Page 10 of Rules

The drive home feels longer than usual, my thoughts circling endlessly. The tenderness in Tobias's touch is at odds with the barriers he's erected. The flash of vulnerability in his eyes. Mixed with the obvious internal struggle. Completely opposite from the way he responded to the emergency call - so capable, in command.

Whatever rules he's created for himself, they're clearly causing him pain. That much I could see in his face. But if he thinks I'm going to just accept his cryptic non-explanations and move on, he doesn't know me very well.

"I've never been good at following rules anyway," I tell Joey as we pull into my driveway. "Especially stupid ones that make everyone miserable."

Tomorrow, after a good night's sleep and some distance, maybe I'll be able to make sense of Tobias Trenton's hot-and-cold behavior. But tonight, all I know for certain is that beneath his professional exterior and self-imposed barriers, there's passion waiting to be unleashed. For now, my only other question after that encounter is if the toys in my nightstand are fully charged.

Chapter 5

Tobias

Two hours. That's how long it took me to get home after my shift ended. Two hours of breaking up fights, taking statements, and getting beer thrown at me. I'm damp, I stink, and I'm bone-deep exhausted, the kind where even my eyelids feel weighted.

Walking through the garage into the house, I strip down at the washing machine without ceremony. The smell of stale beer and bar fights clings to my uniform, turning my stomach. I carefully empty my pockets and turn everything inside out before dumping it all into the washer. Normally, I'd stay up to hang the uniform properly—wrinkles in a sheriff's uniform invite disrespect—but not tonight. I wish it was just the bar fight that drained me.

The shower's spray hits my shoulders with blessed heat, easing muscles knotted from tension. As steam fills the bathroom, my mind drifts back to earlier in the evening, before the call. To Ruth's shop. To her eyes, wide with hurt and confusion. To herlips under mine. Then the crashing truth of her thinking it's her, the way she looks.

"Man, I really fucked that up, didn't I?" I mutter, working shampoo through my hair with unnecessary force. "Why didn't I just tell her? Better yet, why did I stop?"

My brain answers before I can silence it: You stopped because you care about her.

"No, I don't," I argue aloud with myself. "And even if I did, I can't. It's not acceptable."

Always having to do what's right, be the sensible one. Joan's voice materializes in my memory, as clear as if she were standing in the shower with me. I blow out my breath. Fuck it's been fifteen years since I held her hand as she passed. I miss her.

But my mind isn't having anything to do with warm fuzzy nostalgia. Shit, I can still hear her disapproval. The memory of our biggest fight surfaces. The county fair, the carousel.

"It's a carousel, Tobias. A carousel. Who gives a shit?" Her exasperation still stings across the years.

"I do. People will see us."

"So? Someone will see you having fun with your wife."

"Someone will see me riding a child's ride." I can still feel the stubborn set of my jaw as I'd refused.

"And?"

"And they will ask themselves, why is the Sheriff riding the kiddie ride?"

"I highly doubt that anyone cares if you ride the carousel at the fair."

"What if one of the guys saw me?"

"And what if they did? Are you afraid to have your guys see you having fun with your wife? Afraid it will ruin your intensely composed reputation?"

"YES!"

"For the love of Pete! Is it really that hard for you to have some damn fun? Why do you always have to be the rigid rule spouting one?" She stomped away from me.

The fight had dragged on for two days. Eventually, we just dropped it, neither of us willing to concede. But the damage was done. That night at the fair was the first time I saw real disappointment in Joan's eyes—not anger, not frustration, but pure disappointment. It was also the first time I'd felt that cold knot of regret that's now so familiar.

I've carried that guilt for fifteen years. Joan wanted one simple thing—a moment of carefree joy with her husband. But I couldn't unbend enough to give it to her. Too concerned with appearances, with what others might think. That someone might find me silly and not serious.

I'm a pillar of the community. The face of safety and security. I've always felt the weight of maintaining composure in all things. It was drilled into me by my parents. Mom had daily lists and set timers to make sure everything was done with precision. Dad was the same way, only worse. I guess habits become ways of life.

The others—my deputies, business owners, ordinary citizens—they can laugh loudly, make fools of themselves, have public romances. But if I were to step outside my carefully constructed image? The whole town would talk, judge, and question my leadership. Worse yet, vote someone else in and I would be out of a job. And then what would I have?

I've worked too hard building the department into what it is today—a tower of strength for the community. I can't and won't risk undermining that for personal desires.

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