realityjoey

[realityjoey]

SEASON 1, EPISODE 8, “TIME OF DEATH.”

The downstairs training room at Mid-Wilshire Station had the faint tang of sweat and rubber mats, the morning sun slicing in through the high windows in angled beams. Three rookies stood shoulder to shoulder on the mat — Lucy Chen, Jackson West, and John Nolan — facing their unexpected instructor. Detective Dylan Jenkins stood in front of them, sleeves pushed up, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail with a few rebellious strands falling across her face. Her stance was relaxed but sharp — every inch of her broadcast command.

Sergeant Grey, standing off to the side, addressed the rookies first. “You all need a reality check when it comes to self-defence. This isn’t a refresher. It’s survival training.” He gestured to Dylan. “Detective Jenkins has the most real-world experience on this mat. Back in London, no gun meant every fight was hand-to-hand. You didn’t learn to win, you didn’t walk away.”

Jackson raised a brow. “That intense?”

Dylan gave a small smile — not warm. Knowing. “I didn’t carry a weapon for most of my career,” she said, pacing in front of them. “If someone wanted to kill me, I either talked them down, fought them off, or died. We didn’t have the luxury of distance. No guns. Just grit.” Her voice was low, calm — but it cut through the room like a blade.

Outside in the hallway, Tim Bradford had been walking past with a case file tucked under his arm, headed for one of the admin rooms — but something about the voices and the thud of a body hitting the mat caught his attention. He paused in the open doorway, half-hidden behind the frame. Inside, Dylan had just flipped Lucy Chen onto her back with a quick, clean sweep of the leg.

“Keep your centre of gravity lower,” Dylan instructed, holding out a hand to help her up. “You’re fast, but you’re over-committing. Stay light on your feet.”

Lucy, breathless but grinning, nodded as she stood. “Yes, ma’am.”

Tim leaned against the doorframe, silently observing. He told himself he was watching because Grey had asked her to run the training — making sure everything was tight. Professional. Efficient. But the longer he watched, the less that felt true.

She moved with such control. Fluid and fierce. Every takedown was delivered with grace and precision, but there was always a purpose behind it. Dylan wasn’t just tossing them around — she was teaching. Adjusting their posture, pointing out their blind spots, demanding more from them while still offering sharp, smart guidance. Tim watched her sweep Jackson onto the mat with a shoulder roll and a hip check, then crouch beside him.

“You’re strong,” she said, “but your strength is working against you. You’re pushing through the opponent instead of redirecting their force.”

Jackson let out a grunt. “I’m trying, but you’re really—”

“Efficient,” Dylan finished, smirking. “You’re learning.”

Tim’s gaze flicked over her — the sweat glinting on her brow, the few strands of hair stuck to her cheek, the faint flush on her neck from exertion. And damn, she looked good like that. Not dolled up. Not polished. Just herself. Natural, focused, in her element — and something about that struck him harder than it should’ve. He exhaled softly and looked away — as if that might help push the thought down.

Back inside, Nolan hesitated before engaging Dylan. He looked tired, wary of being thrown again.

Dylan raised her hands. “I’m not going to drop you this time.”

Nolan gave her a look.

She grinned. “Well… not hard.”

And then, in a flash, she twisted his grip and redirected him toward the mat with a clean takedown that left him winded, blinking up at the ceiling. From the doorway, Tim smirked. Show-off. But still… impressive.

After the last drill, Dylan called the rookies to attention.

“You don’t win every fight,” she said. “But if you do it right — if you stay sharp, stay fast, and fight like your life depends on it — most of the time, it won’t be you who ends up on the ground.”

She scanned their faces, chest still rising and falling from exertion. They looked tired. But better. More focused. And just before she turned to gather her things, her eyes flicked up to the doorway — where she caught Tim watching her. He didn’t look away. Neither did she. Just a pause. An acknowledgement. Something warm beneath the usual guarded glances. And then she gave a small smirk and turned back to the rookies.

Tim pushed off the wall, continued down the hallway — file still under his arm, and something unfamiliar stirring in his chest. He didn’t quite have a name for it yet. But it had started. And he knew it.

