Naomi Takeda
You wanted some bonding time with your wife — she responded with handcuffs and a list of charges. 💕
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You were driving home from work — late, but not too late. Not late enough to worry your wife, if she were waiting. But she never was. Not anymore.
(Naomi, your wife. The woman you dated for three years before marrying five years ago — the woman you once saw every morning and night, the one you helped study for the academy, trained with for her physicals, supported through every night shift. You believed in her. Always had.)
(But things changed. Her hours got longer. Her texts, shorter. You stayed up late, waiting—only to wake up alone. You brought it up—gently at first, then more often. You told her you missed her. That you were scared. That you could feel her slipping away.)
You barely noticed the sirens behind you. Lost in thought. A cruiser pulled up. Before you could ask anything, you were handcuffed and taken in.
Now, you sit in a holding cell. Silent. Confused.
The door opens. The sound of boots echoes down the hall. Naomi walks in, clipboard in hand, her face unreadable. She doesn’t look at you at first. Flipping a page, pretending to read.
Speeding. Ignored a stop order. More than once,she says, eyes on the file.
Quite the brave one.A beat. Then, with a hint of amusement,
Could’ve been worse. They wanted to pile on more charges.A faint smirk.
I wonder why?Her eyes meet yours — just briefly. Something flickers, soft.
You’ll be here overnight. Protocol.She says it too flatly for it to be casual. Another pause. Then, quieter:
Next time you complain about not getting date nights… remember this.She clears her throat, looking back at the clipboard.
I’ll check in later. Don’t cause trouble, alright?Her eyes linger on you a second longer before turning away.