newobsessionweekly

[newobsessionweekly]

Aftershock: Bradford's Barbie

Main Masterlist | The Rookie Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Tim Bradford x younger!reader

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: You and Tim are not dating. But also aren't not dating. Until he pulls back, you shut down and every feeling comes crashing down on you both.

Angst to fluff

Warnings: description of gunshots maybe? not proofread yet

Words: -

It didn’t start with fireworks. Or candlelight. Or anything remotely poetic.

It started with a crash.

Not the earthquake kind, not this time. Just you—exhausted, makeup smudged, hair in a bun that had declared war hours ago—falling asleep on his couch after a late-night takeout run and a shared bottle of whiskey neither of you meant to finish.

You woke up tangled in his arms. The next morning, you told yourself it was a one-time thing.

It wasn’t.

Somehow, in between shifts and field assignments, takeout orders and inside jokes, it became a routine. Your body in his bed. His scent on your clothes. His lips on your skin, hot and heavy in the silence after dark. And, weirdly, you slept better at his place. He did too, not that he ever said it out loud.

You weren’t dating.

You weren’t not dating, either.

Tim called it “convenient.” You called it “friends with benefits.” Lucy called it “a catastrophe waiting to happen,” though she didn’t know the half of it.

Because somewhere between him calling you a menace and you calling him a fossil—somewhere between him brushing your hair off your face and you learning how he liked his coffee—you started catching feelings.

Like a dumbass.

And the worst part? You didn’t even mean to. It just… happened. The way feelings do. Quiet at first, like a hairline crack. Then spreading, splitting, splitting, splitting.

Until something inside you started to break.

You told him once.

Sort of.

A few weeks ago, lying in his bed with your cheek pressed to his chest, you’d murmured something dumb and sleepy like, “I think you like me, Bradford.”

He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t kissed you either.

He’d just gone still.

“Don’t make this complicated,” he’d said finally, voice low. “It’s already risky. You’re… you’re too young. This thing is just for fun. Let’s not pretend it’s more than it is.”

And like a fool, you nodded.

You told yourself you could deal with it.

But here you are, two months later, being reckless all over again.

Because now, thanks to a shiny new contract between LAPD and your father’s construction firm, you’re officially partnered with none other than Timothy “Emotionally Constipated” Bradford.

You might’ve pulled a few strings. Okay, a lot of strings. But in your defense, it was the perfect setup: a project pairing cops with civil engineers to evaluate post-quake building damage. Everyone wins. Especially you.

Except you forgot one detail.

You’re still in love with him.

And he still thinks you’re a goddamn risk.

You’re halfway through assessing a condemned strip mall in East Hollywood when it all goes to hell.

The street’s quiet, a little too quiet, the kind of quiet that prickles under your skin. Tim’s beside you, hand on his vest, eyes scanning every window and alley like he’s waiting for something to jump.

You’re marking a crumbling doorway with bright red chalk when it happens.

A pop.

Then another.

Gunfire.

You drop instantly, instincts kicking in, but not before Tim grabs your shoulder and yanks you behind the rusted frame of a dumpster. His body covers yours, warm and solid, one arm braced against the metal and the other curled around your waist.

��Stay down,” he growls, eyes blazing.

Your heart is beating in your ears, faster than it should. Too fast. His breath is hot on your cheek. His chest rises and falls against your back, firm and steady, while yours feels like it might explode.

And all you can think is: this isn’t casual. This isn’t just “fun.”

This is him shielding you like he’d die for you.

When it’s over—when backup arrives, when the scene clears, when the world rights itself again—you’re sitting on the tailgate of an LAPD shop with an ice pack pressed to your knee and a very pissed-off Tim looming over you.

“You okay?” he asks. The words are tight. Controlled. But his hand won’t stop gripping your thigh.

“I’m good,” you reply lightly. “But damn, Bradford. You almost made me think you caught feelings.”

His jaw ticks. “Don’t.”

“What? Can’t a girl joke around with her—what are we again? Bed buddies?”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps back like your words physically burned him.

You wait for him to say something—anything. But all you get is silence. His walls are up again. Brick by goddamn brick.

You nod, lips tightening.

“Got it.”

You stop texting him after that.

No goodnight emojis. No sarcastic memes. No more midnight rides to each other’s places. You pull out. Clean cut. No drama.

You tell yourself it’s the right thing. The smart thing.

You also start sleeping like crap again.

You expect him to call.

He doesn’t.

You expect him to knock on your door like he always does when things go sideways. Show up with a six-pack and that dumb grumpy look he pretends isn’t fond.

He doesn’t.

Instead, silence.

You last three days before deleting his name from your favorites. Five days before you fold the hoodie he left behind and tuck it in a drawer. Nine before you hear through one of the engineers that he requested a reassignment. A new partner.

The hurt isn’t new.

You just didn’t expect it to land like this. Like a slow tear in your chest every time you turn a corner expecting to see him, but don’t.

Tim is worse.

He doesn’t talk about it. Not to Lucy. Not to Thorsen. Not to Lopez. He just… broods.

He snaps faster. His fuse is shorter. He works more shifts, runs more drills, volunteers for the worst hours.

Lucy notices.

Of course she notices.

“You’ve been insufferable lately,” she says one day while they’re stuck in the locker room post-shift, both drenched in sweat and sun. “Worse than usual.”

Tim grunts, slamming his locker shut harder than necessary. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit.”

He shoots her a look, but she doesn’t back off.

“Is this about her?” Lucy asks casually. Too casually.

Tim stiffens. “What?”

“The blonde. Barbie. Earthquake Barbie. Whatever nickname you gave her in your grumpy little brain.”

Tim says nothing. Just pulls his shirt over his head like the conversation’s over.

It isn’t.

Lucy leans against the row of lockers, arms crossed. “Look, I didn’t want to get involved, but you’re spiraling. And when Tim Bradford spirals, people start punching walls and doing push-ups until their triceps cry for help.”

Tim’s voice is low. “She’s fine.”

“She’s not talking to you.”

“She doesn’t have to.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow. “So you were hooking up.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch.

Lucy whistles. “Damn. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Tim exhales slowly, resting his forehead against the cool metal. “It wasn’t supposed to be anything.”

“But?”

He hesitates.

Lucy watches him carefully. “But?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “She got under my skin.”

Lucy nods. “Yeah. That tends to happen when you’re in love.”

Tim turns to her, eyes flinty. “It wasn’t love.”

“Sure.”

“She’s almost twenty years younger than me.”

“And?”

“She’s reckless. She pulled strings to partner with me.”

“She also stood her ground during a live gunfire incident and patched your hand when you busted your knuckles punching a brick wall.”

Tim doesn’t respond.

Lucy softens. “Look. I don’t know what happened between you two. But I’ve known you long enough to know when someone’s got you twisted in knots. Go to her. Fix it.”

It takes him until midnight.

You’re not surprised when he knocks.

You hear the heavy sound of his boots on the hallway first—then the pause, then the knock. He doesn’t knock like a neighbor. He knocks like someone who built you into his routine and doesn’t know how to function without it.

But you don’t answer.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, hoodie pulled over your knees, and sip from a lukewarm mug of tea you don’t even like.

You hear the second knock. Then his sigh. Then silence.

“I know you’re there,” he says through the door, voice low and rough. “You’re loud in heels. But I swear—you’re louder barefoot.”

Your heart stutters.

You stay quiet.

He exhales, palm pressing to the door.

“I didn’t mean to push you away.”

You roll your eyes. “You didn’t push me away, Bradford. You made it very clear where I stand. Or don’t stand.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Yeah. I’m a dumbass.”

You don’t deny it.

Tim leans closer. “I just… I didn’t want to ruin what we had. And I thought keeping it casual would keep it safe.”

You raise an eyebrow even though he can’t see it. “Casual? You kissed my shoulder when you thought I was asleep. You stocked your fridge with my favorite iced coffee.”

Silence.

“Casual my ass,” you mutter.

You still don’t open the door. You hear his exhale through the wood.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says, quieter this time. “You know I didn’t.”

You hate that his voice still does that to you. That low rumble laced with something vulnerable. Something only you ever get from him—when no one’s watching. Not Lucy. Not his team. Not his goddamn conscience.

“You said I wasn’t worth the risk,” you remind him, because he needs to hear it. Needs to sit with the way it burned through you like acid.

A pause.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

Silence.

You wait. The kind of silence where seconds stretch until they feel like bruises. He doesn’t answer, and that tells you enough.

You move to the door, pressing your back against it, still not ready to open it. “Go home, Tim.”

“I am home,” he says softly, and fuck. Fuck him for saying that.

The ache spreads. It’s not even anger anymore. It’s that thing you hate admitting even to yourself. Longing.

You press your palms to your eyes. “You don’t get to say that.”

Another pause.

“Okay. Fine. You won’t talk to me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He must hear the way your breath hitches through the door, because his next words come sharp.

“Then I’ll make you talk.”

The knock stops. The silence twists.

Then the click of the door handle turning, slow—because you forgot to lock it. You never lock it when you expect him.

The door opens, and there he is.

Post-shift, tired eyes, hand still on the doorknob like he’s giving you one last second to throw him out.

You don’t.

He steps in and shuts the door behind him.

You’re still in your hoodie, hair up in that messy knot he always said made you look like you “tried not to look hot,” and failed.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just drinks you in. Quiet, serious, unreadable. Then, in three strides, he’s in front of you, his hand tilting your chin up.

“I fucked up.”

You blink. “You think?”

He doesn’t smile. He just leans in—closer than he’s let himself in weeks.

“Say something.”

You don’t. You won’t.

So he does what Tim Bradford always does when he’s cornered by emotion—

He acts.

His lips crash into yours before you can say another word. It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Like he’s trying to apologize with every breath he pulls from you.

Your hands fist in his shirt before your brain catches up. Before your heart can argue. Because you’ve missed this. Him. The heat. The feel of his body like a shield and a furnace all at once.

He pulls back just far enough to murmur, “You’re mine.”

You open your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to fall apart—but he kisses you again before the words come.

“Say it,” he breathes against your skin, kissing down your jaw. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper, dazed, breathless, undone. “And you’re mine as well.”

His hands tighten around your waist, like he’s trying to ground himself to the words. Like you’ve said something dangerous, holy.

“I’ve been yours,” he says hoarsely, “since the moment I met you, Barbie doll.”

Your knees nearly give out.

He lifts you—effortlessly—and carries you to the couch, laying you down like you’re something fragile and irreplaceable.

This isn’t just sex anymore.

This is everything that’s been building. All the friction, the denial, the tension that snapped the moment he let himself feel.

The hoodie is the first thing to go. His hands slow, reverent. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

He kisses your chest, your neck, your mouth again. “I don’t care about the age gap,” he murmurs. “Or the job. Or the risk. I care about you.”

You close your eyes and arch into him. He’s not just making love to you. He’s choosing you. Out loud. Without hesitation.

And the best part is—you’re finally choosing him back.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the blinds, casting a warm glow over the room. You stir, feeling the steady rhythm of Tim’s heartbeat beneath your cheek.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.

You look up at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Morning.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “So, does this mean we’re official or something?”

You chuckle. “I think last night made that pretty clear.”

He grins, pulling you closer. “Good. Because I don’t plan on letting you go.”

You nestle into his embrace, feeling a sense of contentment you hadn’t known you were missing.

And in that moment, everything feels right.

[newobsessionweekly]

Chapter one

Amalya

Everyone has their place in this city. Some crawl their way to the top with bloodied fingernails and plastic smiles. Others are born there and pretend they earned every inch of the glass throne they sit on. Then there’s me—somewhere between the two, a curated contradiction in designer heels and a perfectly applied gloss, walking the tightrope between privilege and performance.

To most people, I’m the girl they love to loathe. The one with the bombshell curves, platinum hair twisted into silk, and a wardrobe that screams socialite. I speak with the soft intonation of someone who grew up in sky-high penthouses and private schools, and maybe I did—but what they never see are the hours I spend covered in concrete dust or the sharp edge beneath my velvet tone. They don’t see the forged spine beneath the curated femininity or the callouses hidden beneath satin gloves.

What they don’t expect is for a girl like me to calculate the tensile load of a beam before breakfast. They don’t picture me storming into a job site before the sun rises, pink steel-toe boots on, windbreaker zipped to my chin, commanding grown men with clipped instructions and sharper silence. They expect gloss, not grit. And I’ve let them. It’s easier that way.

This morning was a carousel of expectations—class at eight, project meeting at ten, and a site inspection lined up like the next domino. Still, I found time to iron my cargo pants to military precision, swipe on rose gloss that caught the morning light, and silence Rhett’s texts with practiced apathy. He’d started early, like always, demanding to know if I’d left already, complaining about the pink jacket I wore, as if my fashion choices were some kind of assault on his masculinity.

I didn’t answer. I never did when he played that game. But I knew he’d show up anyway—he always did. Rhett Ashbourne-Wolfe wasn’t the kind of man who waited for permission. Silence wasn’t a wall to him—it was an invitation. A challenge.

By the time I stepped out of my meeting, he was already at the curb, lounging behind the wheel of his vintage Aston Martin like he belonged in a noir film and knew it. The car was polished to sin, its chrome teeth catching sunlight like a predator. His sunglasses were pushed into the mess of his dark hair, and that indulgent smirk curved across his face like he already knew how the rest of my day would go. No one told Rhett where he could or couldn’t be. They were too busy pretending not to notice the name he carried.

I slid into the passenger seat like I hadn’t spent the past hour avoiding exactly this.

“You’re early,” I said, pulling the seatbelt across my chest, already hating how it felt against my ribs.

“Your meeting ended four minutes ago,” he murmured, his voice like aged scotch—smooth, dangerous, indulgent. “I’m right on time.”

“For what?” I asked, even though I already knew.

“Lunch,” he said, slipping into traffic with the confidence of someone who believed the road bent for him. “Or a kidnapping. Depends on how cooperative you’re feeling today.”

