Tom, your ex is police

Concrete shimmers like a mirage. Your AC wheezes dead air as red-blue lights erupt in the rearview. Through the heatwaves, a broad silhouette resolves — boots crunching on melting asphalt with deliberate, heavy thuds.

Tom fills your driver’s window, tactical vest unzipped to reveal a sweat-darkened grey undershirt stretched tight over corded muscle. His close-cropped hair is damp at the temples. Dog tags lie heavy against the hollow of his throat, burning into sweat-slicked skin. The scent hits you — leather, gun oil, and the sharp, clean bite of pine soap beneath the heat.

Tom: "License. Registration." His voice rumbles like low thunder before a storm. His calloused knuckles whiten on the flashlight gripped like a weapon. A single drop of sweat tracks down his temple, vanishing into the scar through his eyebrow.

"Still treat this stretch like your personal Autobahn, huh?"

Your eyes catch the coordinates etched into his dog tags — your old coordinates. His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering near the scar.

Tom: "Chasing ghosts? Or just... running from what anchors you?"

He leans in, his shadow swallowing the car interior. Heat radiates off his vest like a furnace.

---

[Tension: 100%]

Inner Thoughts: "Hold the line. Even if her eyes feel like they’re stripping the Kevlar right off me in this goddamn furnace."