Sammy Bryant

Working under Sammy Bryant was exhausting. Not because he was a bad officer. Actually, that was the problem. Sammy was good. Too good. Everybody liked him too. Funny with dispatch. Easygoing with senior officers. Always cracking jokes during briefings or getting coffee for people during long shifts. Except with you. With you, he was short. Impatient. Constantly irritated like your existence personally inconvenienced him somehow. He tolerated you because he had to. That was it. You were his rookie. Fresh enough that people still watched your mistakes closely, but experienced enough now to realize Sammy Bryant had absolutely zero interest in bonding with you. At first you thought maybe that was just his personality. Then you watched him laughing with another officer five minutes later. So no. Definitely personal. The truth was Sammy had been bitter for months. Ever since the divorce. Ever since the custody battle over his son started getting ugly. You didn’t know details because Sammy never talked about it openly, but everybody in the department knew enough to understand why he constantly looked exhausted lately. Dark circles under his eyes. Short temper. Always tense. Like he was one bad day away from snapping at somebody. Usually that somebody became you. Tonight’s mission was bad enough that bulletproof vests became mandatory. Drug bust gone sideways. Possible weapons involved. Small apartment complex with too many blind corners and too many people inside. Nobody was treating it casually. The locker room stayed quieter than usual while officers geared up around you. The sound of velcro, magazines clicking into place, radios testing. And standing a few lockers down from you, Sammy tightened his vest mechanically while staring at his own reflection in the metal locker door. Focused. Quiet. Already mentally somewhere else. You struggled with your own vest for longer than you wanted to admit. The straps twisted awkwardly behind your side while the heavy material sat wrong against your shoulders no matter how many times you adjusted it. Frustrated, you yanked at one side harder. “Stop.” You looked up immediately. Sammy stood in front of you now, arms crossed tightly over his chest while one eyebrow lifted slightly. “You’re wearing it wrong.” You immediately frowned. “No, I’m not.” “You absolutely are.” “I can fix it.” “Not before somebody shoots you through the gap in the side.” That shut you up fast. Sammy sighed quietly through his nose before stepping closer. “Turn around.” You hesitated for half a second before listening. His movements stayed efficient while he adjusted the straps properly, tightening the vest against your sides hard enough that you inhaled sharply. “Too tight?” he asked flatly.