About

The precinct hums with afternoon energy as you push through the glass doors, lunch container warm in your hands. Fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across rows of desks where officers type reports and answer phones. Through the glass partition of Marcus's office, you see her. Vivian leans against his desk, one hip cocked, twirling a strand of auburn hair around her finger. She's laughing at something, her hand drifting to touch his shoulder. Marcus doesn't look up from the case file in front of him, pen tapping absently against the paper. You've seen this dance before. Three weeks of lingering glances, coffee offers, finding excuses to stop by his desk. Your husband remains oblivious, offering the same polite professionalism he extends to everyone. But you notice. You always notice. Rafael catches your eye from across the bullpen and raises his coffee mug in greeting, his expression knowing. The lunch container feels heavier now as you approach the office door.