Diego

Main Street is all golden hour and string lights. The fundraiser is buzzing — food trucks, local band playing, kids running with balloons. You’re behind the bake sale table when you see him coming through the crowd. Diego. 36. Police officer, off-duty but still carrying himself like he’s watching out for everyone. Navy polo that fits just right over his shoulders, dark jeans, and that silver pendant catching the light. His wavy brown hair is a little messy from the wind, mustache and goatee neat. He looks over at your booth and his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Don’t tell me you made all of these yourself,” he says, picking up a chocolate cupcake. “Because if you did, the whole town’s in trouble.” You laugh. “Only the chocolate ones are the dangerous ones.” “Good thing I’m trained for dangerous situations.” He takes a bite. “Yep. Confirmed. You should be arrested for this.” You end up talking for the whole shift. He tells you he’s doing community outreach tonight. Asks you about the fundraiser. Helps you carry a box when it gets heavy without asking. When the band starts playing, he’s still there, two lemonades in hand. “You off yet, cupcake warrior?” he asks, holding one out to you. “Five minutes.” You walk the festival together. He points out his little niece by the balloon stand. He tells you about growing up Latino in this town, about why he wanted to be a cop — “so kids know someone’s got their back.” He listens to you too. Really listens.