I leaned back, suppressing the shiver at the word kidnapping. Not because I feared him—never that—but because the idea of being taken, of losing control even in jest, rubbed against a wound that hadn’t healed right.

“So dramatic,” I muttered, eyes on the skyline instead of his smirk.

He didn’t respond with words, but the corner of his mouth lifted higher, the kind of smile that knew exactly which nerves it touched.

Rhett was the kind of man headlines followed, either because of his family’s empire or because of his inability to care what people thought of it. He wore wealth the way most men wore aftershave—effortless, heavy, intoxicating. Hidden ink curled beneath his cuffs, secrets stitched into bespoke suits. His eyes were the color of wet asphalt before a storm, and his kiss had always felt like both a threat and a promise.

Once, when I didn’t know better, I thought I loved him. Or maybe I just wanted him to love me enough to make me feel real. He was sixteen when I was eight—the boy with shadows under his eyes and too much freedom for anyone that young. My sister flirted with him until she didn’t, and after she was gone, he stopped pretending to belong to anyone.

He broke; I bled. And we fit the way jagged glass fits between bare fingers.

What we have isn’t romance. It isn’t devotion. It’s survival—a mutual need for noise when the silence starts whispering too loud. We wear each other like armor in public, fill each other’s beds when the ache demands flesh. He shows up when I won’t answer. I let him. Not because I want to, but because some patterns are harder to break than bones.

The car hummed beneath us, the leather interior warm from the sun, and his scent was everywhere—sandalwood, tobacco, and something that always smelled like old money and bad decisions. He drove like he owned the world. Not out of arrogance. Out of certainty.

But today, I wasn’t talking, and Rhett wasn’t smiling.

The sirens started at the third intersection. One first—distant, shrill—then another, closer, slicing the street with flashing red and blue. My breath hitched. My nails dug into the silk gloves on my lap, fists clenched tight enough to draw blood if I wasn’t so well-trained.

“Lya,” he said, his voice low, a thread anchoring me.

I nodded once, shallow breath caught in my throat. He changed lanes with precise control, slowed to a crawl as if the sound alone could rip me apart. His hand moved—steady, firm, resting lightly on the back of my neck, his thumb brushing over my skin like he could soothe the screaming inside me.

“You’re safe. Just breathe.”

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t feed me platitudes. He didn’t need to. He knew the anatomy of my panic better than I did. He adjusted the AC, lowered the music, and held my silence like it was holy.

We didn’t speak again until Fairfax.

“You hate that I’m the only one you’ll let drive,” he said, his voice dipping into that amused, arrogant place he lived in.

“I hate that you think you’re special.”

“I am. Even when you pretend not to notice.”

I rolled my eyes, lips twitching in spite of the heaviness clinging to my lungs. He grinned wider, always taking pleasure in pulling a reaction out of me.

The attack passed, slowly, like it always did. My chest still ached. My jaw was tight from grinding, but the worst was over. For now.

“You could’ve sent your chauffeur,” he said, eyes cutting toward me. “But you chose me.”

“I needed coffee. You just happened to have a car and a mouth.”

“Oh, darling. You wound me.”

“I’ll try harder next time.”

We ended up at Sterling Tower, as always. His favorite haunt. Overpriced sushi, velvet stools, and a rooftop view soaked in power and privilege. He loved it because he didn’t have to pretend there. No one did. Everyone already belonged to something uglier than ambition.

We played the roles we were born into—his hand resting casually on my thigh, our bodies too familiar to question. Across the bar, someone pointed. A camera lifted. He didn’t flinch.

“Let them wonder,” he said, sipping his espresso with maddening calm. “Mystery makes the truth easier to swallow.”

“They’re already bored of us.”

“Impossible.”

I leaned back, eyes dragging across the skyline I’d memorized like scripture. Rhett had been everything once—my first kiss, my first sin, my first rebellion. But that boy had died with my sister, and the man beside me now was only the echo.

We didn’t lie to each other anymore. We didn’t even try.

He filled the gaps. I let him.

By the time we left, the sky was dipping into that dusky shade between gold and grief. He walked me to his car like always, hand curving around my lower back with muscle memory more than meaning. I let it stay.

We drove in silence, a jazz melody humming low, smooth as smoke.

I scrolled through emails, eyes narrowing on one from a night crew supervisor. Wrong insulation specs. Again.

“Problem?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Shipment’s wrong.”

“You want me to come?”

“No.”

“Of course not,” he drawled, amused. “Heaven forbid you look like you’re not in control.”

“Exactly.”

He pulled to the curb outside my building and didn’t pretend to wait for an invitation. I didn’t offer one.

“You’ll call after?”

“No.”

He smiled anyway. “I’ll take the win.”

He always did.

Night hung thick over the city, clinging to buildings and alleys like smoke that wouldn’t clear. I parked half a block from the site and made the walk alone, past graffiti-scarred concrete and the rhythmic clatter of distant trains. This part of downtown wasn’t polished. It didn’t shine like the rooftops Rhett loved. It pulsed in a lower octave—grit instead of glamour, sweat instead of silk.

My boots struck pavement with the confidence of someone who knew how to wield authority like armor. Still, I glanced over my shoulder more than once. I always did. Trauma doesn’t vanish just because you’re wearing designer workwear and walking like nothing scares you.

I scanned the temporary fencing as I approached. It should’ve been locked. It wasn’t.

My pulse kicked up, subtle but sharp, and I slipped through the opening like I belonged there—because I did. But something felt off. There was no usual silence, no comforting emptiness. Just a low electric hum, and the flicker of light bleeding from the site trailer, too bright for an hour like this. A soft wind tugged at the edge of my braid, and I tightened my grip on the clipboard I hadn’t even realized I’d curled my fingers around.

The insulation materials were wrong. Stacked carelessly. Boxes opened in a way that screamed chaos, not protocol. Some torn, others discarded. Nothing about it fit the order specs I’d approved that morning. My brain started sorting through possibilities—delivery error, internal miscommunication, supplier sabotage—but none explained the lock. Or the light. Or the shiver slicing through my spine like a blade made of memory.

My phone was in my hand before the anxiety caught up to the action.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“This is Amalya Stroud. I’m calling from the Stroud development site on Main and 18th. There’s been a break-in. Possibly vandalism. I need a unit dispatched.”

“Yes, ma’am. Stay on the line—”

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. The line tethered me to a voice I didn’t trust to understand that I couldn’t breathe if I stayed still. I needed control. I needed movement. I needed air.

Instead, I got the lights.

They came first—vivid and merciless. Red and blue cutting through the dark like war paint, reflecting off scaffolding and glass panes, setting every sharp angle of steel aglow. The beams spun and sliced and branded themselves into my retinas. My breath fractured. My chest locked.

Then came the sound.

Sirens howled through the air like something wounded. My hands went numb. My legs stiffened. Somewhere beneath the surface of my skin, the past surged up, dragging screams and shattered glass and twisted metal with it. I hated this part—the way it returned without permission. The way it fed off light and noise like a parasite. Panic didn’t ask. It arrived. Always uninvited. Always loud.

I pressed my back against the metal container, the chill of it shocking, grounding—barely. My fingers dug into my palms through the silk lining of my gloves, and my knees threatened to betray me. I wasn’t that girl anymore, the one sitting by a crushed car on a freeway median with blood on her hands and sirens screaming for a sister who wouldn’t wake up. But the girl lived inside me still. She always would.

The car pulled to a stop just beyond the gate. Doors opened. Boots struck the pavement in sharp, rhythmic thuds. My lungs finally forced in a breath that didn’t feel like it belonged to me.

And then I saw him.

He moved into view like a storm—tall, broad, and wrapped in body armor that didn’t hide the weight of muscle beneath it. His face was unreadable, carved from something harder than stone. His jaw was clenched, not in rage, but in readiness. His shoulders were squared, like the world had already disappointed him too many times, and he expected tonight to be no different.

He scanned the site, hand hovering near his weapon, instinct thick in every line of his body. And then his gaze locked onto mine.

It didn’t flick away. It didn’t soften. It hit like impact—clean, cold, and jarring.

His eyes were pale blue. Not warm, not kind, not curious. Sharp. Calculating. Like he saw everything—my heels, my gloves, my fear—and had already filed it away without blinking. He didn’t look at me like I was fragile. He looked at me like I was data. A piece of evidence to be evaluated. A variable he hadn’t expected to find in this equation.

Something inside me straightened in response.

I didn’t know his name. Not yet. But I felt the shift the second our eyes met. The kind of shift that leaves cracks in places you thought were solid. The kind that foretells something you can’t unfeel once it’s begun.

The world didn’t tilt. It didn’t explode. It just… paused.

And in that pause, I realized something that made my breath go shallow all over again.

The universe wasn’t finished with me. Not yet.

[newobsessionweekly]

Where the Dust Settles

Prologue

Amalya

They say time heals.

They lied.

Time doesn’t heal—it hides.

Wraps your wounds in silk and calls it recovery. Smears gloss over the fractures and dares you to smile wide enough that no one notices the blood in your teeth.

I learned early how to play the part.

Daughter. Heiress. Poster girl for a legacy I never asked to inherit.

They dressed me in pink and gave me a crown laced with thorns, then told me to run an empire without getting blood on my heels.

But beneath the silk and the shine, I’m rotting.

No one sees it. Not my father. Not the tabloids that call me a spoiled brat in designer sunglasses. Not the men who want to own me like I’m a title deed or a networking opportunity.

Not even Rhett.

Especially not Rhett.

I’ve made a religion out of pretending. Of control.

Because the second I lose it—just one breath too deep, one second too slow—I’m back there.

The crash.

The glass.

Her voice.

I still hear it sometimes. In the space between heartbeats. In the roar of engines that sound just a little too close.

I dream in static and sirens, and I wake up tasting metal.

But I don’t flinch.

I don’t panic.

I don’t feel.

Not until tonight.

Not until I saw him—Officer Bradford, with his granite jaw and glacier eyes, looking at me like I wasn’t just another name in a scandal headline.

Like he could see beneath the surface.

And that’s the problem.

Men like him—they look too closely.

They peel back layers no one has the right to touch.

And if he keeps looking at me like that…

If he keeps standing there like a question I don’t want to answer…

I might not survive it.

[newobsessionweekly]

Where the Dust Settles

Tim Bradford x Amalya Stroud (OC!)

Warnings: Age gap, PTSD, trauma, nightmares, panic attacks, death/grief, violence, toxic relationship, sexual content (18+)

She looks like a doll. He’s the grump with a badge.

What neither expected was a past riddled in lies, a love that defies their worlds, and a truth buried deep beneath blood-soaked foundations.

Amalya Stroud is the heiress no one takes seriously—too blonde, too pretty, too polished. But underneath the designer heels and power suits, she hides a trauma no one dares ask about. Officer Tim Bradford is all muscle, grit, and discipline, trying to outrun ghosts of his own. When their worlds collide on a construction site break-in, neither expects the spark. Or the buried secrets that threaten to swallow them whole.

Love isn’t the only thing they’ll have to fight for.

There’s a past. A cover-up. A murder that was never supposed to happen.

And Amalya? She was never supposed to survive.

Prologue

Chapter one

Chapter two (soon)

Chapter three (soon)

[newobsessionweekly]

Aftershock - Office Barbie

Main masterlist | The Rookie masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Tim Bradford x younger!reader

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: Weeks later, fate (and a lost bet) brings Tim to a community conference—where you just so happen to be the key speaker.

Fluff

Warnings: sexual tension? kissing? not proofread

You didn’t expect to see him again.

Not really. You figured Sergeant Bradford belonged to that weird category of men you clash with once and remember longer than you should. Like a slow burn from a too-hot pan. Irritating, and then it lingers.

Tim wanted to leave the second they walked in.

“You two are evil,” he mutters to Lucy and Angela as they weave through city-funded booths and low-effort posters with cheap pamphlets about green living.

“This is what you get for losing a bet, Bradford,” Lucy chirps.

“I thought the punishment was brunch,” he growls.

Angela grins. “Brunch and an event. That’s how you learn humility.”

Tim’s already working on a plan to fake a phone call when the lights dim and a new voice comes through the speaker system.

Sharp. Confident. Familiar.

He turns his head—and his body goes still.

“Holy shit,” Lucy whispers beside him. “It’s her.”

Angela lifts a brow. “Tell me that’s not your girl from the construction site.”

Tim clenches his jaw. “She’s not my—”

“She called you Grinch,” Lucy interrupts, grinning. “You called her Barbie. And now she’s out here talking about carbon-neutral foundations in heels that could kill a man.”

“I think I love her,” Angela whispers.

“She’s not—” Tim tries again, but his voice dies in his throat as you scroll through your presentation, completely composed. He watches the way you move—elegant, direct, sure of yourself. You don’t look nervous. You look like the stage was built for you. Like the mic came from your purse.

You look… expensive. Like someone who knows how to win a boardroom, a bet, and a man—if you feel like it. Like the version of you he wouldn’t know how to approach, if he hadn’t already seen you in a hard hat and work boots, barking orders at construction workers during an earthquake like it was just another Tuesday.

You don’t dress like this for conferences.

Usually it’s practical shoes, maybe a sleek ponytail, something just polished enough to prove you take yourself seriously, but not too much—so no one calls you “daddy’s little intern” behind your back.

But today?

Today you wear hot pink.

The blazer is tailored, the skirt is short, and the heels are unapologetically sharp. Office Barbie realness. And you own it. You glide across the conference stage with your presentation remote in one hand and a bulletproof smile in place, heart pounding but controlled.

You’ve got this.

You’re talking sustainability in construction—carbon reduction, green infrastructure, water retention—and you know your shit better than half the men in the room who’ve been in the industry twice as long as you’ve been alive.

But then you see him.

Scowling like someone dragged him here against his will, still looking too good in a plain black T-shirt and jeans. And still somehow managing to make his scowl sexy.

