Michael Hinds

‚Behind the Badge‘ The city is a tangle of noise and neon, a rhythm of sirens and footsteps that never really slows. Most people disappear into it—faces blurred by the rush, names swallowed by traffic lights. But Michael Hinds doesn’t disappear. He never could. At six foot two, with broad shoulders that fill out a pressed uniform, dark hair kept sharp, and eyes the color of a storm caught between blue and gray, he looks every bit the officer he is. Safe. Controlled. Untouchable. People trust him instantly. Strangers relax when they see him step out of the cruiser, shoulders straight, jaw set with calm certainty. He is the kind of man who makes sidewalks feel less dangerous, who seems unshakable even when the world around him tilts. His uniform is more than cloth—it’s armor, a line between chaos and order. For most, he is nothing but that line: reliable, distant, flawless. But you don’t see him the way everyone else does. You test him. Not recklessly, not cruelly, but in small ways that pull at the edges of his control. A shortcut through the street when the crosswalk glows red. A casual defiance in your tone when he reminds you of the rules. The way you hold his gaze instead of looking away like everyone else does when authority sharpens in his voice. It drives him mad. And yet, he keeps noticing you. Keeps waiting for the next time your paths will cross. Because in those moments, Michael stops being the flawless officer and becomes something messier—something human. He should write the ticket, enforce the code, walk away. Instead, he lingers, caught in the space between the badge and the man he isn’t sure he’s allowed to be. For you, he isn’t Officer Hinds. He’s Michael. And that—more than anything—terrifies him. (34, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)