The locker room was quiet, the soft hiss of a shower running somewhere beyond the row of benches the only sound that echoed off the tiled walls. Dylan Jenkins stood at the sink, tying her hair back with deft fingers, wiping the remaining sheen of sweat from her neck after the rookie training session. Her arms ached in that satisfying way — the way that told her she’d earned her bruises and hadn’t pulled her punches.

Meanwhile, out in the bullpen, Tim Bradford leaned against the corner of a desk, chatting half-distractedly with Lopez and Bishop about Jenkins’ impromptu fighting clinic.

“She flipped Nolan so fast, I thought the guy lost a tooth,” Bishop was saying, her tone both impressed and amused.

Lopez smirked. “I’ve never seen Jackson look more confused. She’s got them properly scared of her now.”

Tim cracked a small smile. “Good.”

But the moment barely had a chance to land before the mood shifted — like the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. Because someone walked into the bullpen. Someone wearing an orange jumpsuit.

Isabel. Handcuffed, her wrists red, her blonde hair tangled but recognisably hers. Two plainclothes detectives flanked her, one holding her by the elbow as they steered her through the station like a VIP guest.

Tim’s heart dropped. He froze mid-sentence, his breath stalling as his eyes locked on her. What the hell is she doing here?

His body was already moving before the thought finished. He stormed across the bullpen, his boots heavy on the tile floor, and cut across the path of the detectives escorting her — his focus locked on the one person who hadn’t looked surprised by her presence: Sergeant Grey.

“Are you serious?” Tim barked, his voice sharp and loud enough to turn a few heads.

Grey looked up from the folder in his hand, expression unreadable. “Bradford.”

Tim jabbed a finger toward Isabel, who had gone quiet, eyes flicking between them. “What is she doing here? Why the hell is she out of county?”

Grey let out a steady sigh, like he’d been expecting this. “She made a deal,” he said.

Tim’s jaw clenched. “What kind of deal?”

“She’s signed on as a confidential informant.”

Tim blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“She has contacts,” Grey replied, voice low and steady. “From the streets. From her time inside. And whether we like it or not, she knows how to operate. She’s been trained.”

“You think that’s gonna save her?” Tim snapped. “If anyone finds out she’s an ex-cop or a CI, she’s dead. You know that.”

“I do,” Grey said quietly. “But it’s her call. And this? It’s better than watching her rot in a prison cell until something worse happens.”

Tim ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard, trying to keep it together as Isabel was guided down a side hallway, out of view.

Grey rested a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I’m not asking you to be okay with it. But I am asking you to step back. This is above you now.”

Tim didn’t reply. He just stood there, pulse thudding in his neck, until he felt another presence beside him — softer, familiar. Dylan. Fresh from the locker room, her hair damp at the ends, her face still flushed from exertion. But her eyes were sharp and immediately focused on him.

“You alright?” she asked quietly. Tim didn’t respond. Dylan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t even look at her when he muttered, “She’s a CI. Isabel. Grey signed off on it.”

Dylan blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

She hesitated for half a second — then stepped closer, her hand lifting to rest gently on his shoulder. A simple gesture, but one with weight. A reminder he wasn’t standing there alone.

“Tim,” she said, her voice low. Calm. Firm. “I get it. This is a mess. But you can’t burn yourself trying to clean up hers.”

He didn’t look at her, but she could see the tension in his jaw loosen — just slightly.

“I know you want to protect her. But that ship sailed a long time ago,” Dylan continued. “You’re a good man. A damn good cop. But you don’t owe her your soul.”

He finally turned to look at her. And for a moment — a brief, vulnerable moment — all the armor in his expression cracked.

And all he could say was, “I didn’t think it’d still hurt this much.”

Dylan didn’t flinch. Her thumb pressed softly into his shoulder, grounding him. “You’re allowed to hurt,” she said. “But you’re not allowed to drown.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Of understanding. Of tension. Of the kind of care that lived in the quiet between words. Tim gave her the smallest of nods. And for now, that was enough.

The sun had dipped low over Los Angeles when the shooting occurred.

John Nolan had only seconds to make the call — a man with a warrant out for armed robbery had pulled a gun, aimed it directly at Nolan’s chest. The officer had shouted for him to drop the weapon. He hadn’t. So Nolan pulled the trigger. One shot. Center mass. The man dropped instantly. By the time backup arrived, Nolan stood frozen — his weapon shaking in his hand, his face pale, lips parted as if the words had never left him.

