limbs, glued to a Disney movie. Popcorn littered the floor like confetti after a parade.
Most of the team had said their goodbyes, the casual kind that hid fatigue and bruises under smiles and handshakes. Now it was just the two of them again, moving quietly around the battlefield of empty paper plates and abandoned juice boxes.
“Thanks for coming,” Deacon said, his voice lower now—softer, almost unsure.
Chris didn’t look up right away. “Didn’t come for the food,” she said, gathering cups into a plastic bag.
“No?”
“You needed help.” She turned then, eyes catching his. “That’s all the reason I need.”
He studied her for a moment. “You showed up early.”
“Guess I’m just a sucker for chaos,” she said, but there was no sarcasm in it. Just honesty, plain and sharp.
Deacon laughed, rough and tired. “That makes two of us.”
They fell into silence, but it wasn’t awkward. Just... full. The kind of silence that sits between two people who know each other’s shadows.
Then she reached past him for the tongs, and her hand brushed his. Warm. Intentional or not, it stopped them both.
The Moment
The contact lasted less than a breath—but something shifted.
The night tilted slightly, and the air between them thickened like rain was about to fall.
Chris’s gaze lifted to his—uncertain, searching, open in a way that made Deacon’s chest tighten. Not from lust. Not from guilt. But from that quiet, terrifying ache that came from recognizing something you’d spent years convincing yourself you couldn’t have.
“This is a bad idea,” he said, voice ragged at the edges.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Probably.”
Neither of them moved.
Then, from inside, Lila laughed—loud and pure—and the moment shattered like thin glass.
Chris blinked. Pulled her hand back. Turned toward the table and started stacking plates again with sudden, deliberate efficiency.
“See you Monday, Sarge,” she said. Her voice was level, her hands steady.
And she walked down the narrow side path toward her truck, the click of her boots fading into the quiet hum of the neighborhood.
Nightfall
Later, when the kids were finally in bed—each of them passed out in a different configuration of tangled sheets and stuffed animals—Deacon stepped back outside alone.
The grill was cold now, the metal hissing softly with memory. The fairy lights buzzed overhead, casting halos that made the shadows deeper, not lighter.
He sat in the patio chair, legs stretched out, arms crossed tight over his chest like he could hold himself together with pressure alone.
He could still feel it—the ghost of her fingers against his.
She’d touched him a thousand times before. In the field. In the van. In moments of violence and chaos. But that? That wasn’t tactical.
He didn’t know what it was.
Inside, his phone buzzed against the table.
Chris: Thanks for today. You’re a good dad.
He stared at it for a moment. Typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.
Deacon: Couldn’t have done it without you.
The screen dimmed, but he didn’t move.
Somewhere behind his ribs, something shifted. A quiet understanding. A truth he didn’t want to name yet.
He leaned his head back, eyes closed, listening to the electric hum of the city and the whisper of his own breath in the dark.
And in the quietest voice, barely more than thought, he said to the night:
“What the hell are we doing, Alonso?”
The first rumor bloomed in the locker room like mold—quiet, humid, and persistent.
Street was half-reclined against a bank of lockers, his boots muddy, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. He flipped a protein bar from palm to palm like a coin he hadn’t decided whether to spend.
“So, Alonso,” he drawled, too casual to be harmless. “How’s Sergeant Dad these days? Word is you’ve been spending a lot of off-duty hours making sure his grill doesn’t explode.”
Chris didn’t look up. She was bent over, tying her boots with calm precision. But the silence between her tugs was sharp enough to cut.
“You got a death wish, Street?” she said without inflection.
Luca winced as he opened his locker, the hinges screeching. “Don’t poke the bear, man. Especially not before she’s caffeinated.”
Street grinned, unrepentant. “Hey, I’m just saying—some of us noticed you were the last one to leave the Kay family cookout. Kinda late for burgers.”
Chris yanked the knot on her boot like she meant to sever something more than laces. “Maybe because I was too busy cleaning up after you passed out in Deacon’s lawn chair, lightweight.”
“Damn,” Luca whistled. “Okay, that’s a fair hit.”
The laughter that followed was carefree, but it rang hollow in her ears—just enough edge to it. Just enough implication.
Chris stood slowly, her gaze flicking across the room like a scan for threats. She felt it then: the air had shifted. The easy rhythm of team camaraderie suddenly had a hitch. She’d stepped into something unseen and dangerous.
And she hated that she cared.
The Warning
Hondo’s office was dim, blinds half-closed, the light cutting his desk into uneven stripes of shadow and sun. He didn’t stand when she entered. Just leaned back, arms folded, expression unreadable.