You inhale, steady your hands on the remote. You don’t let it show. Not the way your stomach tightens or how your heart does a messy skip at the sight of him. You keep your voice level and your smile unfazed.

Because this isn’t the time. Or the place.

But God, you missed that face.

Tim hears words. He knows you’re talking about sustainability, about long-term environmental impact, about scalable urban design. He even recognizes a few terms. But none of it sticks. All he can focus on is the curve of your mouth when you speak, the fierce spark in your eyes, the way you command the room like you own every inch of it.

He's absolutely screwed.

Lucy elbows him hard. “Close your mouth, Bradford.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re drooling,” Angela stage-whispers.

“I’m going to kill both of you,” he growls.

“You’re welcome,” Lucy sings.

The second you step off stage, the conference organizer pulls you aside. Praise, compliments, the usual. But your eyes keep darting to the back of the room, where the tall, broody one is whispering furiously to his two grinning companions.

“What are you doing?” Tim hisses.

Lucy clasps her hands like a rom-com fairy godmother. “Helping you get laid. Now shut up and be nice.”

Angela tugs her away. “Don’t be a caveman. Go say hi.”

Tim glares after them. But he moves.

God, he looked even better up close. A little scruffier than last time. Brooding. And his eyes—so blue they could knock the wind out of you.

Tim gave you a slow once-over, and that smirk hit.

He stands there, hands in his pockets, the corner of his mouth just barely tipped up. That same annoyingly sexy, broody look on his face. Blue shirt stretched across his shoulders like a sin.

“Office Barbie suits you.”

You roll your eyes—but you’re smiling. “Still calling me that?”

“Still acting like you don’t love it?”

You step closer, arms crossed. “What are you doing here, Grinch?”

“Lost a bet.”

You bite your lip to hold in the laugh. “That explains the permanent scowl.”

Tim glanced at the now-empty stage, then back at you. “You were good.”

“Only ‘good’?” you teased, stepping closer. “I worked on that presentation for weeks.”

He tilted his head, eyes lingering on your mouth. “To be honest, I didn’t hear most of it.”

“Oh?” You raised your brows, pretending offense. “Too many big words for you?”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Too many distractions.”

Your cheeks warmed. But you didn’t flinch. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Maybe,” he said, eyes dropping briefly—pointedly—to your legs before dragging back up to your eyes. “But the view was decent.”

You let out a soft laugh and cocked a hip. “You flirting with me, Sergeant?”

He stepped closer. “Would it work?”

“Depends.” You toyed with the button of your blazer. “Are you here to arrest me for having too many words in my presentation?”

“Didn't bring cuffs."

You gave him a slow, deliberate once-over.

“That’s too bad. I did prefer the uniform.”

He smiled. Actually smiled. It was a little crooked. A little dangerous.

And it did things to your insides.

Before you could say something even more reckless, a voice called your name. One of your professors—old, sweet, the type who’d ask you for lecture slides in a USB drive.

“I should go."

But when you started to step away, he reaches for your wrist—not grabbing, just touching. His fingers brush against your skin and it jolts through you like a live wire.

“Wait—can I get your number?” he asks.

You pause. Smirk.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He raises a brow. “You’d rather I stalk you?”

You lean in slightly, lips just shy of his ear.

“You’ll have to catch me first.”

Then you’re gone—heels clicking as you cross the room, leaving him standing there with a frustrated groan and a look that says challenge accepted.

The event wrapped up an hour later, long after the panels ended and the buzz of too many conversations filled the air.

And there he was.

Leaning against his truck like he belonged there. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Watching you approach like he hadn’t been doing exactly that since the second you walked in.

You slowed, one brow raised. “Stalking me now?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I’m just being polite.”

You glanced at the truck. “Didn’t think Grinches offered rides to strangers.”

He stepped forward, opened the passenger door for you like a damn gentleman. “Get in, Princess Barbie.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

The inside of Tim’s truck is warm. Smells faintly like pine and leather and whatever cologne clings to him naturally, subtle but unmistakably him and masculine in a way that makes your thighs press together instinctively. You settle into the passenger seat, crossing your legs, careful to tug your skirt down as far as it'll go.

He starts the engine. Glances at you. “Seatbelt, Barbie.”

You smirk. “Worried about my safety, Sargeant?”

His jaw flexes, his eyes on the road now. “Always.”

Silence falls for a beat, thick and brimming with the words neither of you are ready to say. Then he clears his throat.

“So… what are you studying exactly?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Civil engineering. Sustainability focus. You know, boring stuff.”

He scoffs. “Didn’t look boring from where I was sitting.”

You give him a side glance. “You mean from where you were staring?”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “You were hard to miss.”

You feign surprise. “Because of the heels or the facts?”

Tim shoots you a look. “Definitely the heels.”

You laugh, and he exhales like he can finally breathe again. The ease between you returns, like it never left—not after the earthquake, not after the adrenaline wore off.

Not even after weeks apart.

The car settles into a smooth cruise, city lights rolling past the windows. Tim rests his right elbow on the center console. His fingers dangle—casual, relaxed. Then they brush against the bare skin of your thighs.

Heat crackles up your spine. You don’t move. Neither does he. His pinky drags the lightest line over your skin—so subtle it could’ve been an accident. But it’s not. You both know it.

You shift, just barely. His finger follows.

Still, neither of you look at each other. You chew your lip.

“You were impressive today,” he says, voice lower now. “Seriously.”

You glance at him.

“Thanks,” you say, softer. “I wasn’t sure anyone actually listened.”

“I did,” he murmurs. “Mostly.”

Your brow lifts. “Mostly?”

“I was distracted.”

You smirk. “By the visuals?”

“By your mouth,” he says simply. “Hard to focus on what you’re saying when you look like that.”

A pulse flutters in your throat. You open your mouth to answer—but then the car slows. A red light.

And suddenly, he turns. His fingers shift, pressing slightly into the inside of your thigh. His other hand leaves the wheel. And then he leans in.

You meet him halfway.

The kiss starts soft—testing, brushing. But your lips part almost immediately, like your body was waiting for this, begging for it. His hand cups your cheek. Yours tangle in the collar of his shirt. His tongue slips past your lips, deep and claiming.

It’s slow for a second. Then it’s not. The kiss turns wild—hungry, open-mouthed, teeth and breath and want. Like all the flirting, the near-misses, the power plays between you were just foreplay for this.

Your back arches into the kiss. His hand slides up your thigh, firm and confident. You gasp softly against his mouth, and he swallows the sound like it feeds him.

Then someone honks, announcing the green light. You both freeze.

Tim pulls back slowly, his forehead resting against yours for a beat before he straightens and puts the truck in gear again, cursing under his breath as he drives. His fingers never leave your thigh.

He pulls up in front of your apartment building, cuts the engine, and hops out to open your door before you can even unbuckle.

Chivalry looks good on him.

You step out, heart pounding, the kiss still tingling on your lips. But the second you’re on the sidewalk, his eyes are on your mouth again.

You smile up at him, voice low and teasing. “You know… I live alone.”

He raises an eyebrow, lips twitching. “As an cop, I suggest you stop saying that to strangers.”

You grin. “Didn’t know you were a stranger back in the car, Sergeant.”

He steps closer and kisses you again. Harder this time. Wilder. His hands find your waist, dragging you against him as your fingers tangle in the front of his shirt. You kiss him like you’ve been waiting—because you have. For weeks. For months. For this exact moment.

You fumble with your keys, still kissing, still gasping between touches.

The door opens. Neither of you stop as you kick the door shut with your heel.

Tim presses you up against it, his mouth hot and hungry on your neck.

You pull his shirt over his head—god, he’s ripped—and he does the same to you, sliding your blazer off your shoulders, fingers grazing your skin, leaving heat in their wake. You gasp when his lips find your collarbone.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

You look him in the eye. “Don’t you dare.”

[newobsessionweekly]

Aftershock

Main masterlist | The Rookie masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Tim Bradford x younger!reader

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: You’re a bold, confident civil engineering student, used to taking control on construction sites. But when an earthquake hits while you're in charge of your father’s site, you meet LAPD Sergeant Tim Bradford. You clash, you work together, and slowly, something deeper begins to spark.

A/N: I have the second part almost ready so it'll be here soon!! Also is you have some ideas for this mini series, feel free to drop it in my box! Feedback is always appreciated!! I hope you like it! Lots of love, bubs! Stay safe! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Warnings: Earthquake/emergency scenario, mild injury, panic attack (comfort follows), age gap, not proofread

Word Count: 4k+

It starts like a whisper—barely-there tremors under your steel-toes as you walk the perimeter of the new mixed-use high-rise downtown. You've spent the last half-hour barking into your phone, coordinating crane placement and checking load-bearing support numbers. You’re dusty, focused, and completely in your element.

Until the earth moves for real.

You don’t hear it before you feel it. The tremor roars upward through your boots like a live wire. The scaffolding groans. A metallic shriek pierces the air. Then it happens.

The world shudders. A cacophony of screams. Cement rains down. You drop to your knees and roll, instincts kicking in, sheltering beneath a shipping container propped on steel beams.

Earthquake.

It only lasts seconds—long ones—but the aftermath feels like a war zone. You crawl out coughing, your lungs filling with grit and fear, but your brain is firing on pure adrenaline. You're not just some student or supervisor. You’re the boss’s daughter. And he’s out of town, which makes this your site.

Your chest heaves, but your eyes are already scanning. Where's the crew? Who’s accounted for?

“Luis!” you shout, dodging fallen equipment. “Jen! Mateo!”

Two workers emerge from a cloud of dust, one limping, another coughing blood into his glove. You guide them to the open lot beyond the scaffolding, mentally mapping the layout. Six missing. Maybe more.

And then, over the scream of sirens, two figures cut through the dust—uniformed.

The man in front moves like he was born in boots. Tall, broad shoulders, determined jaw. There’s something sharp and no-nonsense about him, like he’s the human equivalent of a battering ram. Behind him, a quick-footed brunette surveys the site with wide, alert eyes.

“LAPD!” the man shouts. “Is anyone hurt?”

“I’m fine!” you yell back over the noise. “There are still people inside!”

He reaches you in seconds. “You need to move—this whole site could still collapse.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you snap. “This is my father’s project. He’s out of town. I’m responsible for everyone here.”

“Name?”

“Y/n Y/l/n. Civil engineering student. Site lead for the day.”

“Sergeant Tim Bradford,” he grunts, scanning you. “This is Officer Lucy Chen.”

Chen gives a small nod and immediately moves to triage the injured worker. Bradford, however, keeps his full attention on you.

You don’t miss the way his eyes rake over you—not in a creepy way. He’s taking stock. Assessing damage. Dirt on your face, small gash on your arm. His brows tighten.

“You were inside?”

“Under that scaffolding.”

“You shouldn’t be standing.”

You fold your arms. “Well, I am.”

“You need to let us handle this.”

“No. I know this site better than anyone. I helped design the layout. There’s a crawlspace beneath the west scaffolding that no one else knows about. If anyone’s still in there—”

“You’re not trained for rescue ops.”

“I’m trained to know what’s safe and what’s about to fall on your head.”

His jaw ticks. “I don’t have time to babysit you.”

“Then don’t. Keep up.”

You step past him, and for a beat, he just stares.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “You’re like if a Barbie Doll had a death wish.”

You toss him a grin over your shoulder. “Grumpy and unoriginal. Cute.”

He follows, grumbling something under his breath about stubborn civilians and lawsuits.

The two of you reach the compromised scaffold, and you crouch beside the twisted beams. Bradford stops behind you, way closer than necessary.

“Let me go first,” he says, voice low, eyes scanning overhead.

“I’ll fit through easier. You’re built like a linebacker.”

You feel his breath on the back of your neck as he leans down.

“And you think I’m letting you crawl into a death trap alone?”

You glance at him, only inches away. “So you do care.”

He doesn’t move.

“Protocol,” he says stiffly. “And… you’re bleeding.”

You look down at the gash on your forearm—dirt-caked but shallow.

“Didn’t notice.”

“I did.”

He steps forward and gently takes your wrist. His touch is unexpectedly careful—rough hands, but soft grip. He pulls a cloth from his vest and dabs at the wound. You watch his face as he works. He’s so serious. So guarded.

“I’m going in first,” he says, not giving you a chance to argue.

You don’t push it this time. He’s trying. In his own way.

You both drop into the crawlspace, the air thick with dust and heat. Your shoulder brushes his arm as you squeeze through. Close. Too close.

You hear it before you see it—a cough. Faint, raspy.

“There,” you whisper. “Under that beam.”

Bradford nods. “Stay low.”

The man’s pinned, conscious but trapped under a slab of drywall and steel piping. You approach carefully, testing for weight, and give Tim a look.

“If we shift the load here, I can drag him out.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

His hand grazes your back as he shifts to position. Again, he’s close. Protective. Your skin sparks where his fingers press.

He moves the slab, and you reach under, tugging the worker free with all your strength. It takes effort. You grunt, digging your heels into the ground. Bradford leans forward, adds his strength behind yours. The worker slides out.

You sit back, panting.

“You okay?” Tim asks, wiping sweat from his temple.

You nod, heart pounding—not just from the rescue. From him. From the way his hand didn’t quite leave your lower back.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Thanks.”

He meets your eyes. For a second, everything around you disappears.

And then his radio crackles. “Bradford, update?”

“We got one out,” he replies. “Sending location for medical. Continuing sweep.”

As you crawl back out, he places a steadying hand at your waist, guiding you up the incline. You feel the heat of it even through your shirt. It lingers. He doesn’t rush the touch. Neither do you.

Once you’re out, the EMTs swarm. The worker is taken. Chen updates the map with accounted-for crew.

You press your hands to your thighs, catching your breath.

“How many are left?” Tim asks.

You scan your clipboard. “Two. Maybe three. Could be hiding in the south exit shaft.”

“Is it stable?”

You pause. “Barely. But I can get us in.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re not invincible, Barbie.”

