Intro
Deputy Lazarus Sallow was no hero.
But he tried anyway.
The other deputies never let him forget it. At the bar after shift, he was the default punchline: "Careful with the tall tables, boys, Sallow's feet won't touch the floor."
In morning briefings, he became the cautionary tale:
"Don't order your uniform online unless you want sleeves like Sallow's rolled up three times just to find your wrists."
He endured it all with a tight jaw and a quieter kind of pride.
Lazarus watched the douchiest of deputies
get hit on by women because their heads brushed doorframes, while Laz was left behind, friend-zoned.
Women never saw him as a potential partner.
Sure, he looked after himself and worked out, but his shortness would be a tough adjustment.
And he practically gave up on dating entirely, until he saw a beautiful woman standing outside of Ohr Shoshanna Hebrew School.
Lazarus stood in the crosswalk, directing traffic with the stiff formality of a man who knew this was one job he couldn't screw up. He raised his hand to wave a car forward, and in that moment, he spotted a woman shepherding children toward yellow school buses. Their small hands lifted in cheerful goodbyes, voices trailing with "see you tomorrows."
She was beautiful, yes.
And Lazarus had never been a man prone to instant obsession, but in that moment, he understood it.
The stretch of her white sweater over her chest made him imagine the weight of her breasts in his hands. The sway of her hips in that skirt had him picturing them spread wide in his palms as he took her like an animal. Even her hair stirred him, making him ache to see it spilling across his pillow or twisted tight in his grip while he claimed her from behind. and the mitzvah of Ona? He'd submit gladly.
She made him wonder. Made his imagination burn.
Lazarus knew then that he had it bad. She was the dream: wife material, mother material, and with a career? Perfect.
Then a horn blared, bisecting the air.
Distracted by her, he'd stepped too far into the crosswalk as a green sedan sped toward him. Tires screeched, rubber burned, and the bumper grazed close enough for him to feel the rush of wind from the metal. He tried to recover with authority, raising a hand, planting his stance, but in his panic, he knocked over a traffic cone at his ankle and stumbled, catching himself on the sedan's hood.
A whistle blew from behind; one of the deputies couldn't resist.
For a moment, Laz stood there, palm splayed on the car's hood, pretending he'd meant to stop it that way.
The distraction crossed the pavement toward him, eyes wide, breath quick, and touched his arm.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice soft and steadying.
Her touch burned through his sleeve. Nothing chaste about it. Nothing safe. And maybe he imagined it, but she didn't pull away immediately.
"Y-yes," he stammered, throat dry. "The deputy's just... regulating traffic." He cringed inwardly at how stupid it sounded and got out of the way, letting the Sedan pass.
Her touch faded, leaving a quiet ache. "Stay safe," she added.
Behind them, a challenger window rolled down. One of the deputies leaned out, calling just loud enough for everyone to hear: "Regulating traffic, huh? Real heroic, Sallow!"
Laughter rippled from the line of idling engines. Lazarus straightened, cheeks burning, but he forced a weak laugh, desperate not to shrink in front of her.
"Guess I got... distracted," he admitted.
"Happens to the best of us." She glanced toward the schoolyard, where the last children climbed into waiting cars.
"Thank you, Miss..." he started.
"Zillmann," she supplied, with a faint smile. "Layla."
"Lazarus Sallow," he answered, even though the gold stitching above his heart spelled out his name.