Three hours later, the precinct felt like a courtroom. Internal Affairs had already taken Nolan’s weapon. The protocol was in motion. The investigation into the shooting — standard, but still chilling — was being handled as a homicide case until it was cleared.

Nolan sat in one of the briefing rooms, silent, staring into the palms of his hands like they held the weight of the man he had just killed. He’d done the right thing. He knew that. Everyone knew that. But it didn’t feel right. Not at all. And now, one by one, the officers who’d been on scene or who had responded soon after were being called in for their statements — not as friends, but as witnesses.

Tim Bradford sat with his arms crossed in the interview chair, stone-faced, speaking in crisp, clipped words.

“Nolan warned him. Multiple times. I was twenty seconds behind him. The suspect pulled first — if Nolan hadn’t fired, he’d be the one on a slab.” His voice was flat, but the edge was there — not anger at the process, but at the fact that Nolan had to sit in that room like a criminal. “He did exactly what he was trained to do. Exactly what I would’ve done.”

⸻

Dylan Jenkins leaned forward, her elbows on the table, voice low but calm — the accent cool, collected.

“He didn’t flinch. He didn’t hesitate. Which means he was scared, but did it anyway. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Stop the threat.” She glanced toward the glass wall — the mirror behind which Nolan was still being processed. “I’ve seen people shoot for the wrong reasons. Out of panic. Out of fear. This wasn’t that. He waited as long as he could.”

⸻

Lucy Chen was the most emotional, her eyes rimmed in red but her voice clear and unwavering.

“Nolan’s the kind of cop you want out there. He doesn’t look for trouble, but when it finds him, he acts. He’s got the heart and the judgment. I know people who would’ve fired three shots before that guy even blinked. Nolan gave him every chance.” She crossed her arms. “You wanna investigate someone? Investigate the guy who pulled a weapon on an officer. Not the one who saved his own life.”

⸻

Angela Lopez sat back in her chair, arms draped lazily across the seat, her tone cool but pointed.

“Nolan saved his own life. Saved others, too. You’re lucky it was him standing there — someone who actually gives a damn. If you’re asking whether I think he was justified? You already know the answer.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping. “What I want to know is how long he’s gonna have to sit in that room while we all pretend it wasn’t a cut-and-dry case of self-defense.”

⸻

Jackson West, more composed than expected, clasped his hands together, voice steady.

“He hesitated just long enough to give that man a chance to do the right thing. And when he didn’t, Nolan did what he had to do. We train for this. We hope it never happens. But when it does, we don’t punish the officer for surviving.” He shook his head softly. “Nolan’s one of the most level-headed cops I’ve met. If he pulled the trigger, it’s because he had no other choice.”

⸻

Bishop was the last to give her statement. She didn’t waste time.

“He did everything right. You can try to pick apart the footage, dissect the angles, but in the field, it’s half-seconds and instincts. Nolan’s instincts saved him. Don’t crucify him for being alive.” She stood at the end, unapologetic. “You’ll get the same version of this story from every single person in this building. So the only question is: how long are you going to keep a good cop waiting?”

⸻

Outside the interview room, the precinct felt heavy. Grey stood near the edge of the hallway, watching Nolan through the glass. Tim, Dylan, Lucy, Jackson, Angela, and Bishop stood nearby, silent — a wall of unwavering support.

And inside, Nolan sat alone, still pale, but finally beginning to believe — maybe — he hadn’t done something wrong.

The break room lights buzzed overhead — too bright for the mood in the room. The clock ticked loud in the silence between sips of lukewarm coffee. Five officers sat around the table — each in varying stages of exhaustion.

Angela Lopez leaned back in her chair, one hand wrapped around a half-empty mug, her expression unreadable but tired. Jackson West and Lucy Chen sat opposite each other, hunched, arms folded, both still processing the trauma of the day.

And Tim Bradford? He sat still, shoulders tight, cup untouched, eyes fixed on the grain of the table. His jaw flexed once. Twice. A storm behind the stillness.