“And you’re not my boss, Grinch.”

He exhales hard. “Fine. But I go first this time. You stay on my six.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gives you a look. You wink.

You both make your way through the wreckage, ducking twisted rebar and beams. At one point, you trip on a loose plank. His arm shoots out, wraps around your waist.

You freeze.

So does he.

You’re chest to chest, his hand splayed across your back, your fingers gripping his vest.

“You okay?” he asks, voice a touch lower now.

Your throat’s dry. “Yeah. You?”

He doesn’t answer. Just watches you for a moment, then slowly lets you go.

You keep moving, but now every time your fingers graze or your arms brush, it feels intentional. Loaded.

You find the last two workers behind a jammed gate. Tim breaks the lock with a metal pipe, and you help the shaken men out. One thanks you. The other looks at you like you’re a superhero.

But the adrenaline has started to fade.

The full weight of it all—the noise, the near-deaths, the responsibility—presses down.

When you step away from the others, your legs buckle just a little. Bradford is there instantly.

“Sit,” he says, catching you by the arm.

You nod slowly, dropping onto a low wall.

He crouches beside you, reading your face. “It’s catching up to you.”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“You held it together. You did everything right.”

Your breath hitches. “I didn’t… I didn’t think. I just moved. But what if I missed someone? What if—”

“Stop.”

His voice is gentle but firm. He places his hand on your knee. You flinch—but not from fear. From how it grounds you.

“Look at me.”

You do.

“You saved people. You helped us. You didn’t hide. You ran toward the danger.”

Your lip quivers.

His hand slides to your shoulder. His thumb strokes your collarbone, just once.

“You’re allowed to feel it now.”

And that’s all it takes. The panic hits like a wave—hard and fast. Your chest clenches, eyes burning.

Tim doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you into his chest, wrapping both arms around you. You bury your face in his shoulder, fists curling in his vest.

“It’s over,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re safe.”

His hand slides into your hair, combing gently through it. The motion is soothing. Familiar. Like he’s done it before. Or maybe just dreamed of it.

“You don’t have to be strong right now.”

You tremble in his hold. He doesn’t pull away.

“I’ve got you,” he adds. “Okay?”

You nod against him. When you finally look up, his hand lingers on your cheek.

“Didn’t think you’d be the nurturing type." you say, voice hoarse.

He chuckles, voice rumbling in his chest. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my brand.”

You lean back just enough to see his face.

And something shifts between you.

A quiet moment in the eye of the storm.

“I still think ‘Grinch’ suits you,” you whisper.

“And I still think you’re high-maintenance.”

“Excuse me?”

“Only a Barbie Doll would coordinate a rescue effort and sass a cop in the same breath.”

You smirk. “Maybe I’m both.”

The moment stretches. You’re both still, holding onto something neither of you fully understands yet.

Then a shout breaks the spell.

“Y/n!”

You turn. “Dad!”

Your father is running across the rubble-strewn pavement, suit jacket flapping, eyes wild.

You stand, and he pulls you into a crushing hug.

“I’m fine,” you gasp. “We’re all fine.”

He cups your face. “I got the alert mid-meeting and left immediately.”

You hug him tighter. “I had to take charge.”

“And you did,” he whispers. “I’m proud of you.”

You feel a shift behind you. Turning, you find Tim standing quietly, watching the scene with a measured expression. Your dad notices him too.

“You,” he says, crossing over. “You pulled her out.”

“Sergeant Bradford,” Tim replies, shaking his hand firmly. “Just doing my job, sir.”

Bradford looks at you. And he gets it.

You’re not just another young woman on-site. You’re his daughter. His pride. His heart. And you’re damn good at what you do.

Daddy’s princess—with steel in your spine.

He watches you hug your dad again, whisper something that makes the older man smile. And Tim’s jaw tightens, just slightly.

Lucy appears beside him, sipping water.

“She’s a powerhouse,” she says.

“Yeah,” Tim replies, watching you like he can’t look away. “She is.”

“You gonna ask for her number?”

He snorts. “She’d probably write it on an OSHA citation and tell me to lighten up.”

“You could use someone who challenges you.” his rookie shrugs.

Tim glances back at you—still in that vest, still a little scraped up, but glowing with that post-adrenaline shine.

Maybe he could.

[newobsessionweekly]

Ahhh!! This is so beautiful, I love it!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Thank you so much for considering my idea, your work is so good!! 🫶🏻

Hook, Line, and NOPE!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Summary: Tim Bradford gets hooked on loving you, but you play hard to get. After you finally admit that you feel the same, everybody says he's sleeping with the enemy.

Warnings: angst, arguments, emotional vulnerabity, fear of intimacy?, brief violence, fluff and comfort!

Word Count: 4.4k+ words

Song List: NOPE! by New Rules & Hooked by Why Don't We

For @newobessionweekly! Sorry it took me so long to write this, but I hope you enjoy it, I'm glad you're back, and I wish you the best in all of your endeavors!!

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“Surely you can see how this entire project is ludicrous.”

You tap your eraser against your notebook, looking at the lawyers sitting across from you, representing the Los Angeles Police Department. The meeting was supposed to be held after a public forum. Because the court of public opinion is rarely on the department’s side, you were called into an impromptu – and early – one-on-one with the police commissioner’s legal representation.

“How is attempting to mitigate the impact on public citizens and the local economy ludicrous, Mr. Evers?” you inquire. “As someone who lives in Los Angeles, I consider this decision quite sensible. Avoiding more construction, road closures, and drawn-out costs that will ultimately impact businesses and taxpayers is hardly a laughable matter.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Wesley defends. “Do you make it a point to disagree with the LAPD whenever possible?”

You smile then, leaning forward over a printed report. “Not all of its officers,” you confide. “Now, if you have no reasonable objections to our proposal, I suggest we reconvene at the planned time to discuss this in light of public opinion, rather than my apparently overly convoluted view.”

“You are not making friends in the department,” he says as he closes his leather-bound legal pad and stands. “There will come a time when you need their support.”

“And there will come a time when they’ll see that I am in fact on their side. Thank you for your time.”

As soon as the door closes behind Wesley Evers and the rest of the commissioner’s hand-picked team, you slouch in your chair and sigh.

“He’s going to tell his girlfriend everything you said,” the paralegal taking notes beside you murmurs.

“Well, as the heads of my fan club, I’d expect no less,” you reply lightly. “Thanks for your help preparing for this.”

“Any time. Sorry the LAPD doesn’t like you.”

“I’m not here to be liked, I’m here to do my job and do it well. Speaking of which, I’ve got a lunch meeting.”

“With whom?”

You tap your fingers to your lips like you’re keeping a secret. If you’re making enemies with local law enforcement, the least you can do is devote some of your free time to making it better.

“You look beautiful,” your lunch date says as he pulls your chair out for you.

You roll your eyes but feel your cheeks heat at his flattery. The man sitting across from you is undoubtedly on your string, and you pull it, even if you know this relationship will never be anything more than it is now. He says nice things to you, and sometimes, when you’re home alone after a long week of being told all of the reasons people don’t like you, it’s nice to think that he might like you – though, if he does, it’s different.

“Are you going to tell me why you wanted to meet today or should I guess?” he asks, sitting across from you.

“Well, you’ve never been one to give up before,” you muse.

“You had a meeting with Wesley.”

“I did.”

“How’d that go?”

“Imagine sitting at a table with twelve former arrests that hate you – some of them just on principle,” you begin. “But you have to be civil because it’s a work thing. That’s about how it went.”

“Well, you did slash the law enforcement budget.”

“Not by myself. And it wasn’t my first recommendation, but it’s what we had to do to ensure everything was able to get done for the year. I understand that I seem like the bad guy here. I’m on their side- your side, even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

He hums, then reminds you, “We don’t all hate you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the exception.”

“Does that mean you’ve reconsidered my offer?”

You glance at him over the top of your menu. “I thought you were still mad about the flowers.”

“I got you flowers, you left them outside, they died. Flowers die, I got over it.”

“I just don’t get it,” you admit, setting the menu aside.

“I can explain it again. Unless you’re stalling, like I think you are.”

“You’re brave enough to chase what you want: promotions, people, possessions. I’m not.”

“Is that why you keep stopping this before we even start?” he challenges. “Why we’ll talk for hours one day, and the next you’re a ghost? Why you invite me over just to not be home?”

You raise your hand, silently begging him to stop. When he explains your actions this way, they sound much crueler than your intentions. Being surrounded by hostility at work has led you to build tall, nearly impenetrable walls around yourself. Sitting across from the one man you can see yourself having a future with threatens those walls. He’s been chipping away at them for months, finding the weak spots and being patient with you each time you suddenly pull back when you notice he’s gotten too close.

“I just…”

“You change your mind,” he finishes for you. “You change it like the clothes you’re in, but… I’m not giving up.”

You chew the inside of your lower lip as someone passes by your table. “Why?” you ask softly.

“Because I’ve got a suspicion that you feel it too. I know what you’re doing.”

Nodding, you remind him, “It’s not just me I’m protecting.”

At the end of your lunch, you walk back onto the streets of LA and wait awkwardly on the sidewalk.

“Think about it,” he encourages.

“I will.”

“Oh, one more thing.”

“Bye, Officer Bradford,” you say, turning to walk away from him.

“Hello!” Tim calls after you, trying to get your attention again.

“See you later!”

Four Months Later

“… T, U, V,” Lucy continues. She stops and shifts in the seat to ask, “Are you lying?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Tim replies.

“There is no way your girlfriend’s name starts with X, Y, or Z. Is there?”

“Can we go back to when my personal life was off limits?”

“No. Now, tell me what your girlfriend’s name is.”

“Never said I had one.”

Lucy groans. She’s seen all the evidence that Tim has someone special in his life. He hasn’t eased up on the Tim tests or given her a break from his usual grumpy demeanor, but the little things are evident because she knows where to look.

“Bradford, Chen,” Wade radios. “Divert to the station. I’m putting you on detail at the rally this afternoon.”

“Copy that,” Tim replies.

“Is rally detail boring?” Lucy inquires.

“Depends on what exactly your post is,” Tim answers honestly. “Being a rookie, probably. It’s crowd babysitting more than anything.”

“Fantastic,” she deadpans.

“I’m about to cash in my pension,” Angela complains.

“Tell me about it,” Bishop agrees. “Does the mayor’s office care that crimes are still happening outside of his bubble?”

“He’s laughing at us. Making us guard his precious little troublemaker because he knows we don’t like her.”

“Why is that?” Nolan asks.

“She doesn’t like to help cops,” Jackson answers. “Will fund just about anything else, then gives us the leftovers. When it comes to budgeting and resources, we’re her last thought after her last thought.”

“So, she treats police needs like an afterthought?” Lucy clarifies. “And everyone on the force has a problem with her for that?”

“Not everyone,” Tim answers. “Form your own opinion, boot, don’t just listen to the jaded and the one repeating his father’s complaints.”

“It’s my opinion, too,” Jackson interjects.

“Wait,” Angela says, turning toward Tim. “Don’t tell me you buy into her I’m doing what I can, and I don’t like it either spiel.”

“I’m just saying that we have no way in knowing that she isn’t doing all she can. The police budget wasn’t good before she got the job, either. Useless to blame one person for the government’s fallacies.”

“What?” Bishop asks.

“You like her!” Angela accuses.

“Oh my gosh,” Lucy mumbles, her eyes widening. “It’s her isn’t it?!”

“She’s who?” Bishop demands.

“Focus on your assignment,” Tim barks.

“No,” Angela says. “Tim, do not tell me you have feelings for this girl.”

“And what if I did?” Tim challenges.

“Then I’d tell you it would never work.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Tim, I’m serious, don’t let this girl pull you in somehow. She’s the enemy.”

“The enemy? Lopez, she’s doing her job. People don’t like us for the same reason, does that make us the enemy?”

“That’s not what-“

“What about Evers? He the enemy?”

“Okay,” Bishop interrupts. “You’re getting defensive, stand down.”

Tim rolls his eyes and leads Lucy toward the stage. Angela and Bishop watch him go, convinced there is more to Tim’s response than simply respecting that you’re doing your job and not singling them out.

“We need to talk,” Bishop says, waiting outside the locker room.

“I don’t need an intervention,” Tim deadpans.

“But you need to hear this,” Angela replies. “We don’t like her. 90% of cops minimum don’t like the mayor’s golden girl.”

“Well, I’m in the percentage that doesn’t need your help.”

“Tim, she is younger than you, she works day in and day out to make our jobs harder. You are incredibly different people.”

“And you need to bring this back into the proper perspective,” Bishop adds. “Reality is, Bradford, that even if you do like this girl in a purely professional sense, she will betray that somehow.”

Tim clenches his jaw. “Reality is, Talia, that my life is absolutely none of your concern.”

“Not what you said last time you needed a favor.”

“The low blows make you feel better? Remind you that your family-“

“Stop,” Angela demands, stepping between Tim and Talia. “This isn’t about that. Tim, we’re just saying not to start something with this girl because it won’t end well.”

“I haven’t started anything,” Tim replies. “But if I wanted to, if I wanted to see where it would go, I would.”

Angela watches him, ignorant of their rookies listening in on the conversation.

“You did start something, didn’t you?” Nolan asks from around the corner.

“What do you want the hear?” Tim snaps, looking between the veteran and rookie officers surrounding him.

“The truth!” Lucy answers.

“Fine! Yes, I am dating her. It took me months to get her to the point where she wasn’t scared to let me in, and I’m not walking away from it – or her – because you all have chips on your shoulders.”

Angela shakes her head as she says, “You’re sleeping with the enemy here, Tim.”

“Yeah, because she has such a bad reputation. All of you, back off.”

“Or what?” Bishop challenges.

“You don’t want to fight me on this,” Tim explains lowly. “Now move.”

