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As Nick finished tucking in his dress shirt, he caught his reflection in the van window. The lines were clean, the tie straight, the jacket sitting just right across his shoulders. For once, he looked like he belonged on the right side of the door. He almost didn’t recognize himself. Almost.
The badge at his belt felt heavier than it had any right to be. Not because of the metal—it was just a piece of polished brass—but because of what it represented. This wasn’t a favor, wasn’t a temporary assignment, wasn’t a gamble someone else had placed on him. This was his. His first case as a full-fledged police officer. His first night stepping out into the world with authority that mattered, authority that couldn’t be shrugged off with a joke.
Don’t screw this up, Nick. You’ve got one shot. One night to prove you’re not just a fox with a clever tongue.
He allowed himself a brief flicker of pride, a taste of satisfaction—but instinct reminded him not to linger. Feelings were dangerous when a job was about to start, especially a first case. First case jitters were one thing; first case with no net, no experienced officer shadowing him, were quite another.
Then Judy stepped out of the van.
Nick’s breath hitched before he could stop it.
She was stunning. Not flashy, not overdone—just carefully, deliberately chosen. Everything about her looked considered, the way she always did when it mattered. The dress clung without restricting, flowing just enough to move gracefully but not enough to draw unnecessary attention. Even out of uniform, even without the weight of the badge visible, she looked like she could handle herself.
Her ears were pinned up, neat but unmistakably hers, catching the faint glow of streetlights and reflecting it back with a subtle gleam. The fabric of her dress shifted as she stepped forward, catching the light in soft folds. Nick’s brain, against his better judgment, started composing unhelpful thoughts.
Judy felt the moment the pavement met her paws. The eyes. The exposure. The absence of uniform, the one constant that usually announced who she was and what authority she carried. She smoothed the front of her dress, grounding herself with the small, deliberate motions that had become second nature on patrol.
Keep it steady. First case. No mistakes. Don’t let him see you second-guessing.
First time she was responsible for more than herself.
“It’s the Zootennial Gala,” she said, half to Nick, half to herself, her voice steady despite the flutter of nerves underneath. “A bunny comes prepared.”
She lifted her gaze to the building ahead, its glass façade glowing under the night sky. For a brief moment, she let herself remember being a kid on a farm, watching events like this on the news, thinking how impossible it all seemed—how unreachable.
“I used to dream of… infiltrating a place like this,” she admitted softly.
Nick followed her gaze but kept his attention scanning the surroundings out of habit. Old instincts, newly sanctioned. His eyes flicked to every exit, every reflection, every potential point of observation. Then he glanced back at her, noting how her ears tilted—not uncertainly, but with anticipation, with readiness.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, careful. “Only now we’re doing it legally.”
There was a quiet steadiness in the statement, a reassurance neither of them voiced aloud but both felt.
Judy turned to him, paws reaching up to pin a flower to his lapel. The contact was light but deliberate, and in the small closeness, she noticed the tightness in his shoulders, the way he held himself as if afraid of making the first mistake. Her voice softened.
“You look… official.”
Nick snorted, masking the tension with humor. “Don’t spread that around. I’ve got a reputation to lose.”
He didn’t step away, though. He let her adjust the pin, let the moment linger—a quiet acknowledgment that this was new territory for both of them. Standing here together without a safety net, without someone else to defer to. Just them. First case. First night. Walking in as equals.
“You know,” she said, stepping back, giving him an appraising look that blended critique and reassurance, “this is not your worst idea.”
Nick caught the relief in her tone and answered with the familiar edge only he could give. “Wow. That was almost a compliment.”
Her ears twitched, the tension finally cracking into something more playful. “Careful. You’ll get used to it.”
Nick grinned, letting the old, sly version of himself peek through. “Your worst idea is what you did with your ears.”
The punch was immediate, clean, exactly as expected. Nick laughed, rubbing his arm, and fell into step beside her. Already, they knew each other’s timing—not from years of partnership, but from surviving enough chaos together to trust the rhythm, to know when to move, when to cover, when to wait. They approached the entrance, shoulders nearly brushing. No backup in sight. No margin for error. Just two rookies pretending not to be rookies.
Fox and bunny.
First case.
First night.
Partners.