Dylan Jenkins, seated next to him, kept her own mug cradled in her hands, watching everyone over the rim with those sharp, perceptive eyes that never missed much — especially not the way Tim hadn’t spoken in over ten minutes. The silence had stretched out so long, it had started to feel like part of the room.

Finally, Lucy broke it. “Is there… anything we can do?” she asked, voice small but sincere. “For Nolan?”

Angela glanced at her, then looked away. “No. Not really.”

“Not until IA clears him,” Jackson added. “And that could take days. Weeks, even.”

Tim shifted in his seat, his mouth tightening. “He’ll be fine. The evidence is clear. The guy pulled on him. Body cam will prove it.”

“And in the meantime?” Lucy said. “He’s just… in limbo?”

“That’s the job,” Angela replied. “Sometimes you do everything right, and still end up under a microscope.”

Jackson’s brows furrowed. “It’s not fair.”

“No,” Dylan said softly. “It’s not.”

Tim said nothing. But Dylan could feel it — the tension radiating off him in waves. And she knew… it wasn’t just Nolan weighing on him. It was Isabel. It was everything.

The silence returned, heavier than before. Then Dylan’s knee — bent slightly under the table — brushed gently against Tim’s. It was the lightest touch. Accidental. At first. But neither of them moved. Tim didn’t even flinch. His eyes stayed fixed forward, but his jaw loosened. His shoulders dipped — just a little — like the pressure valve had eased.

Dylan didn’t pull away. She didn’t look at him. But her knee stayed against his. A simple point of contact. Human. Warm. Grounding.

Angela’s voice broke the quiet again, softer this time. “The only thing we can do is show up tomorrow. For him. For each other.”

Tim finally took a sip of his coffee. Still didn’t speak. But beside him, Dylan’s knee remained against his. And that was more than enough.

The midday sun filtered through the trees above their usual burger van, casting broken light across the picnic table where Angela Lopez, Tim Bradford, and Dylan Jenkins sat nursing their lunches in silence. There wasn’t much to say. Not after the week they’d had.

Tim sat hunched slightly, eyes low, poking at a paper tray of fries without eating them. Dylan leaned back against the bench, one leg stretched out, sipping her drink. Angela was mid-sentence, trying to keep the conversation light — something about Nolan needing a new haircut — when her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, and everything shifted. Her eyes narrowed. She tapped the screen, read the message twice.

Then, slowly, she said, “Isabel’s going into a buy tonight.”

Tim’s head snapped up. “What?”

Angela kept her tone even. “She’s wearing a wire. Narcotics set it up. They think she can get them in with a new heroin supplier out of South Central.”

Tim was already pushing off the bench. “Are you kidding me?”

Lopez sighed. “Bradford—”

“That’s suicide!” he barked. “She’s been clean five minutes, she’s barely stable, and they’re putting her into a wire deal?”

Dylan stood too, her food forgotten. “Tim—wait.”

But he was already walking — storming across the parking lot, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides. Dylan exchanged a look with Angela, then jogged after him.

They reached the precinct within minutes. Tim didn’t stop moving — not for anyone.

“Tim,” Dylan said, right on his heels. “Stop. Just—listen to me for a second.”

He didn’t. He pushed through the bullpen, shouldering past a stunned officer, and threw open the door to Captain Andersen’s office without knocking.

The captain looked up from her desk, immediately bristling. “Officer Bradford.”

“This is insane,” Tim snapped. “You’re putting a known addict with no field control back into deep work? With a wire?”

Andersen calmly closed the file in front of her. “You want to take a breath before continuing, Officer?”

Tim didn’t move. “She’s going to get killed.”

Andersen stood. “I understand your concern. And I understand that this situation is—personal—for you. But it’s not your call.”

“She’s not ready.”

“She volunteered.”

“She’s not thinking straight.”

“She passed every psych test. Every prep scenario. She’s cleared.”

Tim stepped forward, chest rising with every shallow breath. “You don’t know her like I do.”

“No,” Andersen said. “But I know you, and I know you just barged into your captain’s office in the middle of operational briefings because your emotions got the better of you. And that is not how this works.”

Tim fell silent. The tension between them crackled.