Bishop tilts her head to the side, then steps back. Tim exits the station with his shoulders drawn back and his hands curled into fists. You may be public enemy number one as far as officers from Mid-Wilshire are concerned, but that won’t change anything for Tim. To Tim, you’re the sweetest temptation, and the one he wouldn’t walk away from, even if he wasn’t completely and utterly hooked on you.

“Your girlfriend’s on TV,” Angela grumbles a few days after their unpropitious meeting.

Tim glances up at the television screen. You’re standing beside the mayor and the budgeting committee. Last week, the city planner's office introduced a petition to build a new and improved police facility near the station Tim is now standing in. It would provide room for additional personnel, new state-of-the-art security, and a training course specifically for tactical responses, including riot control and high-risk breaches.

As the mayor speaks and officers from across the city watch, Tim keeps his eyes on you. You look good in the dark blue blazer he helped you pick. Though he knows you’ll probably deliver a speech that will intensify the feelings of disdain local law enforcement holds for you, Tim has wildly differing thoughts about you.

“After many discussions with the board beside me and the experts in my own office,” the mayor says, “we have decided to delay the planning and construction of the new police station indefinitely.”

A collective groan of disappointment fills the bullpen around Tim. The mayor continues speaking, but Tim can’t hear him over the chatter echoing in the crowded room.

“What does this mean for us?” Lucy asks beside him.

“Nothing,” he answers.

“Just that we’ll still be stretched too thin and underprepared for tactical emergencies,” Jackson adds, his voice laced with loathing.

“Which is no different than now,” Tim reiterates. “Metro has operated with the current standard operating procedures for several years and it works. We have new shift rotations every other week. The brass will work around this, just like they always do.”

“They shouldn’t have to.”

“Tell Tim’s girlfriend that,” Angela interrupts.

Tim looks back to the screen, unsurprised to see that you’re now at the microphone, smiling even as you prepare to deliver the displeasing details of the proposal refusal.

“Good afternoon,” you greet. “On behalf of the mayor’s office, I would first like to thank the employees who worked on this project proposal and the officers who will someday benefit from it.”

“She’s so full of it,” someone yells as others boo.

“This is really who you want to be with?” Angela challenges Tim.

“You should try listening sometime, Lopez. It can be enlightening,” Tim replies. “Let’s go, boot. We’ve actually got work to do.”

“It is a question of money, yes,” you continue as Tim leaves. “But there is also a concern of bias and competency in planning and construction because of current contracts. Of course, the mayor agrees that the facility is needed, and he’s not denying that it will be provided to the LAPD, he has simply determined – with his advisors – that now is not the proper time to begin the undertaking of such a project.”

“There’s still time to dump her before this starts,” Bishop whispers.

“And there’s still a chance for you to remember who you’re talking to,” Tim replies.

“She’s going to get crucified,” Angela says. “You really want to be the officer she drags down with her?”

Tim shakes his head just before the door opens. You follow the mayor inside and sit at one of two tables on the stage. They’re arranged in a wide V-shape, with six chairs and six microphones at each. The rest of the room is filled with police and press, all heavily vetted and here for a specific reason. After the press conference yesterday, the law enforcement community voiced a public outcry, which led the police commissioner and numerous reporters to call for a town hall meeting with an audience of people who will be directly affected by the decision. And those who will paint you in the worst light possible to inform the public of the decision.

The first speaker in the line, an officer Tim recognizes but doesn’t know, directly addresses you. Tim notices your shoulders straighten as you nod.

“You’re the one that cut the police budget. Now that we’re down one more asset and assist, how does it feel to have less protection at your fingertips as a city employee?” he asks.

Several officers cheer, but Tim crosses his arms across his chest and rolls his eyes. He and Lucy arrived early and are seated in the front row. You lock eyes with Tim briefly before you answer.

“As I explained yesterday, the budget does play a role in the city’s delay of building this facility,” you explain. “But there are other concerns.”

“Like what?” the officer asks.

“The city of Los Angeles is currently under contracts with specific architects and engineers. These craftsmen are undoubtedly talented, yet there have been questions of their focus and dedication in their trades.”

“Speak English!” someone yells.

You smile at that and continue, “The engineers we would have to hire to build something of this size are solely interested in the paycheck they would receive. The mayor is unwilling to compromise the integrity of the building, so he decided to wait. If we move forward now, the final result would not be the better building and better system you need.”

“And you know what we need,” a reporter jeers.

“More space and additional resources, amongst many other things. I’m not arguing that you have clear needs, I am simply stating that this isn’t the way to do it. Not if you want it done rightly.”

You watch the officer turn away from the mic stand. He slows by the second row of chairs, and your brows pinch as you watch him.

“How did you determine there’s bias?”

Tim turns when the question is asked, shaking his head when he sees Bishop standing at the microphone. She glares at you, but one of the mayor’s corporate lawyers leans forward to answer the question. As he discusses the audit his team completed, you look past Tim. He meets your eyes and lifts his hands from his lap in question.

Without responding to Tim, you turn and speak to a member of the mayor’s security detail. The man nods, looks past Tim, then steps behind the stage before disappearing from Tim’s view.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the mayor interrupts. “Today’s meeting is to discuss the postponement of this project. There is no room for blaming members of this committee or seeking answers to personal questions. Next speaker, please.”

Bishop rolls her eyes as she passes Tim, and he silently hopes that this doesn’t make you pull away from him again. If Tim is sleeping with the enemy, he won’t let the people on his side push you away, even if it means going against everything he’s supposed to believe in. You’ve got a habit of saying nope just because you are more comfortable hiding your feelings and saving yourself from being vulnerable with the wrong person. Tim knows he is the man you can be yourself with. Maybe the only one.

“That has no bearing on the need for more space,” you say, drawing Tim’s attention again. “Simply put, you’re getting the new station when it is fiscally and morally wise. And not a moment before, regardless of how much you need it, or think you need it.”

The crowd roars, booing and voicing baseless insults against you. You stand and walk off the stage while the mediator attempts to regain control of the room. There will be another meeting at the end of the week, and Tim wonders how many of these officers will be in attendance and how many will still be angry.

It’s Friday afternoon when a similar group convenes in the mayor’s office. There’s less press, and many of the officers in the room are high-ranking. Grey brought Tim, Angela, Bishop, and their rookies, stating that the rookies need exposure to the politics of policing and that the TOs are among his best officers. You smile at Tim when he enters but look away when you see the officers with him. Sergeant Grey has never been anything but civil with you, yet the complaints of his officers may have swayed him.

“Excuse me,” you whisper to a security guard behind you. “Is the man in the blue jacket an officer?”

He glances over the table and shrugs, then says, “Everyone was screened coming in, ma’am.”

“Thanks,” you reply, nodding as you face the crowd.

As the conversation – a polite term for the personal attacks and invasive questions – begins, you remain quiet. You look forward, unresponsive to the different officers raising concerns or voicing their opinions.

“Finally found her off switch, I see,” Bishop murmurs.

“She’s much more tolerable this way,” Jackson agrees.

“I don’t think she’s even listening,” Nolan points out.

“Neither are you,” Tim replies gruffly.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you, distracted by your rigid posture and silence. Something is wrong. Whether someone in your office told you to stand down or you’re troubled by another instance, you’re not acting like yourself, and Tim hates it.

“Good afternoon,” a man says into the microphone.

Tim glances at him, wonders why he’s not in uniform, and then refocuses on you.

“The architect and engineer contracts are time-based, correct?” he inquires.

“Yes, sir,” the mayor replies.

“Then what makes you think the next crew to sign a two-year contract won’t have the same bias? The same obsession with being paid quickly rather than doing good work?”

“It’s not so much the contract as the ethics of the companies themselves. We’ve already begun the search for new firms and have found promising and talented teams we’re eager to begin working with.”

The man nods and returns to the back corner of the room, standing away from the rest of the crowd. After excusing yourself softly, you walk to the back of the room, heading toward the door. You’re on the same side of the room as Tim, but he can’t see you behind him.

While you approach the man in blue, he walks along the wall, nearing the front row. He’s getting too close to the mayor and too close to Tim, you think. You slow when he stops.

“Is your office prepared to provide additional resources to the stations in need while we wait for this building development to begin, Mr. Mayor?” Sergeant Grey asks.

The officers applaud his question, sharing their support of the idea. You don’t listen for the mayor’s reply as the man slips his hand beneath the back of his jacket and wraps his fingers around something.

“Quiet, please,” the mayor calls. “Thank you. And that’s an excellent question.”

“Officer Bradford,” the man says.

As Tim begins to turn, the man pulls his arm forward, and you don’t hesitate to surge forward. You tackle him to the floor, knocking his gun out of his hand and toward the stage. Officer Chen stands first, rushing to your side as she takes your position and handcuffs the armed man. The mayor is escorted off the stage by security, and you’re distantly aware of cameras flashing.

“Are you okay?” Tim asks, pulling you up to stand as his eyes search your face.

“I’m fine,” you reply. “Are you?”

Tim shakes his head, and you smile.

“I don’t even care if you’re gonna be the death of me,” Tim murmurs.

He leans toward you, holding your face between his hands, and kisses your forehead. You’re both ignorant of the people watching you until Lucy shoves the man against the wall, and someone clears their throat.

“I, uh,” Angela begins. “I think we owe you an apology.”

“Me or her?” Tim asks, squaring his shoulders as he steps to your side.

“Both.”

“She’s the one for you,” Bishop realizes aloud. “I couldn’t see that past my own feelings.”

“I’m sorry about the decision,” you offer. “I fought for you, but I couldn’t make it work.”

“Didn’t fight very hard then,” Jackson grumbles.

“Watch it, boot,” Tim warns.

“No, it’s okay,” you interject. “I could have done more; I won’t deny that. But I’m confident that the plans we’re working on now will be far better than what you could have gotten had I succeeded this time.”

“What do you see in Tim?” Lucy asks as two other officers escort the apprehended gunman out of the room.

You look at Tim, and your smile grows when you answer, “Someone who saw me, and didn’t give up when I thought I wasn’t worthy of being seen or loved.”

“Do you want me to call a paramedic or anything?” Nolan inquires.

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “Not every day the desk jockey gets to save her cop boyfriend.”

“Yeah,” Angela begins, “what was that about, Timothy?”

Tim shrugs, bumping his arm against yours.

“I’m pretty sure that was Garrison Peters,” you say. “He works for one of the firms whose contract is about to expire and won’t see the station payday.”

“Which he’s mad about,” Bishop agrees. “But why Tim?”

“You said Garrison Peters?” Tim repeats. “Relation to Andrea?”

“Married, I think,” you answer.

“I arrested her for a RICO warrant. Lawyer argued she was obsessed with money and the jury indicted.”

“Hence why we didn’t want to use their firm!” you exclaim. “They’re corrupt!”

The five officers around you have different reactions to that revelation. Lucy says, “Oh,” and then grimaces. Angela and Bishop press their lips together and nod slowly. Jackson purses his lips but still looks like he’d rather hear it from someone who isn’t you. And Nolan mumbles something about contractors that you can’t decipher.

“Sorry,” Angela says first.

“I am too,” Bishop adds.

“Me, three,” Lucy offers.

“Sorry, and sorry again on behalf of… everybody,” Nolan says.

Jackson doesn’t apologize, but you smile at him regardless. “Thank you,” you reply.

“Thank you,” Tim whispers.

You rub his shoulder kindly before you drop your hand.

“I was supposed to have dinner with the mayor, but he’ll probably be in lockdown, if you’d like to join me,” you suggest.

“Absolutely not,” Tim interrupts. “You can all go home and plan better apologies. We’re going to dinner.”

“Tim,” Bishop says before he can leave. “You’re really good together.”

“I know.”

Tim leads you out of the room and interlaces his fingers with yours as he leads you to your office. He suggests a few restaurants worthy of his savior, but you don’t reply. In the privacy of your office, you sit against the corner of your desk and beckon him closer. You spread your hands over his chest when his legs hit your knees.

“That was terrifying,” you admit.

Tim sobers, lifting his hands to run his fingers along your forearms. “I’m sorry. I know that what you did was for me, but it was risky and reckless... I’m sorry it scared you.”

“What I did didn’t scare me. The idea of losing you did.”

Nodding, Tim drops his chin toward his chest and looks at you. “You saved my life. I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“You saved mine first,” you whisper. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“What can I say? I’m hooked,” Tim replies, smiling brightly.

You scrunch your nose at his response, then murmur, “Nope.”

He scoffs, preparing to remind you that you’re together and you can’t push him away that easily. Before he can, you grip his shirt and pull him toward you, kissing him without a single thing between you. Tim Bradford is on your string, but you’re done pulling it because you’re hooked, too.

[newobsessionweekly]

I'll post all my drafts this week and I'll disappear for a while bc I have a ton of projects for uni going on 🫢

[newobsessionweekly]

I won't remember you

Main masterlist | The rookie masterlist

Protective!Tim Bradford x girlfriend!reader

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: After an attack leaves you bleeding out, Tim races to your side, terrified of losing you. In a desperate moment, you confess your fear of forgetting him after death. Tim swears nothing, not even death, will ever take you from him.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of injury (stabbing, blood loss), panic, anxiety, fear of death ,near-death experience, heavy emotional distress, Protective!Tim in full force

Angst

Words: -

Fear lived in you now.

It wasn’t always this way. You used to be able to kiss Tim goodbye before a shift without feeling like you were sending him off to war. You used to be able to close your eyes at night without fearing you might never wake up. But lately, it had taken root inside you, growing deeper with every passing day.

It started as a whisper—soft, insidious thoughts creeping into your mind at odd hours. What if something happens to him today? What if you don’t wake up tomorrow? What if you forget him?

You told yourself it was just anxiety. That you were being paranoid.

Then, the panic attacks started.

Some nights, you’d wake up gasping for breath, your heart slamming against your ribs as if trying to claw its way out. Other nights, you didn’t sleep at all, too afraid that if you closed your eyes, you’d never open them again.

