Page 22 of The Shield
He looked past me then, the soldier move, checking the world. Sirens bled in from somewhere close. Shouts behind us. A man in a polo hanging onto the corner asked if we were crazy, which—fair. A woman was on her phone, telling someone to hurry, her voice rising and falling in a panicked rhythm that felt a shade removed, like a song through a wall.
Ethan held my purse out. I reached, and when my fingers closed over the damp leather, his knuckles grazed mine. A small, electric scrape. Ridiculous, the way my body lit for something so simple. The alley smelled like rain and gunshot and him—soap, heat, the kind of clean you earn.
“Thank you,” I said. It felt inadequate, like handing a man a sticker after he lifted a car off your chest.
He shrugged once. Not nothing. Not everything.
“You good?” he asked again, and this time the question had a bass line under it:do you need me to be more than this?
I did. Not in public, not with sirens wailing and a man unconscious at our feet. But inside my skin, everything leaned toward him like a field of grass pushed by wind.
Boots splashed at the mouth of the alley. Two officers in blue polos and rain slickers came fast, hands out and authoritative but not trigger-twitchy. One peeled off toward the gun. The other’s gaze went straight to the thief, quick assessment, then to Ethan, and then to me.
“Everybody all right?” he said, voice loud enough to carry and still strangely soft.
“Yes,” I said, and felt the absurd urge to apologize for the trouble. “He—” I glanced at the man on the ground. “He grabbed my bag. He ran. He had a weapon. This—” I swallowed. “Ethan ran him down.”
“We need EMS,” the other officer called, already on the radio. “One down, breathing, gun fired, no apparent strike.”
The first officer glanced at Ethan’s hands, at the thief’s jaw swelling. “Sir, I’m going to need your ID.”
Ethan didn’t argue. He reached slowly, everything about him measured, the heat coiled back under skin. He slid a wallet out, handed over his license. Rain freckled the plastic. The officer shielded it with his palm, looked, paused for a fraction that stretched, then looked again.
His shoulders changed—some internal hinge easing. He didn’t say the name. He didn’t have to. The recognition passed between him and his partner like an unspoken code.
As he handed the license back, his gaze flicked down to the tags half-hidden against Ethan’s chest, the chain darkened with rain. “Military?” he asked, voice carrying the neutral edge of a man who already knew the answer.
Ethan gave a single nod. “Yes, sir.”
That was enough. The officer’s mouth pressed into something like respect—or maybe caution—before he stepped back.
“Thank you,” the officer said, handing the ID back with a nod that felt … deferential. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
The shift was subtle, but it rang like a tuning fork in my bones. I knew that cadence. I’d grown up with it—the way men in uniforms softened when my granddaddy shook their hand, the way rooms rearranged when he walked in. But Ethan was new. He didn’t have a lobby of old affection to stand on.
He took the ID, sliding it away with the same unbothered calm he’d had after disarming a man with a gun. He didn’t preen. He didn’t flinch. He filed the data somewhere behind those stormwater eyes and returned to the moment.
“You want a statement,” he said, not asking.
“If you don’t mind,” the officer said. “Quick one.”
I gave mine first—efficient, clinical in the way I got when the stakes weren’t theoretical, when water or men were moving faster than common sense. Time stamped, direction, distance, the look of the gun, the way the alley turned under our feet, the angle of the shot high, no visible ricochet. The officer nodded, fingers moving like he couldn’t keep up with what I was giving him but appreciating the attempt.
Ethan’s statement was bare bones. “He took her purse. I ran. He pulled a gun. It went off. I disarmed him.” No embellishment. No hero story.
The paramedics arrived in a blush of flashing lights, rain hitting the roof of the ambulance like applause. They checked the thief, did their dance—neck brace, vitals, a quick, practiced roll. The gun went into an evidence bag. The alley filled and emptied in waves: a couple of bystanders, a man filming too close until the second officer suggested kindly that he might prefer the shelter of the café.
My heart knocked steady now, slow and heavy, as if my body had decided to pretend this was normal.
“All right,” the first officer said finally, tucking his pen away. He looked at Ethan one more time, the way a man looks at a familiar picture and can’t remember where he first saw it. “You’re good to go. Both of you.”
“That’s it?” I heard myself ask. It came out sharper than I meant. I wasn’t used to being dismissed gently when there were still pieces on the ground.
“We’ve got what we need,” he said, placating. “We’ll follow up if anything changes. Miss—” His eyes flicked to me, to my face, to the drenched dress and the way I was trying to hold myself together. “You okay for a ride? Want us to call someone?”
“I’m okay,” I said automatically, and only as the words left my mouth did I realize they were true.
They left us. The alley sighed. The rain softened to a steadier, quieter kind of insistence. We stood in the liminal space between catastrophe and whatever came next.
