Sweet Romance11 min read
The Rules of Loving a Police Cadet
ButterPicks13 views
I woke up that morning thinking my life was a list of small, solvable items: breakfast, face mask, run a few errands, and—most importantly—get Oliver to admit once and for all that he was mine for three months.
"Three months. I promise," I said, crossing my fingers like a joke.
"You promise too much," Oliver answered, not looking at me. His voice was flat, the kind of flat that had made me fall in love in the first place.
I hadn't gone for the shy romantic route. I had money, a stubborn streak, and a plan. "Three million," I had said the first day, joking, bargaining like we were haggling over a painting. He had laughed in that cold way and turned me down.
But later, when I cornered him—literally, in his dorm house hallway—he gave a different answer.
"Will you be my girlfriend? Three months," I said again, because repetition is persuasive.
"I have choices," he said.
"You do now," I told him, "but this is an offer."
"Fine," he said—short, clipped—and left.
That was how Oliver Alvarado and I became a public item.
"You're impossible," he muttered the morning after, when I insisted on breakfast together.
"You're impossible too," I answered. "But that's a compliment."
He smirked once, like a small victory. "Don't make a habit of it."
"Then promise to say goodnight," I begged.
He didn't move. He wasn't a cuddly hero in movies. He was a cadet: disciplined, laconic, guarded. He also, secretly, made my heart do ridiculous things.
"You can stay," he said finally, and his hand covered mine in a way that made my smile too big. "But keep the drama to a minimum."
"Drama is part of my charm," I replied.
Giavanna Diaz, my best friend and chief gossip officer, had a different attitude. "You're lucky he's a cadet," she teased. "Those boys are made of steel and pride. If you make him laugh, it's like stealing a planet."
"He's not that cute when he snorts," I defended him, only half serious.
On the field demonstration day, I stepped forward to volunteer as an injured participant—because what better way to make him notice than get carried by him? When he picked me up, chest pressed to my back, his breath was warm at my ear. "Which foot?"
"Left," I said, and felt foolishly grateful when he didn't complain, simply hoisting me onto his shoulder with perfect, practiced movement.
"Don't be dramatic," he said into my hair.
"You're the one who agreed to be my boyfriend," I whispered.
He paused only for a second. "Three months. Don't regret it," he said that time with something like a warning, which sounded suspiciously like caring.
At night, in the dim hospital room after the drill, he checked on a little girl named Kori Dickinson—Oliver's sister—like it was second nature. The girl was quiet and brave, a patient grin pinned to her face even through chemo. When Oliver talked about her, his voice softened.
"She will be okay," he told me, but I heard uncertainty under the words. "We have a transplant scheduled."
"I'll help," I said, like that was the obvious answer. He lowered his head and, for the first time in weeks, I saw him at a loss for words.
"Don't promise me the moon," he said. "Just... be here."
"Okay," I said, and I meant it.
We fell into a rhythm. He made me dinner—simple tomato and egg noodles—and told me to take care of his towel and shoes. I watched him move in the kitchen with a rhythm that belonged to him: efficient, exact. He made small compromises—letting me sit on his lap while he read, calling me "baby" once when he was drunk and I nearly fainted from hearing it.
"You're drunk," I accused after he pressed his lips to mine in a hallway filled with friends and dim lights.
"Drunk or not," he said, "I like you."
"Do you like me or the idea of winning?" I asked.
He took my face gently between his hands. "I like you. Not the idea. You." He looked honest, and it sent a little thrill up my spine.
We were not a fairy tale. My father, Mark Peterson, treated every relationship as a transaction. "A police cadet?" he said scornfully when I told him. "Your future is not buying that with feelings." He didn't know Oliver's soft places; he only knew class, status, and power.
"He's kind. He's steady," I told him. "He's all the things you pretend to be."
"You think a boyfriend will change what I know?" he snapped.
It was true, though. Oliver was not for show. He was not impressed by my money or my social position. That was part of why I liked him—he gave nothing away unless it came from somewhere deeper.
We promised nothing and everything to each other. Then one night, I was careless.
I was walking out of a small restaurant after a fight with my father. Rain plastered my hair to my face. An elderly woman asked for help. I helped. When I turned to close a gate after a short detour, a rough hand clapped over my mouth; a cloth left a chemical smell at my nose. The room spun.
"Don't scream," a man hissed. "You keep quiet, and you will be worth a lot."
I heard the thief's partner near the door, counting. I felt the rope bite into my wrists, and I thought of my father, of Oliver's quiet promise, of Kori's small, brave face. Tears stung my eyes.
A door burst open.
"Get away from her!"
It was Oliver. He had followed me. "I followed you home," he admitted later, in a flat voice that might have concealed fear. "You deserved to be safe."
He moved like someone trained; he took the taller man first, arms a blur, then turned to the other. The men fought clumsily; they were not professionals. Oliver's training made the difference. He knocked them down, bound them, and called the police.
"You're alive," he said to me, kneeling to cut the ropes. His breath came hard, but his voice was calm. "I told you not to be reckless."
"You saved me," I whispered.
He looked at me like I had rearranged gravity. "I will always come," he said.