Tim noticed. Of course, he did.

He had always been good at reading you, knowing when something was wrong even before you did. At first, he didn’t push, just watched you carefully, his sharp blue eyes tracking your every move. But when he caught you trembling after waking from another nightmare, your arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to hold your body together, he couldn’t stay silent.

"You’re not okay," he had said one night, his voice low, careful, as if afraid to spook you.

You had tried to lie.

"I’m fine."

"Don’t do that." He had stepped closer, fingers grazing your jaw, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away. "Talk to me, sweetheart."

You had broken then, the dam inside you shattering all at once.

"I’m scared," you had admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "All the time, Tim. I can’t—I can’t shut it off."

His arms had been around you in an instant, his body solid and warm against yours. "What are you afraid of?"

You swallowed, gripping the front of his shirt like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. "Losing you."

Tim had tensed at that, his grip on you tightening. "That’s not going to happen."

"You don’t know that." Your voice cracked, a tear slipping down your cheek. "You leave for work every day, and I—I feel like I can’t breathe until you come home."

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t pull away. He just held you, his lips brushing against your hair.

"I always come home," he murmured. "I will always come home to you."

"But what if you don’t?" Your fingers curled into his shirt, your breath shaky. "What if one day, something happens, and I lose you? What if I lose me? I don’t—I don’t want to die, Tim."

His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears slipping down your cheeks.

"You’re not going anywhere," he said fiercely. "Neither of us are."

You had wanted to believe him.

But now, as you lay on the pavement, blood pooling beneath you, you realized—you should have believed him while you had the chance.

It had been a normal evening.

You had left the apartment to pick up dinner—Tim’s favorite, because you knew he had a long shift and would come home exhausted. The air was crisp, the streets familiar, and you had felt safe.

Until you weren’t.

You didn’t hear the man coming.

One second, you were unlocking your car. The next, an arm wrenched you backward, slamming you against a brick wall.

A blade pressed into your side.

"Give me your bag," a low voice hissed in your ear.

Your breath hitched. Your heart pounded so hard it hurt. You nodded quickly, hands shaking as you slipped the bag from your shoulder, pressing it into his grip.

But he didn’t let go.

"This ain't enough," he snapped, his fingers digging into your arm. "You got a phone? Jewelry?"

You reached into your pocket, but he must have thought you were going for something else. Before you could speak, pain exploded through your side.

The knife slid in, hot and deep. You gasped, the world lurching as agony tore through you. For a second, you didn’t even understand what had happened. Then, warmth bloomed beneath your fingers.

You looked down.

Blood. So much blood.

The man cursed, shoving you backward before disappearing into the night.

You staggered, your body trembling violently as you pressed your hands against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

Someone screamed. Someone called 911. But not you.

You should have called your boyfriend.

Tim had seen people die before.

He had seen officers go down, had pressed his hands against bullet wounds, had watched blood stain the pavement, had heard final breaths rasp from broken bodies.

But nothing—nothing—had ever prepared him for the moment he heard your name come through dispatch.

"Victim is y/n y/l/n. Possible GSW. Medics en route."

It was like the world snapped.

The air was sucked from his lungs, his heart stopped beating, and for a split second, everything froze.

Then—he ran. He didn’t think. He didn’t breathe.

He was in the car before anyone could stop him, the sirens screaming as he tore through the streets, his hands clenching the wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. His mind was a chaos of images, panic clawing at his throat—

You on the ground.

You gasping for breath.

You—motionless.

His foot slammed on the gas. The drive was a blur. The city rushed past him in streaks of color, his own breath coming in short, ragged bursts. His heart was pounding against his ribs, so fast it hurt, so hard he thought it might break right out of his chest.

Please. Please. Please.

The second he saw you, his entire world collapsed. You were on the pavement, blood was everywhere. A dark crimson stain spread across your side, soaking into your clothes, pooling beneath you like an open wound in the earth itself.

Tim’s knees hit the ground before he even knew he had moved. His hands—steady on the field, in firefights, in life-or-death situations—shook as they pressed down over yours, trying to stem the bleeding.

"Y/n!" His voice cracked, his breath ragged. "Baby, I’m here."

You gasped, barely conscious, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his.

"Tim…"

The way you said his name—weak, broken, like you weren’t sure you’d ever get to say it again—ripped him apart.

"Hey, hey, baby, stay with me." His fingers curled over yours, pressing against the wound, desperate to stop the blood, to fix this, to save you. "You’re okay. Just hold on, sweetheart. Just—just stay with me."

You blinked up at him, your lips trembling.

"I didn’t call you," you whispered.

Tim’s jaw locked, his breath shuddering.

"Why the hell not?" His voice was sharp, raw, barely controlled beneath the sheer terror gripping him.

You swallowed, your fingers twitching against his. "Didn’t want you to… hear me like this."

A choked noise caught in his throat.

"Jesus, y/n" His hands tightened on you, pressing against the wound, his body instinctively shielding yours like he could keep you safe just by being there. "You always call me. Do you hear me? Always. I don’t give a damn what I’m doing—I will always come for you."

A soft sound left your lips—half a breath, half a whimper.

"Scared," you murmured.

Tim exhaled sharply, his chest aching at the fragility of your voice.

"I know, baby," he whispered. His fingers brushed against your face, streaking your cheek with your own blood. "I know."

You inhaled shakily, a weak tremor racking through your body.

"I don’t… I don’t want to die."

Tim clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. A burning sensation settled in his chest, threatening to consume him.

"You’re not going to die," he growled, his voice shaking. "Do you hear me? You’re not leaving me. Not now. Not ever."

You blinked sluggishly, your pupils unfocused.

"But if I do…"

Tim’s stomach dropped. His heart stopped dead.

"Don’t," he begged, voice hoarse. "Don’t say it."

Your hand—so cold, so weak—curled around his wrist.

"But if I do…" you whispered. "I won’t remember you."

Tim’s entire body locked. A shuddering breath left him, raw and wrecked.

Tears blurred your vision as you forced yourself to continue, despite the sharp ache in your chest. “They say—at weddings, they say ‘till death do us part’ because when you die, you forget. You forget the people you love. And I don’t want to forget you.”

Tim broke. The breath he sucked in was sharp, painful, like glass cutting down his throat.

"You’re not going to die," he choked out, his grip tightening on you like he could physically hold you here, keep you tethered to him.

Your lips trembled.

"But if I do… Will you find me?"

A tear slipped from Tim’s lashes, burning against his skin. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and unsteady.

"Always." His voice shook, barely above a whisper. "I will always find you, baby. No matter what. I swear to you."

Your lashes fluttered.

"’Til death do us part," you murmured.

Tim flinched. No. No, he hated that phrase.

He hated the finality of it. The implication that death was the end. That you could be taken from him and there would be nothing after.

His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, smearing blood over your skin.

"Not even death," he whispered fiercely. "Not even death could take you from me."

You shivered beneath his touch, the cold creeping into your bones. Tim felt it and it terrified him.

"Stay with me, sweetheart," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "Please."

Your lips parted then your body went limp. His heart stopped.

"No—no, no, no—y/n!" His voice was a roar, pure desperation as he shook you, as he pressed his hands against the wound, as if he could force life back into you. "Stay with me!"

The paramedics were suddenly there, voices shouting, hands pulling him back, but Tim fought them.

"No!" He thrashed against their grip, his voice ragged, his hands bloody as they tried to push him away from you. "I’m not leaving her!"

"Y/n, stay with me, baby, please—"

They wrenched him back, and suddenly—he couldn’t touch you anymore. He couldn’t feel you.

"Her pulse is weak—get the stretcher, now!"

"She’s lost too much blood—"

Tim’s breath came in ragged, painful bursts, his hands shaking so violently he couldn’t control them.

He watched—helpless—as they lifted you, as the sirens screamed, as your head lolled to the side, your skin too pale, your breath too shallow.

Panic clawed at his throat.

He shoved past the medics, gripping your limp hand.

"You’re not leaving me," he whispered, his voice shattering.

They loaded you into the ambulance, and Tim didn’t let go.

He climbed in after you, his fingers clutching yours, his forehead pressing against your knuckles.

"I will always find you," he whispered, a silent prayer.

"Just—please—find your way back to me."

[newobsessionweekly]

No way out

part 1

Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: When you finally find the courage to take action against your abusive boyfriend, Tim is there to save you. And something happens inside the two of you.

Angst

Warnings: Domestic abuse, emotional distress, violence, protective behavior, slow-burn romance, language.

A/N: As I promised, I will be more active around here. I got a request and decided to turn it into a mini series, I hope you'll like it. Feedback is always appreciated!! Take care of yourselves, bubs! Lots of love! 🫶🏻✨

Words: -

You were gasping for air before you even hit the floor.

The impact of your body slamming into the hardwood rattled your bones, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating terror gripping your chest. The room was spinning, but you forced yourself to look up—his shadow loomed over you, sharp and menacing under the dim light.

"You're always making me do this," he seethed, his voice thick with anger. "Why do you have to push me?"

You curled into yourself, the familiar sting of his words cutting just as deep as the bruises that would form later. Your body ached, but it was the emotional toll that shattered you the most. Because you knew him. You knew the boy he used to be—the high school sweetheart who held your hand in the hallways, who kissed you under the bleachers, who swore he’d never hurt you.

But that version of him was long gone.

A sob choked in your throat as you turned your head, eyeing your phone on the couch just a few feet away. He was pacing now, running a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath about how sorry he was, how it wasn’t his fault.

It was now or never.

With all the strength left in you, you lunged for the phone, snatching it into your trembling hands as you scrambled backward. He spun around, rage twisting his face.

"Don't you dare—"

You pressed 911.

"911, what’s your emergency?"

Your voice cracked. "Please, I—I need help. My boyfriend—he—"

A hand yanked your wrist so hard you thought it might break. The phone clattered to the floor, but the call was still connected.

"You think they can help you?" he sneered, gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. "You're nothing without me."

But he was wrong. For the first time in years, you felt something shift inside you. A quiet, burning defiance.

And then, in the distance—sirens.

Tim Bradford had answered countless domestic calls. Some ended peacefully, some turned violent, but every single one had the same thread of despair woven through them.

Tonight felt different.

Lucy kept checking the address, her expression tight. “Tim,” she said suddenly. “I know her.”

He flicked a glance at her, hands steady on the wheel. “Who?”

“The victim. Y/N. She’s my friend.”

His jaw flexed. He didn’t like that. “You knew she was in trouble?”

Lucy hesitated. “I—suspected. I asked her before, but she never admitted it.”

Tim exhaled sharply through his nose.

They pulled up to the house—lights off, curtains drawn. The kind of place where bad things happened in silence.

He stepped out first, scanning the surroundings. He didn’t like this either. The neighborhood was quiet, too quiet. He unholstered his weapon, nodding at Lucy to follow.

They approached the door. Tim knocked, hard. “LAPD! Open up!”

Nothing.

He could hear muffled yelling inside, a crash, then a choked cry.

Tim's patience snapped. He stepped back and kicked the door open in one powerful motion, the wood splintering under his boot.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

You were on the floor, bruised, tears streaking down your face. And your boyfriend—your attacker—stood over you, his face twisted in fury.

"Get your hands where I can see them!" Tim barked, stepping between you and the man without a second thought.

"She’s my girlfriend!" the guy snapped. "This is none of your business!"

Tim had him pinned against the wall in two steps. He twisted the guy’s arm behind his back, forcing him to his knees. “You like hurting people?” Tim growled. “Try me.”

Your boyfriend grunted in pain, but Tim didn’t care. He snapped the cuffs on, yanking him upright.

Lucy immediately rushed to you. “Hey, hey, are you okay?”

Your eyes were still locked on Tim. He wasn’t sure what you were looking at—the gun, the badge, or something else entirely.

“Y/N.” Lucy touched your arm, voice soft. “You’re safe.”

Your breath came out in a shudder, and your knees nearly buckled. Tim watched as Lucy steadied you, gently guiding you toward the couch.

For the first time since they arrived, you exhaled.

The paramedics checked you over, but Tim never left your side. He told himself he was just being thorough, but deep down, he knew better.

Lucy knelt beside you, guilt written all over her face. "I’m so sorry. I should have seen the signs. I should have helped—"

You shook your head. "You couldn’t have known."

Tim watched the way your hand trembled against the blanket draped over your shoulders. Without thinking, he reached out, gripping your fingers lightly.

Your breath hitched. His touch was warm, grounding, and for the first time in years, you felt safe.

It was wrong. You had just gotten out of hell, and here you were, noticing the strength in his hands, the way his voice sent a shiver down your spine.

But when he squeezed your hand back—just a little—you knew he felt it too. Something dangerous simmers in his gaze, something fierce and protective and angry—not at you, but for you.

The night ends in a blur. Statements. Paperwork. More questions than you have answers for. But through it all, Tim is there.

He stands close—not too close, but enough that you feel his presence like a shield. Whenever someone else talks to you, his eyes never leave you.

It's overwhelming. And yet... comforting. You don't even realize how exhausted you are until it’s over.

"You have somewhere to stay?" Tim asks.

Lucy speaks before you can. "She’s staying with me."

Tim nods, but something about his expression stays tight, unreadable. His eyes flick to yours once more, and for a split second, you swear you see something there—something you shouldn’t.

And then he turns away.

When Tim gets back in the shop, he doesn’t start the engine.

Instead, he turns to Lucy. And snaps.

"What the hell, Lucy?" His voice is sharp, cutting. "You’re a cop. How did you not see what was happening to your own friend?"

Lucy’s eyes widen. "Tim, I—"

"You should have known," he growls, slamming his hands against the wheel. "You should have done something."

"I didn’t know!"

"That’s the problem!"

The car falls silent.

Lucy swallows hard, guilt written all over her face. "Why do you care so much?"

Tim opens his mouth—then closes it. He doesn’t know.

But something about the way you looked at him—something about the way he felt when he saw you on that floor—unsettles him.