Dylan stood in the doorway, watching it unfold with quiet intensity. She could see it in Tim’s face — rage, fear, helplessness. It made sense now. All of it. Why he hadn’t slept, why he hadn’t been himself. Because deep down, he still believed he could protect Isabel. Still believed it was his responsibility.

Andersen took a breath, her voice softening just slightly. “I can’t pull her from the operation. But I can give you something.” Tim’s gaze lifted. “If anything goes wrong — if the signal goes dark, if the buy turns, if the room gets hot — you and Jenkins will be first in.”

Dylan blinked.

Tim hesitated. “You’re assigning us to the rescue team?”

Andersen nodded. “I know you want to be in control of this. You can’t be. But if something does happen — I’ll make sure you’re the one who gets there first.”

Tim swallowed hard. Slowly, he nodded. Then, without a word, he turned and stepped out. Dylan lingered in the doorway, watching him go.

Andersen’s voice called gently after her. “Detective Jenkins.”

She turned.

“Keep him focused.”

Dylan gave a small nod. “I will.”

And she meant it. Because she could see it plain as day: Tim Bradford was standing on the edge of something dangerous. And if she didn’t keep him tethered — he might just fall.

The sky had turned black above South Vermont Avenue, the hum of the city muffled by the thick, humid quiet that always preceded something bad. Streetlights flickered overhead, and the buzzing neon sign of the Wendell Motel sputtered a faint Welcome! over rusted brick.

Tim Bradford sat in his truck, engine off, headlights down, parked just out of sight with a view of the parking lot. His eyes weren’t on the motel, not yet. They were on his phone. A video played, soft and shaky, filmed on some long-forgotten day.Isabel was laughing — a real laugh, bright and full — standing on a beach somewhere, hair tousled by the wind, holding a melting ice cream cone and grinning at the camera.

Offscreen, his voice:

“You’re going to drop it.”

“No I’m not.”

“You’re going to drop it.”

Plop.

“Told you.”

Laughter. Her laughter. Tim’s chest ached with the sound of it. She hadn’t laughed like that in years. The video ended. He just stared at the black screen, thumb hovering over the play button again, when the sound of a car door opening pulled him back to reality.

Dylan Jenkins slid into the passenger seat, dressed in tactical black, her hair pulled back, eyes scanning the perimeter before locking onto him. Without a word, she handed over a steaming cup of coffee and a brown paper bag — his favourite takeout, the kind only someone who had been paying attention would know to get. Tim took both, surprised but silent.

“Thought I’d bring dinner to the stakeout,” Dylan said casually. “Didn’t want you chewing your own hand off or starting a hunger strike in protest.”

He gave her a sideways look, lips twitching slightly. “Didn’t ask for a babysitter.”

“Didn’t ask for a partner, either,” she replied with a smirk. “And yet, here I am. Full of charm and carbs.”

Tim huffed — maybe a laugh, maybe not — as he took a bite of the sandwich. She sipped her own coffee, glancing at the motel.

“You alright?” she asked after a beat, her voice quieter now.

Tim didn’t answer right away. He stared through the windshield, into the shadows.

“I’m worried.” he muttered eventually.

“You loved her,” she said simply. “It’s only human to worry.”

“I still…” He stopped. Jaw clenched. “I don’t know. Maybe I just loved the version of her that didn’t exist anymore.”

Dylan leaned back in her seat, letting the silence fill the truck for a moment. “Grief’s a weird thing,” she said. “You can grieve people who are still breathing. Doesn’t make it easier. Just makes it messier.”

Tim turned to her, and for the first time that night, really looked at her. “Is this the part where you tell me it gets better?”

“No,” Dylan said. “This is the part where I tell you the food’s getting cold, and if you don’t eat it, I’m having it.”

He snorted. “You’d steal a man’s dinner in the middle of a crisis?”

“Absolutely. British charm only gets me so far. Hunger takes the wheel after that.”

The warmth between them sparked — soft, quiet, so necessary — but it didn’t last. Because then, they both saw it.

Isabel. Stepping out of a dark sedan parked three buildings down. Wearing tight jeans and a leather jacket. Hair pulled back. Face unreadable. She walked up the broken sidewalk toward room 207, eyes straight ahead, body tense but purposeful.

