Sarah Rubenstein had long, thick black curls that seemed to take up more space than they should. Darren greeted her politely—the showrunner, a woman maybe ten years older than him and more than a head shorter. He knew her, of course, but they hadn't worked closely together. Judging by her expression, she was clearly displeased about spending her holiday break at work.
Either that, or she was annoyed that someone had decided she needed training on how to do her own job. Darren knew from experience that nobody liked that. When she swore under her breath while fighting with the zipper on her bag, he smiled sympathetically.
"I thought you didn't celebrate Christmas," he remarked.
"That doesn't mean I want to work while everyone else is off," she snapped. She didn't add anything more, but Darren could easily read on her face that reason number two was just as strong.
"Come on, it won't be that bad," he said. "Think of it as a little pre-holiday adventure."
The icy daggers in her eyes made it perfectly clear what Sarah thought of that adventure. Darren decided it was safer to keep his mouth shut.
He was both excited and terrified. He couldn't tell which feeling made his heart pound harder or his hands sweat more than usual.
He was an actor. He should've been able to pull on a confident smile—to be confident, as if playing a part written just for him. But he couldn't. Maybe if it were just an ordinary ride-along… but Darren knew Chris worked here. Even if they didn't get a chance to talk, he might see him in the hallway, by the coffee machine, maybe even in the restroom…
Darren swallowed hard.
Get a grip, he told himself. You're not that clueless kid anymore. Back then, they were just teenagers—foolish enough to think turning eighteen made them wise adults. Now they were grown, both of them, more mature and…
But his heart was beating so fast it was stealing his breath. Not even his drama school exams or his biggest auditions had ever made him this nervous. For a moment he even thought about running away, but the temptation to see Chris—even if it ended with a punch to the face—was too strong.
So he went inside with Sarah. At the front desk they explained why they were there, and while politely waiting for an officer to escort them, Darren could feel curious eyes on him. More on him than on Sarah—she was known by name, while he was the face of the show that had won several awards last season.
Maybe he should have disguised himself somehow—worn a cap, glasses, even a mask. That way, he might have avoided being recognized. But the thought never even crossed his mind. He'd been too focused on the idea of seeing Chris face to face to consider anyone else might recognize him.
So he smiled politely and tried to turn his back on the onlookers—or at least he meant to—but it wasn't just civilians watching him. The officers were curious too.
He sighed silently, trying not to show his frustration, hoping that no pictures of him at the LAPD would pop up on social media any minute.
The desk officer handed them the necessary forms, explained their legal responsibilities—Darren barely cared what he was signing—and gave them visitor badges. Moments later, a very young officer in a long-sleeved shirt, despite the heat, enthusiastically led them through a maze of hallways. Within minutes, they were almost there.
With every step, Darren's heart pounded harder. His breath grew heavier. His eyes, sharp and restless, scanned every face they passed, searching, comparing, hoping. None of them were his.
With each passing moment, anxiety crept in, hope slipping away. No sign of Chris anywhere.
Maybe he's on patrol, Darren thought, disappointed. God, no. I wanted to see him so much. Just see him, nothing more—just his face and…
That and meant more, but he didn't need more than a fleeting glimpse—a split second where his eyes could find him again. After all these years, fate was finally letting Darren exist in the same space as Chris, only to cruelly deny him that chance.
What if he isn't on patrol? What if he's been hurt on duty?
No. He pushed the thought away immediately. He would've heard about that. He would have, right?
He barely noticed the polite nods and smiles directed their way, answering them automatically. His mind and heart were a storm of uncertainty and longing. It wasn't until Sarah's voice—grim as a thundercloud—cut through his thoughts that he snapped back to reality.
"Great. They're waiting for us," she said flatly.
In a spacious room with glass walls stood a tall, powerfully built, bald man with dark skin and his arms crossed over his chest. A sergeant—that much Darren could tell from his insignia. He was talking to four other officers seated at tables like students in a classroom.
One was a young Black woman with very short hair—her energy made her hard to miss. Another, a big white man around fifty, not quite as large as the sergeant. Then a laid-back guy in his thirties, and…
The fourth officer sat partly behind the others. Darren could see his outline—tall, athletic—but not his face. Maybe that was why he couldn't look away.
Move, he thought. Just move a little to the side.
And as if the man had somehow heard him—which was, of course, impossible—he did move, just slightly, leaning back.
Darren saw his face.
The sight hit him harder than anything else in his life.
The fourth man was Chris Landry.