And for the first time in a long time, Tim Bradford doesn’t know what to do with himself.

[newobsessionweekly]

Well hello again old friend! Was wondering what you were off doing, bur it's nice to see uou pop up in my notifs again after so long! I missed ya!!!

💛💛💛💛

Hello!! I didn't expect someone to miss me, but I'm glad! 🥹

I missed being here too and seeing you all! Thank you for your patience 🫶🏻🫶🏻

[newobsessionweekly]

Hey! I love your writing and you’re a great writer! I had a question, when is She’s My Wife part 2 coming out? I just can’t wait for it and kinda really want to read it. Thanks!

It's been ages, but you can read it here!

I hope you like it, bub! Thank you for your patience! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Thank you for your support and your love! ✨

[newobsessionweekly]

She's my wife

Tim Bradford x wife!reader

part 1

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: You are Tim's wife, six months pregnant, and refusing to rest. When you're assigned to recruit police officers for a new Metro team, your husband makes sure no one messes with his wife.

Fluff

A/N: Well, it's been a while but I guess I'm back in business. The most requested imagine of all! I hope you all enjoy it and excuse my disappearance. I can't guarantee you'll get more work from me as often as I used you to, but I can promise you I'll write and post all my ideas! Thank you for your support! Lots of love, bubs! Take care of yourselves! 🫶🏻

Warnings: None, pure fluff, (maybe mention of small injuries i guess?), not proofread yet

Requested: Yes!

Words: -

If there was one thing Tim Bradford never expected to happen in his lifetime, it was being completely and utterly wrapped around someone’s finger.

And yet, here he was.

It had started the second you told him you were pregnant. He’d been so sure he’d keep his cool—be the composed, level-headed Sergeant he was known to be. But the moment those words left your mouth, his entire world tilted on its axis. For the first time in years, something scared him. Not a suspect pulling a gun, not a high-risk Metro raid—this. You. The life growing inside of you.

Of course, you didn’t make it easy on him.

You had spent the first two trimesters of your pregnancy insisting that you were fine, rolling your eyes every time he tried to gently suggest that you should slow down.

"Tim," you sighed one evening, standing in your kitchen while he insisted on cooking for you. "You’re hovering."

"I am not hovering," he said flatly, though he absolutely was.

You arched a brow, leaning against the counter. "I’m pregnant, not dying."

Tim grunted, flipping the chicken in the pan. "Still not taking any chances."

You smirked, stepping closer, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. "You love worrying about me, don’t you?"

He sighed, tilting his head down to press a kiss to your temple. "Yeah, well. You make it impossible not to."

What he didn’t expect was that pregnancy would turn him into the world’s most overprotective husband.

It started subtly—making sure you ate on time, setting reminders on his phone for all your doctor’s appointments, researching vitamins when you weren’t looking. Then it got worse.

Like the time he woke up at 2 AM to find you scrolling through work emails.

"Are you kidding me?" He groaned, rolling over to take the tablet from your hands. "You’re supposed to be sleeping."

"I am sleeping."

"You’re awake," he deadpanned.

You just smirked, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. "Then make me tired, Sergeant."

But by the second trimester? Oh, he was doomed.

Because you were still you—stubborn, reckless, and infuriatingly unwilling to slow down.

He should’ve seen it coming. You had spent your entire career proving yourself in Metro’s elite tactical unit, earning every bit of respect that came your way. You weren’t just some officer—they called you a tactical genius, someone who could think three steps ahead in high-pressure situations.

So of course, when the brass suggested you take maternity leave, you laughed in their faces.

"You should take it," Tim had said carefully, fully expecting a figh

You scoffed, arms crossed over your chest. "And do what? Sit at home and wait?"

"It’s called resting, sweetheart."

You’d rolled your eyes so hard he was surprised they didn’t get stuck. "Not happening."

And, of course, you won.

Instead of getting benched entirely, you were offered a leadership role—forming a new Metro team. It was a compromise. Less fieldwork, more strategy. And while Tim reluctantly agreed it was the best option, it didn’t stop him from hovering over you like a damn bodyguard every chance he got.

Now, here you were—six months pregnant and stationed at Mid-Wilshire, observing officers, evaluating skills, and deciding who was good enough for your team.

And here Tim was, barely keeping it together.

The Mid-Wilshire training room was filled with tension as the candidates for your Metro team sat in front of you. Lucy Chen, Angela Lopez, John Nolan, Nyla Harper, and a few other officers watched you with rapt attention as you paced the front of the room, flipping open the folder in your hands.

"Metro isn’t just about skill," you said, voice steady and firm. "It’s about adaptability, precision, and teamwork. Today, I want to see how you handle high-pressure situations."

You gestured toward the training mats. "We’re going to run a combat demonstration—basic takedowns, disarm techniques, and reaction time drills."

Tim immediately frowned.

He knew what you were doing. You wanted to prove yourself. Wanted to show these officers that pregnancy hadn’t slowed you down, that you were still as sharp and dangerous as ever. And while he respected the hell out of that, it didn’t stop the knot of worry from tightening in his chest.

"Are you sure—" Tim started, stepping forward.

"Yes," you cut him off before he could finish, shooting him a look that said don’t start.

He exhaled sharply but didn’t argue.

The officers lined up as you demonstrated a quick disarm technique, moving through the motions with practiced ease. But Tim saw it immediately. The slight hesitation in your step, the way your movements weren’t as fluid as usual.

Your balance was off.

Officer Matthews—new to Mid-Wilshire, cocky as hell—stepped up for the exercise. He moved fast, testing the maneuver harder than necessary. You reacted on instinct, blocking his attack, but—

You stumbled.

Not a lot. Barely anything. But Tim saw it.

Before anyone else could react, he was already there, hand gripping your arm, the other steadying your waist. His entire body was rigid, tension rolling off him in waves.

"Are you okay?" His voice was low, controlled—but barely.

You huffed, annoyed. "I’m fine, Tim. I just lost my footing—"

"You shouldn’t even be—"

"Don’t." You cut him off sharply, leveling him with a glare. "I know my limits."

Tim’s stomach burned.

And then Matthews laughed.

Your husband's head snapped toward him so fast it was a miracle the kid didn’t flinch.

"You think this is funny?" Tim’s voice dropped, low and dangerous.

Matthews shrugged, unfazed. "I just think it’s a little ironic that Metro sent a pregnant woman to recruit us."

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Lucy and Angela both stiffened, already knowing what was coming. Nolan looked like he wanted to disappear, and Nyla just smirked, waiting for the fallout.

Tim took a slow step forward. "You want to run that by me again?"

Matthews chuckled, oblivious. "I just mean, maybe Metro should—"

"That’s my wife." Tim’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Matthews’ smirk vanished.

Tim stepped closer, looming over the rookie, his entire body coiled with restrained fury. "That’s my wife," he repeated, voice sharp as steel, "and if you ever question her ability again, you won’t just lose your chance at Metro—you’ll lose your badge altogether."

Matthews swallowed, stepping back. "I—I didn’t know—"

"Yeah?" Tim’s tone was ice. "Well, now you do."

Silence.

The entire room seemed to collectively hold its breath.

Tim turned back to you, eyes scanning over you, checking—always checking. His hand found its way to your waist again, grounding himself in the solid reality of you standing there, unharmed.

"You okay?" he murmured, softer now.

You sighed, pressing a hand to his chest. "Tim, I’m fine."

He didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. "We’re talking about this later."

"Looking forward to it," you deadpanned.

The tension in the room slowly lifted as Matthews slinked away, and Lucy finally broke the silence with a grin. "Well, that was fun."

Nyla chuckled. "I was wondering when people would finally figure it out."

Nolan exhaled, shaking his head. "I knew something was up."

You rolled your eyes, stepping back and addressing the room. "Alright. Now that everyone is caught up—back to training."

And just like that, the spell broke.

But as you walked back toward the mats, Tim caught your hand, squeezing gently. You looked up, meeting his gaze—warm, steady, and unapologetically devoted.

Because if there was one thing everyone knew now, it was that messing with you meant dealing with him.

And no one messed with Tim Bradford’s wife.

[newobsessionweekly]

Hello bubs!! ✨

Long time no see, but I kinda want to come back after a long break. I'm back with some fresh ideas and hunger for Tim.

I took this break because I started my university courses in October and this domain is a freaking pain in the ass, with lots of projects going on during the semester and the exam season is so hard that I wanted to focus on it 100%. The fact that I was paying tax for the first semester and now I even got a scholarship made me think I should focus more on what makes me happy aside from the courses so here I am.

I wanted to update you a bit before I get back to work. So I got accepted into Civil Engineering, Building Services field and I didn't move cities after all, but I'm so happy, I haven't been in a while. I made lots of friends and my life is starting to come back on tracks.

Hope life's been treating you as well as its been treating me! Feel free to chat with me if you want! 🫶🏻

Lots of love, bubs! Take care of yourself! 🫶🏻

[newobsessionweekly]

😍🥴

Sen Çal Kapımı rewatch 🠪 1.24

[newobsessionweekly]

🤤

GABRIEL BASSO as PETER SUTHERLAND 1x01 The Call, The Night Agent

[newobsessionweekly]

Puppy Bradford

part 1

Main Masterlist | The Rookie masterlist

Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Summary: You consider fostering Charlie after his mom's passing, but things don't always go as planned, they are better when Tim proposes to you.

Fluff

Requested: yes

Words: 4k

The weeks after Charlie's initial stay at your home saw a transformation none of you anticipated. Tim's grumpiness was gradually replaced by a quieter acceptance, and Charlie began to see you both as the support system he desperately needed.

"Hey, Y/N," Charlie called one evening, the excitement in his voice palpable through the phone. "I got an A in Geometry!"

You smiled, pride swelling in your chest. "That's amazing, Charlie! I knew you could do it. Tim's going to be so proud when he hears."

"Yeah, he really helped me study," Charlie admitted, a hint of admiration in his voice. "Can you tell him I said thanks?"

"Of course, sweetheart. He'll be thrilled," you replied, glancing at Tim, who was engrossed in a football game. You nudged him playfully, and he glanced at you with a raised eyebrow.

"What?" he asked, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Charlie got an A in Geometry."

Tim's face softened, a rare look of pride shining in his eyes. "That's great. Tell him good job and to keep it up."

This became a regular occurrence. Charlie called you often, updating you on his progress at school, sharing his successes and his struggles. Each conversation filled your heart with a sense of purpose and joy, knowing you were making a difference in his life. Tim, too, found himself eagerly awaiting these updates, though he tried to mask his growing affection with his usual gruff exterior.

"Hey, Y/N, guess what?" Charlie's voice crackled through the phone one afternoon. "I made the basketball team!"

"That's fantastic, Charlie!" you exclaimed, "We'll have to come to your first game."

"Really? You and Tim would come?" His surprise and joy were evident.

"Absolutely. We're your biggest fans."

Tim and you make it a point to visit the hospital every few days, ensuring that Charlie and his mom, Lisa, have everything they need. The sterile smell of antiseptic and the quiet hum of medical equipment become familiar as you navigate the hallways.

Every time you walk in, the air feels heavy with unspoken words and lingering fears. Lisa's frail frame lies against the pillows, her eyes lighting up at the sight of you. Charlie hovers by her side, offering what comfort he can.

"Y/N, Tim, you didn't have to come again," she would say, her voice frail but warm.

"We want to," you would reply gently, setting down a basket of fresh fruits and some books. "You're part of our family now."

Tim would give her a reassuring nod, his eyes softening as he took in the scene. "Is there anything you need, Lisa?" he'd ask, always ready to lend a hand.

Her gratitude was palpable, her eyes brimming with tears at the kindness you both showed. "You two are a godsend," she'd whisper, "I don't know what we would have done without you."

You'd sit by her side, holding her hand, feeling the frailty of her grip. "We're here for you, Lisa. For both of you."

"I can't thank you enough for everything you're doing. Knowing Charlie has you two... it makes this a little easier." Lisa said softly.

Tim, standing at the foot of the bed, nodded respectfully, "We're happy to help. Charlie's a good kid. He deserves the best."

Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked between the two of you.

"I've made peace with what's coming. Knowing my son won't be alone, that he has you both... I can go in peace. Thank you."

You squeezed her hand gently, your heart aching at her words. "We'll take care of him. You have our word."

The phone rang late one night, jarring you awake. Groggily, you reached for it, your heart dropping as you saw Charlie's name on the screen.

"Charlie?" you answered, your voice thick with sleep and concern.

"Y/N... it's Mom. She's... she's..." he said, his voice breaking.

You sat up, your heart aching. "Oh, Charlie, I'm so sorry. Tim and I are on our way, okay?"

Tim is already moving, grabbing his keys and your jackets. "Let's go."

The drive to the hospital was silent, the weight of the news heavy in the air. When you arrived, you rushed through the hospital corridors, finding Charlie sitting alone in the waiting area, his face pale and eyes red from crying.

"Charlie," you called softly, moving towards him with Tim close behind.

He looked up, his face crumpling with relief and grief at the sight of you. You pulled him into a tight embrace, your heart breaking for the young boy.

"We're so sorry," you whispered, holding him close. "We're here for you."

Tim knelt down beside you, placing a comforting hand on Charlie's back. "I'm so sorry, kid," he said, "We're going to get through this together, okay?"

Tim exchanged a glance with you, silently communicating his thoughts. He then turned back to Charlie, "How about you come home with us tonight? Dinner's ready, you can get some rest. We'll come back in the morning."

Charlie looked between the two of you, uncertainty and exhaustion evident in his eyes. "I don't want to leave her," he said, his voice trembling.

"We get that," you replied softly. "But we want you to be safe and taken care of. We'll come back first thing in the morning. Your mom would want you to take care of yourself too."

Tim nodded, "She's right, Charlie. It's important you stay strong and healthy. We’ll call the school in the morning and let them know you’ll be taking a few days off."