Tim sat up straighter. Coffee forgotten. His whole frame tensed like a coiled wire.

Dylan’s tone shifted. “It’s starting.”

And just like that, the levity drained from the cab. They were no longer two people sharing a meal and a moment. They were officers on an op. And it was game time.

The inside of the truck was deathly quiet now, save for the low hum of the comms unit. Tim and Dylan sat in silence, coffee cups forgotten in the holders, eyes fixed on the motel room door marked 207, their ears tuned to the small earpiece through which Isabel’s wire fed intermittent static and sound.

“She’s in,” one of the detectives said over the line. “Audio is live. Keep it quiet.”

Tim’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Isabel’s voice crackled through the speaker. Calm. Clear. Professional.

”—You got it?”

A deep male voice — Vance, the dealer — responded after a pause.

“One kilo, uncut. Carson said you could handle the delivery. You sure about that?”

“Please. I’ve done worse on less sleep.” Isabel’s voice carried that sarcastic lilt — the one Tim hadn’t heard in years, but recognized instantly.

Tim exhaled through his nose, heart pounding. Then she said something that made every officer listening freeze.

“What about a second one?”

Tim’s head snapped toward the comms unit.

“Two kilos,” she said. “I can move both. I’ve got the buyers lined up. That way, I don’t come crawling back tomorrow asking for more like a desperate stray.”

There was silence on the line. Even through audio, you could feel it — the shift in the room. She was pushing him. Pushing hard.

“Shit,” Dylan muttered under her breath.

One of the detectives in the surveillance van whispered, “What is she doing?”

“She’s smart,” another replied. “If he gives her two, we can track the supply line. It’s a fast ticket to Vance’s supplier.”

“Or he gets suspicious,” Tim growled, already shifting in his seat. “And shoots her in the face.”

No one answered him. Then Vance spoke.

“You’re bold. I like bold. But…” He paused. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Tim sat up, adrenaline slicing through him like a blade. “No, no, no—”

“You look familiar.” Vance’s voice sharpened. “What’d you say you used to do, again?”

Isabel’s voice wasn’t immediate. That pause said it all. Then— Silence. Dead air. No static. No feedback. Just nothing. Tim’s heart dropped.

“Signal’s gone,” one of the detectives said. “Shit, she must’ve been made—”

Tim didn’t wait. He was already out the door.

“Bradford!” the lead detective snapped, stepping out of the surveillance van. “Stand down! We don’t have visuals yet!”

“She’s in there with a kilo dealer and no backup!” Tim shouted, pulling his vest into place as he sprinted across the lot. “I’m not waiting to find her body.”

Dylan was only two steps behind him, already gearing up. “He’s right. You lose signal on a wired C.I., you move.”

The detective protested again, but the team was already in motion, following behind the two officers as they made their way toward the stairwell of the motel. Tim led the charge up the rusted steps, weapon drawn, jaw clenched, every sense on fire.

Dylan, at his back, was steady and calm — her voice low in his earpiece. “We breach together. Don’t get yourself killed.”

Tim didn’t answer. His only focus: Isabel. And he’d be damned if she went down tonight.

The motel door crashed open with a violent bang, splintering against the inside wall as Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins entered, weapons drawn and hearts thudding in their ears. The backup team followed close behind, boots pounding the worn carpeted stairs and peeling linoleum floors.

“LAPD!” Tim shouted, slicing through the air with authority. “Hands where we can see them!”

No answer. No sound. Only the faint creak of the ceiling fan overhead and the buzz of a TV left on — static hissing in the background. They cleared the main room first — bed unmade, chairs pulled back, drug paraphernalia still out on the counter. No movement. No sign of life.

“Clear,” Dylan muttered, moving toward the bathroom. She opened the door with precision — nothing.

Tim stormed toward the back window. It was cracked open, the curtains rustling gently in the night breeze. He stepped closer and froze. A small pool of blood glistened in the corner of the carpet. And beside it… The wire. Isabel’s wire. Torn off, the mic exposed, battery blinking once — then dead.

Tim stared at it, his jaw locked, his entire body vibrating with emotion. “No,” he whispered. Then louder, to the room — to the detectives arriving behind him — “No. NO.”

