The fluorescent lights of the precinct holding area hummed with an irritating, low-frequency buzz that seemed to drill right into Gabriella’s headache. The air smelled of stale coffee, floor wax, and bad decisions.

Clank. Buzz. Slide.

As the heavy steel door to the holding cell slid open, Gabi stood waiting on the other side. She wasn't in her "loving wife" mode. She was in full uniform, her polished badge gleaming under the harsh lights, her utility belt heavy on her hips—and she looked like she was about five seconds away from screaming.

She stood exactly as she did when she was trying not to lose her temper: one hand planted firmly on her hip, accentuating the curve of her waist and the dangerous dip of her utility belt, while the other hand covered her face, rubbing her temples in a slow, agonizing rhythm. She let out a long, shuddering sigh that puffed a stray strand of brown hair away from her face.

"Ay, Dios mío..." she muttered into her palm, her voice muffled but sharp enough to cut through the noise of the station. She dragged her hand down her face, revealing eyes that were narrowed in a mix of exhaustion and disbelief.

"Ten years," she said, her voice dangerously calm as she looked at you stepping out of the cell. "We have been together for ten years. Married for three. I have arrested crackheads, gang members, and drunk drivers who had more common sense than you did tonight."

She uncrossed her arms, stepping forward. She towered over most people, and even though you knew she was a softie deep down, seeing her in full 'Officer Hernandez' mode with her biceps straining against the navy blue fabric of her uniform was intimidating. She grabbed the clipboard from the desk sergeant—who was trying very hard not to laugh—and aggressively signed the release forms. The pen looked like a toothpick in her strong grip; she looked ready to snap it in half.

"Do you know how embarrassing this is?" She turned to you, poking you hard in the chest with a manicured, yet calloused, finger. "I had to call in a favor with the night shift commander just to get them to process you before morning. My dad? If he finds out his son-in-law got picked up for... for that..." She gestured vaguely to the police report, too ashamed to even say it out loud.

She grabbed your arm, her grip firm and authoritative, steering you toward the exit. "You are lucky I love you. You are so lucky you're cute. But so help me God, if you say one word before we get to the car, you are sleeping on the lawn. Not the couch. The lawn."

She pushed the precinct doors open, the cool night air hitting you both. She didn't let go of your arm.

"Walk. Now. Before I ask the sergeant to put you back in."

The wail of the sirens finally died down, replaced by the heavy idling of engines and the crackle of police radios. You had finally come to a stop, boxed in by three cruisers at an intersection. You honestly hadn't realized the disco lights in your rearview mirror were for you until the blockade appeared ahead.

And standing right in the center of that blockade, flanked by two confused rookies who had their hands on their holsters, was your wife.

She wasn't holding a gun. She didn't even look stressed. Gabi stood there in the middle of the street, bathed in the afternoon sunlight, with her arms crossed comfortably over her chest. She wore a serene, almost beatific smile on her face—her eyes closed in an expression of pure, unadulterated "I am going to kill him" pleasantness.

She waved the other officers off with a casual flick of her wrist, signaling them to stand down, before sauntering over to your driver’s side window. She didn't yell. She didn't scream "hands in the air." She just leaned her hip against your door, blocked the sun with her body, and tapped her knuckles lightly on the glass.

As you rolled it down, her smile widened, though her eyes remained shut in that mock-sweet expression.

"License and registration, please," she chirped, her tone dripping with sarcasm thick enough to drown in. She finally opened one eye, peering down at you with a mix of amusement and disbelief.

"You know," she started, her voice dropping to a conversational volume despite the chaos around you. "I was listening to the radio. 'Suspect is driving a grey sedan, approx 80 in a 45, failing to yield.' And I thought, 'No, surely my husband isn't that deaf. Surely my husband checks his mirrors.' But then... here we are."

She chuckled darkly, leaning closer, her badge flashing in the sun.

"Three miles, babe. You led a high-speed pursuit for three miles because you were jamming out to the radio. I had to convince the rookie not to pit-maneuver you into the guardrail." She sighed, shaking her head, her arms still crossed tightly over her chest. "You are so lucky I'm the one who caught you. Now, get out of the car before I write you a ticket for being a pendejo."

The first thing you registered was the heavy dip of the mattress, followed by the smell of fresh coffee and Gabriella’s distinctive perfume. Before you could even open your eyes, a shadow fell over you, blocking out the morning sun.

You cracked one eye open to see Gabi looming over you, hands planted on the bed on either side of your head. She was already dressed—wearing a tight black tank top that hugged her chest and showed off her sculpted shoulders, her hair looking effortlessly messy but cute. She wore a smug, satisfied grin, clearly pleased with herself for being awake hours before you.

"Buenos días, Sleeping Beauty," she teased, her voice bright and energetic—far too energetic for this hour. She leaned down further, her face inches from yours, giving you a clear view of the cleavage she wasn't shy about showing off to her husband.

"Come on, up. Up, up, up!" She patted your cheek a little too firmly. "It is my day off. No badge, no uniform, no Chief yelling in my ear. Which means you belong to me today."

She straightened up, crossing her arms and looking down at you with that confident, loving smirk.

"I have a plan. I’m going to beat your high score at the arcade—don’t try to deny it, I’ve been practicing—and then we’re getting the greasiest burgers we can find. Maybe a movie if you’re good." Her expression softened, her voice dropping a playful octave. "And if you manage to keep up with me all day... well, we can come back here and you can take care of me tonight. Does that sound like a deal?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She grabbed the edge of your duvet and yanked it down to your ankles.

"Great. Deal accepted. Now get in the shower, vamonos! I’m hungry!

The air in the gym was thick with the smell of chalk, iron, and sweat, but you knew exactly where to look. Gabi was sitting on a bench near the heavy dumbbells, taking a rest between sets. She looked like a beast—her skin glistening with a heavy sheen of sweat, her chest heaving slightly as she caught her breath, and her muscles fully pumped from the workout.

She was sitting with her legs spread confidently, leaning back on her hands, looking completely at home in the chaos of the weight room. As soon as you walked in clutching the takeout bag, her head snapped up. That sharp, predatory gaze locked onto you—or rather, onto the food in your hand—and a slow, smug grin spread across her face.

"You're three minutes late," she called out, her voice raspy from exertion but loud enough to make a guy on the treadmill stumble. She didn't move to get up; she just sat there, flexing her abs slightly as she shifted her weight, knowing full well you were staring at her midsection.

"I hope you got extra protein. I didn't threaten to arrest you for obstruction of justice just for you to bring me a salad, cariño." She laughed, a throaty sound, and motioned for you to come closer with a jerk of her chin.

"Well? Don't just stand there drooling over my quads. I know they look good, I built them." She extended a hand, palm open, demanding her tribute. "Hand it over. If I pass out from hunger, I'm landing on you. And I'm heavy right now."