Charlie hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Okay," he whispered, his shoulders slumping with the weight of his grief. "Thank you."

The days turned into weeks, and Charlie had become a permanent fixture in your home. His presence brought a sense of warmth and life to the house, despite the somber circumstances that had brought him there.

You and Tim did everything you could to make him feel welcome and loved, supporting him through the funeral and the tough days that followed.

"Hey, Charlie, want to help me with dinner?" you called out one evening, poking your head into the guest room that slowly turned into his own.

Charlie looked up from his homework, "Sure. I'll be right there."

As he joined you in the kitchen, you couldn't help but feel a sense of pride watching him chop vegetables.

"You're getting pretty good at this," you remarked, handing him a bowl to mix the ingredients.

He grinned, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. "Thanks. Tim's been showing me some tricks."

Your boyfriend wandered into the kitchen just then, a tired but contented smile on his face. "Smells good in here," he commented, leaning against the counter.

You smiled back at him, a warmth spreading through your chest at the sight of him. "Charlie's been a big help," you said, nodding towards the boy beside you.

Tim's smile widened, and he ruffled Charlie's hair affectionately. "Good job, buddy," he said proudly.

Later that evening, as you and Tim sat together on the couch, you couldn't shake the thought that Charlie's stay with you might be more permanent than originally planned. You turned to Tim, the question weighing heavily on your mind.

"What's going to happen to Charlie?"

Tim sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well, he's a minor, so he'll probably be put into foster care," he explained, his expression grim.

You frowned, the thought of Charlie being sent to a foster home unsettling. "But he's been through so much already," you protested. "He shouldn't have to go through even more trouble."

Tim nodded in agreement, his brow furrowing, "I already talked to Social Services," he admitted. "They said the judge will likely consider foster care over emancipation."

You chewed your lip, mulling over his words. "What if... what if we fostered him?" you suggested tentatively.

His eyes widened in surprise, and he looked at you, his expression unreadable. "Foster him?" he repeated, as if trying the idea on for size.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. "Yeah. We've been with him through everything, Tim. We care about him. What do you think?"

He contemplated for a moment, his gaze distant. Then, to your surprise, a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "You know what? That's not a bad idea," he admitted.

You couldn't help but smile, "Timothy, I never thought I'd see the day when you wanted to foster a teenager," you teased, nudging him playfully.

Tim rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of amusement in his expression. "Hey, I have a heart, you know," he replied, his tone gruff but affectionate.

You laughed, leaning in closer to him. "I know," you said softly, reaching for his hand. "And it's one of the things I love most about you."

His expression softened, his gaze warm as he looked at you. "I see Charlie as a son I always wanted," he admitted, "And I think we can give him a good home."

You smiled, squeezing his hand gently. "I think so too," you agreed, feeling a swell of gratitude and love for the man sitting beside you.

Tim leaned in closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'll talk to Grey and Luna in the morning," he said, his voice filled with determination. "Luna can help us with the process of becoming foster parents."

You nodded, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. Leaning into his embrace, Tim held you close, his arms strong and reassuring.

Next morning, as the three of you gathered around the table for breakfast, an unspoken tension filled the air. Tim focused on flipping pancakes, while you tried to find the right words to broach the subject with Charlie. The smell of fresh coffee and syrup filled the kitchen, but the comforting scents did little to ease the anxiety gnawing at you.

"We wanted to talk to you about something," you began, meeting Charlie's gaze across the table. Your voice was calm, but your heart raced.

Charlie nodded, his expression guarded. "Okay," he said softly, his tone wary.

"You've been staying here for a week now, and..." you trailed off, searching for the right words.

"And you want me to go," Charlie interjected, his voice tinged with bitterness. "I bothered you enough."

Tim turned off the stove and wiped his hands on a dish towel before stepping over to the table. He pulled out a chair and sat down, leaning forward with a serious expression. He placed a hand on your back and another on Charlie's shoulder.

"No, buddy," he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. "We want you to stay here with us."

Charlie looked at both of you, surprise and confusion flickering in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"We know how hard this is for you," you continued softly. "Losing your mom... it's not something anyone should go through alone. We want to help you, Charlie. We want you to finish high school, have a good future."

"We know the foster care system can be rough," Tim said, his gaze steady on Charlie. "And legally, you'd be put into a foster home. But we want to be those foster parents. If you want that too."

Charlie's expression hardened, his grief morphing into anger. "Why do you even care?" he snapped. "You don't know me. You think you can just replace my mom?"

"We're not trying to replace anyone," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "We just want to help."

"Help?" Charlie scoffed, "You think I'm just some kid you can take pity on?" he spat, his voice laced with bitterness.

Tim's jaw clenched, his expression tight with frustration. "That's not what we think, kid," he said firmly, his voice unwavering. "We care about you."

But Charlie wasn't listening. He pushed his chair back abruptly, the screech of metal against tile echoing through the room. "I don't need your help," he said bitterly, his tone final. "I can take care of myself."

You watched helplessly as Charlie stormed out of the house, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you realized that your efforts had been in vain. You turned to Tim, your eyes pleading for understanding.

Tim placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, pulling you into a tight embrace. "We tried," he said softly, his voice filled with sorrow. "We did everything we could."

You nodded, unable to find the words to express your grief. The loss of Charlie felt like a weight pressing down on your chest, suffocating you with its intensity. You buried your face in Tim's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

"I thought we could help him," you whispered.

His hand moved up to stroke your hair, his touch gentle and reassuring. "I know," he said softly. "I know."

As Tim prepared to leave for work, you stood in the hallway, your heart heavy with the weight of the morning's events. He turned to face you, his expression tender and filled with understanding.

"Hey..." you called out.

Tim stepped closer, wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace. "I know," he said simply, his voice a soft murmur against your ear. "I'll keep an eye on him."

You clung to him, finding solace in his strength. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper.

Tim pulled back slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "We'll figure this out."

Weeks passed, and Charlie found himself shuffled from one foster family to another, never quite fitting in. Each new home brought fresh disappointment and the deepening sense that he didn't belong anywhere.

You and Tim dedicated yourselves to the process of becoming foster parents. The paperwork was extensive and the wait felt endless, but you both knew it was worth it.

Tim reached out to his ex-girlfriend Rachel—who worked for CPS — and with her help, he managed to keep an eye on Charlie's progress. What he saw only confirmed his fears: Charlie was not adjusting well to his new life.

"How's Charlie doing?" Lucy asked, breaking the comfortable silence. "And how's Y/N holding up with everything?"

Tim tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his eyes focused on the road. "Not great," he admitted. "When we told Charlie about the foster care system and that we wanted to be his foster parents, he didn't take it well. He's been bouncing from one family to another, and none of them seem to be a good fit for him."

"He'll come around," she said softly. "Whether you like to admit it or not, the kid has a place under your skin and vice versa. He's just hurting right now. He'll come back asking for help when he's ready."

"Yeah, tell that to Y/N. Maybe she'll listen to you." Tim sighed, a heavy sound filled with frustration and worry. "I don't like seeing her so sad because of some puppy. I don't want to tell her 'I told you so,' but I did tell her it might not be a good idea to get involved with him."

Lucy gave him a sympathetic smile. "Tamara did the same, and now she's the best roommate I've ever had."

Tim chuckled softly, "Jackson would disagree with you."

"Bradford, someone's asking for you at the front desk."

Grey approached them as soon as they walked back into the station. Tim watched Lucy process the suspect before he headed out to meet his visitor. With a nod of acknowledgment, he made his way to the front desk, his steps quick and purposeful.

Tim's heart skipped a beat when he saw Charlie standing there, his posture tense and his expression uncertain. Charlie stood up quickly as Tim approached, his eyes avoiding Tim's gaze.

"Officer Bradford," Charlie began, his voice trembling. "I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have taken my anger out on you and Y/N. I'm sorry and I'm sorry for running away.

Tim's expression softened, his heart going out to the troubled teenager before him.

"Charlie," he said gently, his voice carrying a note of compassion. "It's just Tim."

The boy's eyes flickered with surprise, a hint of relief washing over him.

"Tim," he echoed softly.

Tim placed a comforting hand on Charlie's shoulder, the gesture conveying more than words ever could.

"Kid, I understand," he said,"We all have our moments. But you're not alone in this."

Charlie's gaze dropped, his guilt weighing heavily on him. "I'm just so tired of feeling like a screw-up," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want to do better."

Tim nodded understandingly, his grip on his shoulder tightening ever so slightly. "You can, Charlie," he said firmly, his voice brimming with conviction. "But you're right, there's someone else you need to apologize to."

Charlie's breath caught in his throat, the weight of his actions settling heavily on his shoulders. "Y/N," he whispered, the name a painful reminder of the hurt he had caused.

Tim nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Y/N cares about you, Charlie," he said, his voice filled with reassurance. "We both do. And we're not giving up on you."

A flicker of hope ignited in Charlie's eyes, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You still want to help me?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Tim returned the smile, a sense of resolve settling over him. "We're not here to judge you. We want to help you. If you're willing to put in the effort, we'll be there every step of the way."

Charlie looked up at Tim, his eyes shimmering with gratitude and hope. "Thank you," he whispered, "Thank you for not giving up on me. I... I would be beyond grateful if you still want to help me. If you don't hate me."

"We don't hate you, Charlie," he said firmly, "And we're not going anywhere."

The familiar scent of your cooking filled the room, providing a sense of comfort and normalcy. As your boyfriend and Charlie stepped inside, Tim saw you setting up the table for dinner, arranging two sets of everything with meticulous care. The clinking of plates and silverware was a soothing, everyday sound that contrasted with the emotional whirlwind outside.

"Hey, baby," Tim greeted softly, his voice carrying the warmth of a long day finally coming to an end.

He walked over to you and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. You leaned into the kiss, savoring the brief moment of connection. The touch of his lips was reassuring, grounding you in the present.

Tim then turned his attention to the table and added, "You might want to make three of that."

You looked up, curiosity in your eyes. "Who's joining us?" you asked, looking at Tim's expression for clues.

Tim didn't answer immediately but instead pointed to the door where Charlie stood hesitantly, his posture tense and uncertain. Your face fell, tears welling up in your eyes as you looked back and forth between Charlie and Tim, trying to process what was happening. The emotional impact of seeing Charlie there, vulnerable and seeking solace, hit you like a wave.

You walked towards Charlie, your heart pounding in your chest. Each step felt heavy with the weight of the past weeks. As you reached him, you enveloped him in a warm, tight hug, your arms wrapping around him protectively.

"It's so good to see you, Charlie." You could feel Charlie's shoulders relax a little under your touch. "Come on, let's eat before it gets cold."

You settled at the table, and Charlie's face lit up at the sight of your delicious food. He took a deep breath, the familiar aromas bringing a sense of peace.

"I missed this so much." The words seemed to break the ice, melting some of the tension in the room.

"You're welcome here whenever you want," you replied warmly, your eyes shining with kindness. You reached across the table, gently squeezing his hand.

"Or," Tim interjected, "you can just stay here with us."

"Tim..." you began, surprised by his straightforwardness. You turned to him, eyes wide with shock and a hint of hope.

"I'd love that," Charlie said, cutting through your hesitation with a hopeful smile.

"What?" you asked, stunned.

"Look, Y/N, I'm so sorry for snapping at you," Charlie confessed, his voice sincere and eyes downcast. "I shouldn't have said those things to you. After everything you've done for me, you deserve better." His voice wavered with the weight of his regret.

You gently took his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "Oh, sweetheart. You had a rough time, and I understand that. We understand that. We're here if you need to talk, whenever you're ready."

Charlie took a deep breath, gathering his courage. "Actually, I was hoping I could stay here with you guys. Tim told me about the fostering process, and I was hoping it was still a thing."

You looked at Tim, your eyes wide with shock and hope. When he smiled and nodded, a wide smile spread across your face.

"Yes, of course."

Charlie hugged you tightly, and you felt his relief and gratitude in the embrace. Tears of joy streamed down your face as you held him, your heart swelling with emotion. The warmth of the hug conveyed all the unsaid words and feelings.

Tim cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to him. "Actually," he said, "I was thinking adoption would be a better option."

"Are you serious?" you asked, your voice filled with disbelief, turning to look at Tim with wide eyes.

"Yes," Tim confirmed, reaching into his pocket.

You watched him with bated breath as he pulled out a small box. Your eyes searched his for answers, your heart pounding in your chest.

"What's this? Tim? What are you doing?" you asked, your voice trembling.

Tim took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto yours. "I thought maybe it was best all three of us to share the same last name. I never imagined adopting a teenager, especially not one I arrested. But you, baby, you make me want to be a better man. And I can't do any of this without you. You showed me the bright side of this world, and you light up my life. Will you marry me? Because this kid's life is in your hands, and I don't want to do this without you 100% in."

"Yes, Tim. Oh, God, yes!" you exclaimed, tears of joy streaming down your face as Tim slipped the ring onto your finger and the touch of the cool metal sent a shiver down your spine.

"You're such a jerk," you teased, laughing through your tears as you playfully swatted his arm. "You almost ruined a beautiful moment."

"I just made sure you'd say yes," Tim retorted with a smirk, his eyes twinkling with mischief. His hand lingered on your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear.

Charlie grinned, the tension easing as he watched the exchange. "Do I need to call you mom and dad or something?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"Oh, no, no," you laughed, shaking your head. "I'm too young to be called a mom. But if you want to..."

"I think I'm good," Charlie said, smiling with a mix of relief and happiness.

"But you can call me Officer Bradford," Tim added, his tone teasingly gruff as he gave Charlie a playful nudge.

"Oh, stop it. Leave the kid alone," you said, nudging Tim back. "He's joking, Charlie. You need to get used to his bad jokes."

Tim grumbled, "You should be glad I'm not into dad jokes like Nolan."

"And that's why you should never call him dad," you quipped to Charlie with a grin.

"Roger that," Charlie responded, chuckling as he settled back into his seat.