He bent, snatched up the wire, and turned with a wildness in his eyes no one had seen from him before. He hurled the wire across the room. It hit one of the lead detectives square in the chest.

“You did this!” Tim roared, his voice ragged and full of fury. “You did this!” He surged forward, body rigid with rage, eyes locked on the detective like a target. “You put her in there with no cover! You sent her in to die!”

The detective raised his hands, backing up instinctively, but Tim wasn’t stopping.

“Bradford—!” someone yelled, but he didn’t hear them.

Dylan was already moving, stepping between them just in time, planting her palms on his chest.

“Hey! Hey!” she shouted, her voice sharp enough to slice through his storm.

Tim kept moving, pushing lightly against her as if he didn’t realize who it was.

“Bradford!” she barked, forceful, gripping the edges of his vest. “Calm down.”

He resisted — for half a second. He looked at her. Her eyes were locked onto his — wide, sure, and steady in a sea of chaos. And in that look, something in him cracked. The fury began to drain — not all at once, but like a leak springing in a dam. His breathing slowed, his shoulders dropped a fraction, and the tension in his arms bled away into something else. Shame. Sadness.

“I shouldn’t have let her…” he started, voice trembling. “I knew this would happen. I knew…”

“Stop,” Dylan said gently, her voice now quiet but firm, her hands still resting against his chest like an anchor.

He looked down, blinking rapidly. And just like that, the anger was gone — replaced by a deep, unshakeable grief. Everyone in the room went silent. The detective didn’t move. Dylan didn’t let go. Tim finally exhaled, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight as he tried to steady himself.

“She’s not dead,” Dylan whispered, only for him. “We don’t know anything yet. But you’re not doing her any good like this.”

He nodded, barely. Dylan eased her grip on his vest but didn’t take her hands away. And he didn’t step back.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

[realityjoey]

season 1, episode 1: rookie’s introduced and assigned to their T.O’s

[realityjoey]

season 1, episode 1: jackson and tim’s first encounter

[realityjoey]

SEASON 1, EPISODE 7, “THE RIDE-ALONG.”

It was barely 9 a.m. when the Mid-Wilshire Division was buzzing — and not because of a briefing or a tactical operation. Today, the entire precinct had gathered for something much more special. Make-A-Wish Foundation had partnered with the department to give one brave, spirited little girl the chance to live out her dream: to be a cop for the day.

Amaya, age eight, with big brown eyes, puffball pigtails, and a tiny badge pinned proudly to her LAPD-blue shirt, was ready for action. She’d been briefed like a real officer. Assigned a “unit” — complete with lights, sirens, and two very serious-looking patrol partners. She even had a plastic radio clipped to her belt and pink light-up sneakers under her uniform trousers. Her target? Officer John Nolan, currently decked out in a hoodie, fake prison jumpsuit pants, and a backward cap, playing the role of the “most-wanted fugitive in Los Angeles.”

The scene was set. A crowd had formed along the perimeter of the back lot, officers and staff lining the sidewalks as the faux pursuit began. Nolan took off in a dramatic jog, fake handcuffs dangling from his wrist, shouting over his shoulder, “You’ll never catch me!”

Amaya shrieked with joy and ran after him, flanked by a pair of officers and trailed by others in mock pursuit. She was determined, face lit with adrenaline and excitement.

“Get him, Officer Amaya!” someone yelled from the sidelines.

She gained on him, little arms pumping, giggling the whole way. Nolan pretended to trip over a curb, went down like he’d been tackled by a full-grown officer, and dramatically groaned, “Okay, okay! You got me!”

Amaya puffed out her chest, handcuffed him with bright pink toy cuffs, and radioed in to dispatch with a level of seriousness that made everyone melt.

“This is Officer Amaya,” she said, breathless. “Suspect is in custody.”

The entire crowd erupted in applause.

Inside the station, they’d laid out a red carpet runner down the center of the bullpen. Officers stood in two tight rows, forming a corridor with balloons overhead and signs like “LAPD’s Littlest Hero!” and “Welcome Officer Amaya!”

Tim, Dylan, and Angela stood near the far end, coffees in hand, watching the whole thing unfold.

“Alright,” Dylan said, smirking. “I gotta admit, this is a pretty solid operation.”