That night changed everything. The news ran a short piece on the kidnappers' arrest. Oliver and I sat quietly, hands entwined.
"You didn't have to risk yourself for me," I murmured.
He shrugged. "I didn't risk anything. I know how to handle bad men."
The two men—Eamon Lopez and Boris Engel—were taken to court. But what the public wanted was not just custody. They wanted to see justice in the open, to watch consequences played out with eyes wide.
"Public punishment," a reporter said. "We need to show the community."
Oliver's superior agreed to a controlled, public reveal: a press conference at the police precinct courtyard, with victims present, families, and the press corps. It was to be an exercise in transparency and deterrence.
"We'll do it so the community sees they cannot do this," Oliver said. His voice was steady. "We won't let them hide behind other people's fear."
On a sun-tilted afternoon, the precinct's courtyard hummed with energy. Cameras lifted like trees. There were flashing phones and murmured speculation.
"Why make it public?" I asked, nervous.
"Because people need to see," Oliver replied. He took my hand under the table. The thought of him standing there, calm and official, made my stomach turn with pride.
When Eamon and Boris were escorted in, they had the arrogance of men who'd gotten away for too long. Eamon — the taller, scarred one — sneered. Boris wore a pricked look, like a man hearing that his best trick failed.
"Here," Eamon muttered under his breath. "She will pay."
They were led onto a low platform beneath a banner that read "CITY POLICE — FOR THE PEOPLE." The press leaned in. My pulse pounded in my ears.
Oliver stepped up to the microphone, immaculate in his uniform. He did not shout. He spoke clear.
"We have arrested two suspects accused of human trafficking and kidnap-for-ransom," he said. "We will present their crimes openly. We will show the consequences."
A prosecutor provided a concise statement. Then they played a video reconstructed from CCTV and witness statements. The video showed the two men casing quiet streets, waiting by a shabby van, then shoving a woman, gagging her, and stuffing her into the vehicle. When the crowd watched, faces around us drained of color. Phones recorded. People whispered curses.
"Do you feel the same now?" Oliver asked quietly, not toward me but to the assembled crowd. "Do you see why silence is dangerous?"
Then began the punishment portion—designed not as brutal revenge, but as public humiliation and moral isolation, a modern justice ritual to ensure these men would be recognized, exposed, and remembered by their neighbors for the harm they tried to do.
"Eamon Lopez," the prosecutor announced. "Tell us in your own words what you planned."
Eamon, smug at first, sniffed. "We wanted money," he said. "She looked worth something."
"Do you have any regret?" a reporter called.
He laughed, thin and brittle. "Regret? Not yet."
Boris shifted uncomfortably. He tried to look smaller. The police had prepared a set of materials: printouts of witnesses' photos, a timeline, text messages between the men and their fences, a ledger of payments. Those papers were handed to the crowd, copies given to local community groups and charity workers.
"Eamon, you are accused by two witnesses, one of them a woman you bound and left," the prosecutor said. "You thought you could profit from terror. Today, the neighborhood that made your job possible will know your face, your words, and your record."
A family whose daughter had been victimized in a similar case was invited to speak. They spoke with cold clarity about the disruption to life's rhythm—how fear invaded kitchens, schools, playgrounds. People around me nodded, eyes wet.
Eamon's smile slipped. He became defensive. "Not fair!" he barked. "You don't know—"
"I do," said the neighbor woman, voice rising. "I watched you from my shop window. You walked like vultures. You thought only valves and pockets and schedules could tell a life. You're wrong."
Boris's expressions shifted: arrogance, then a flash of denial, then a quick scramble for sympathy. He muttered that he had a sick child who needed care; someone in the crowd shouted, "Then go get a job!" Other voices joined, a rising tide of contempt.
"This is a community," Oliver said. "When you prey on its members, you make enemies not only of the police but of every neighbor who remembers you. People will now know your name. There is no safe place in their lives for you."
Eamon's bravado faltered, and he began to fracture. He tried to plead for a private trial, for mercy, for a judge's leniency. The prosecutor calmly explained legal procedures and assured that the matter would be taken through the courts. But the crowd's judgment was already out: the men were twenty meters from anonymity and instead were inside a community's memory.
People took pictures of them—faces twisted in scorn. Teenagers recorded them, faces set to post. The local baker pointed to Eamon and said, "We won't deliver to him." A teacher promised parents, "If I see him near my students, I will call you."
Boris, seeing total social rejection, reached for the last refuge: begging. "I didn't want to hurt—"
"Did you stop them?" someone demanded.
"No," he admitted, voice small. His eyes slid to the ground. He'd started the scheme because he thought it easy. Now, stripped of their bravado, both men shrank under the pressure.
"What is it like to be known for such things?" Oliver asked quietly.
Eamon tried defiance. "You can't ruin me," he spat.
"You're ruined in the way that matters," said the mother of a victim. "You will be known by your face when we talk. You will be known by your voice when we warn our daughters. You have no seat at our table."
The crowd moved in opinion like weather. Appalled neighbors formed clusters, talking about neighborhood watches and patrols, about new locks and CCTV donations. People who had been paralyzed by fear found language. A woman in a reflective vest announced, "We'll set up a rota. We will walk these streets at night together."