“Close the door, Chris.”
That voice—low, deliberate, not angry but serious—had been carved from years of command. And it never meant anything good.
She shut the door. “What’s going on?”
“There’s talk.”
“About what?”
He met her gaze. No judgment. No accusation. Just the weight of truth laid bare.
“You and Deacon. People are saying you’re close.”
Chris’s mouth went dry. “Close how?”
“You know how. Closer than teammates. Closer than friends.”
She inhaled sharply through her nose, forcing the tightness in her chest to stay put. “We’ve always had each other’s backs.”
“I know that. And I trust both of you. But this unit—we don’t work unless the team trusts each other, too. If there’s even a hint of personal lines being blurred, it shakes everything.”
“We’ve always kept it professional.”
Hondo watched her carefully. “I’m not doubting your integrity, Chris. I’m saying perception matters. And if it starts affecting field judgment... I won’t have a choice. I’ll step in. I need to know you hear me. We clear?”
Her jaw clenched. “Crystal.”
Collision
She stepped out of the office and found Deacon already standing there.
Coffee in one hand. Silence in the other.
He didn’t need to ask.
“Hondo?” he said quietly.
Chris gave a curt nod. “Apparently, we’re the precinct’s new favorite soap opera.”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Knew this would happen eventually.”
“Knew what would happen? We haven’t even done anything.”
“Exactly,” Deacon said, eyes flicking toward the others down the hall. “And they’re already circling like vultures.”
Chris looked away. She didn’t like the way that made her feel—exposed. She hadn’t broken any rules. Not yet. But the ache she carried for him was getting harder to camouflage.
The Takedown
The warrant was routine, at least on paper. Suspected arms runners. Storage yard near Vernon. Intel was solid. Setup was clean.
But Deacon’s voice was sharper than usual over comms—every word tight as a trigger pull.
“Move left—Tan, cover high—Chris, take flank.”
They breached with precision, cutting through the rusted chain-link and sweeping the perimeter. The inside of the warehouse was all echo and dust, the air thick with grease and cold metal.
Then one suspect panicked and bolted out the rear exit.
“Chris, I’ve got him!” Deacon called out, already moving.
“Deac—wait—!”
Too late.
He disappeared around the corner just as the suspect turned, gun drawn, eyes wild.
The shot cracked like bone splitting.
Deacon tackled the guy mid-step, and they crashed into a pile of pallets. The bullet missed Chris’s face by inches—she felt the air tear past her skin.
“Shots fired!” she shouted, voice shaking. “Suspect down—officer secure—no injuries!”
She reached him first—knees slamming into the ground, hands fumbling for damage. “You okay? Are you—Jesus, Deac, what the hell were you thinking?”
He coughed, half-laughed. “I’m fine. Just winded.”
“Fine?” Her palms were still on his vest, rising and falling with his breath. “You almost got yourself killed.”
Tan and Hondo arrived seconds later, weapons drawn. But they both slowed when they saw her crouched over him like she couldn’t let go. Her body still blocking his.
In the smoke and silence, something settled over the scene—a realization they weren’t saying out loud yet.
This wasn’t just partnership.
The Fallout
Back at HQ, the walls felt closer than usual.
Chris filed her report like she was loading ammo—mechanical, exact, hands shaking only when no one was looking. She could feel the glances—sidelong, subtle—but cutting all the same.
Deacon tried to speak to her near the lockers. She brushed past him.
When the others had gone and the bullpen was quiet, she finally turned.
“That could’ve gone really bad today,” she said, voice tight.
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“No. That’s not it.” She laughed bitterly. “The problem isn’t that it almost went bad. The problem is I care that it almost did.”
Deacon stepped closer, face lined with exhaustion. “You think I don’t? You think watching that bullet fly past you didn’t scare the hell out of me?”
Chris’s eyes flashed. “We can’t do this. We can’t even want this.”
He didn’t back down. “But we do.”
The space between them throbbed like a bruise. And neither of them reached for the ice.
Late Shift
The locker room buzzed faintly with the hum of a dying fluorescent light. Deacon sat on the bench alone, helmet beside him, elbows braced on his knees. He stared at the floor like it might offer answers he hadn’t been able to pray for.
He’d been trained for split-second decisions under fire. For life-and-death calls under pressure.
But this?
This wasn’t tactical. This was something slower. Deeper. It curled in his chest like smoke.
He’d risked too much today—not just in the field. But in the way he looked at her. In the way he let the world see what he was still trying to deny.
And the truth scraped its way into the silence:
He wasn’t afraid to die.
He was afraid she’d be the one left standing.
And he didn’t know how to live with that either.