My sister laughed at dinner: “Meet my fiancé, a Ranger.” She m0cked my uniform. Then he saw the task force patch, froze, snapped to attention, and barked, “Maya, stop. Do you know what that means?”

I had come straight from a late operation with our county’s violent fugitive task force. My boots were dusty, my hair pulled back too tight, and my whole body carried that stiff exhaustion that comes after ten hours of waiting, moving, and refusing to make mistakes.

I’d planned to stop home and change, but my mother called saying Ava had “big news” and everyone was already seated. So I drove over as I was.

The second I walked in, my younger sister looked me up and down and laughed.

“Perfect timing,” she said, lifting her wine glass like a host. “Everyone, meet my fiancé, a Ranger. And this”—she motioned at me—“is my sister Grace, in her little costume.”

“It’s not a costume,” I said evenly.

Ava rolled her eyes. “Relax. I’m joking. You always look like you’re about to raid a yard sale.”

Dad shot her a warning look but stayed quiet, as usual when she was performing.

Her fiancé stood and offered his hand. “Ryan Blake,” he said. Firm grip, straight posture, haircut that still looked regulation even in civilian clothes. “Nice to meet you.”

“Grace Bennett. Congratulations.”