The men were no longer anonymous criminals. They were named scandals—on white front pages, on local feeds, in conversations across markets. Their coworkers called to say they were fired; their mother received a text from an exasperated cousin. When the police handed the men over to the custody van, they were flanked by a crowd whose faces expressed either sympathy for the victims or contempt for the perpetrators.
Later, in an unbroadcast portion of the morning, Oliver walked me out of the courtyard. "You did great," he said, and his voice had that flat quality softened with gratitude.
"You orchestrated half of that," I replied.
"I did what a man in uniform should do," he said. He turned serious. "People need to see that consequences exist. Fear cannot be a market."
I leaned into him. In that public space, he had commanded respect. He had also shown vulnerability, and that vulnerability tightened something in my chest.
"Did you feel scared?" I asked.
"A little," he admitted. "But less so because you were with me."
"You're brave," I said.
"I'm stubborn," he corrected, and kissed my brow.
The public punishment was harsh in its social reach but not cruel in law. It was justice served by society as well as by process. The men would have a trial, lawyers, and punishment determined by courts. But the crowd's verdict had been delivered in a way that stripped them of the anonymity that made their crime possible. The men left with less swagger and more consequences—dismissal from jobs, public shame, and a neighborhood now vigilant.
After, when things settled, Oliver and I had to deal with the quieter battles: family objections, inner doubts, and Kori's upcoming surgery.
"Will she be okay?" I asked one afternoon, sitting in the sun-splashed hospital waiting area.
"Yes," Oliver said. "The doctors are confident. But there's a risk."
"I don't care about risks," I said. "I care about her. And about you." My voice trembled.
He looked at me with a patient's patience. "Then help me."
"I will," I promised.
I did more than promise. I showed up for Kori when Oliver had to be on duty. I learned the names of the nurses. I bought building blocks to make Kori laugh. I cut my hair shorter because she liked short hair and because sometimes small gestures are stabilizing.
"Why did you do that?" Oliver asked when he first saw my new haircut.
"Because she likes it," I said.
He smiled—real and slow. "You always do more than you need to."
"Is that bad?" I asked.
"No," he said. "It makes you dangerous."
That summer, we navigated things carefully. My father finally visited the hospital—not unscathed by pride—and watched his daughter with a coldness he couldn't quite keep. He didn't say sorry, but the silence between us softened. He even, once, sent flowers with a note that said, "Be careful."
"You think that will fix things?" I asked, waving my hand at the card.
"It won't," he admitted over the phone. "It buys time."
"Time is useful," I said.
On the day Kori went into surgery, Oliver did not leave her side. His mother sat in the waiting area, knitting quietly, offering a steadiness that surprised me.
"Thank you for being there," she said to me once. "For my boy. For my daughter."
We sat in a thin triangle of family and strangers, and in those hours, everything felt like it had arranged itself into order.
When Kori came out and held my hand as if she had always chosen me, I thought that maybe love is that: a collection of small, unflashy choices.
Oliver and I stayed together after that. Not because of a contract of three months, but because we chose each other despite our faults and because he, who rarely gave, gave in the quiet moments that mattered. He called me "baby" in the night and "stubborn idiot" with warmth, and I told him he was "my steady man" aloud.
Months later, he was asked to record a speech for future cadets. The video ended with a line that hit me like a bell in a quiet room: "May the country be safe, may the people live in peace, may the deep affections last the length of life."
"That's why you're here," I said, watching the framed clip on my phone. He smiled at me, and I knew I didn't just love his uniform or his posture or even his hands. I loved the way he protected people who couldn't protect themselves.
At Kori's recovery party, Oliver lifted a small candle on a pastry, set it before her, and whispered, "Happy birthday, little warrior."
I watched him, and I thought of the courtyard, of the press, of those two men who had lost more than some money that day. I thought about public justice, about private promises, about the way small acts accumulate until they become who you are.
We walked back home under the streetlights, hands linked.
"Do you think," I asked quietly, "that you'll ever tell the whole world how you feel without being asked?"
He squeezed my hand. "Not the whole world," he said. "Just you."
"And me only?" I teased.
He made a small, almost embarrassed sound. "Mostly you," he admitted.
I bumped my shoulder against him. "Good answer."
At the intersection, as we waited for the light, a police siren sang somewhere distant, a thin, familiar chord.
"Always listen to the siren," Oliver said. "It means someone is doing what we can't do alone."
I smiled. "Then I'll always listen."
We crossed. The city stretched out around us—noisy, messy, alive. The little girl I loved walked a few steps ahead, clutching a toy. My father called once that week, briefly, to ask after Kori. Giavanna texted a picture of her latest impulsive outfit. Oliver leaned his head on my shoulder and hummed a quiet tune. It wasn't forever on paper, only the steady, difficult, beautiful kind of forever that is built by showing up.
When the speech clip ended, I pressed my thumb to the screen like a benediction. The words were ordinary, but they held weight. Oliver looked at me then, with a softness that made me think of hospitals, of night shifts, of little hands and big promises.
"Stay," he said.
"I already have," I answered.
The End
— Thank you for reading —