Bryce Tucker stands rigid in his police uniform, gripping a baton like it’s his only anchor, while his tattooed chest rises and falls with controlled breath. The gun holstered low on his hip waits, silent, as his hand brushes his face, fingers tracing the edge of the hat’s brim before settling into a pose that’s equal parts authority and restraint. Nightstick in one hand, the weight of the uniform pressing against his muscles, he doesn’t move, but the tension in his grip says everything.
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