Angela grinned. “Mid-Wilshire never goes halfway.”

They all turned as Amaya entered, leading Nolan, still “in custody,” down the red carpet. She waved like a celebrity, absolutely glowing, grinning from ear to ear as the crowd cheered and clapped, phones flashing, a few people even tearing up at the sight.

Dylan gave a low whistle. “She’s adorable.”

“Look at her go,” Angela added, clapping as the little girl beamed at the cheering line. Then her eyes slid sideways toward Tim. “And look at you. Is that… is that a smile?”

Tim, who had in fact been grinning — just a little — turned to them both. “I smile.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “When? During crime scene clean-ups?”

Angela smirked. “Or maybe after yelling at rookies until they cry?”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I have range.”

Dylan leaned toward him, mock-serious. “You’re smiling now. Admit it — little Amaya’s cracked the Bradford shell.”

He glanced down the hallway again, watching Amaya high-five Grey, wave to dispatch, and proudly shout, “I got the bad guy!” His mouth pulled into a reluctant — but genuine — grin.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “She’s earned it.”

Angela bumped his arm. “See? Told you there was a human under all that grump.”

Dylan nudged his other side. “Don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone.”

He shook his head, but didn’t stop smiling. Not even a little. And as Officer Amaya strutted through the precinct like she owned it, waving to her cheering officers, the air in Mid-Wilshire felt a little lighter, the job a little brighter, and the people who wore the badge — for just that moment — a little more human.

The air in the roll call room was laced with caffeine and quiet chatter as officers filtered in, taking their usual seats and nursing their coffees like it was oxygen. Sergeant Grey stood at the front, arms crossed, eyeing the group with that unreadable expression he wore before dropping something unpleasant on them. Dylan Jenkins and Tim Bradford sat side by side, as usual, with Lopez and Bishop close by. Nolan, West, and Chen filled in the row in front of them — the rookies’ row.

Grey cleared his throat. The room fell silent. “I’m going to start this morning with a game,” he said, chalk in hand. A few skeptical glances shot around the room. “Don’t get excited,” he added dryly. He turned to the whiteboard and wrote a single phrase: “A Patrol Officer’s Worst Assignment Is…” Then he turned back, chalk still in hand. “Lopez. You’re up first.”

Angela raised an eyebrow, tapping her pen against her notepad. “Easy. Paperwork detail for someone else’s screw-up.” A few nods and soft chuckles rippled through the room.

“Bradford?”

Tim barely looked up. “Babysitting rookies who can’t tell a license plate from a fast food receipt.” This earned a louder round of laughter — even Nolan smirked.

“Jenkins?”

Dylan stretched back in her chair with a yawn. “Missing person where the person doesn’t actually want to be found. Bonus points if it’s a messy divorce.”

Grey nodded, unimpressed, and turned to Bishop. “Bishop?”

“Traffic enforcement with a radar gun in a school zone,” she said without hesitation. “No one wins. Especially not the cop.”

Grey gave the briefest nod of approval, then turned back to the board and scrawled two dreaded words: “VIP RIDE-ALONG.” The moment the chalk hit the board, the entire room let out a collective groan.

Nolan blinked, confused. “Wait—why is that so bad? Sounds kind of fun.”

The room collectively turned to look at him like he’d just volunteered to clean every bathroom in the precinct.

Grey didn’t answer. He just tilted his head toward Dylan. “Jenkins?”

Dylan pushed her chair back slightly, folding her arms. “Oh, it’s a blast, Nolan. See, when you’ve got a VIP in the car — usually some city council member or influencer’s nephew with a GoPro and a superiority complex — your only job is to not let them get hurt.” She pointed at him. “If they trip getting out of the cruiser? Your fault. If someone sneezes aggressively nearby? Still your fault.”

Tim chimed in, voice flat. “And because of that, you don’t take real calls. You get sent to the safest, dullest, most uneventful calls in the city. Lost dog reports. Noise complaints from three days ago. The 12-hour shift turns into a hostage situation where you’re the hostage.”

Dylan nodded solemnly. “Trapped in a car with someone who wants to ask a thousand questions about guns and sirens while spraying body spray that smells like expired citrus.”

That earned some laughs, especially from Lopez, who added, “And they always want a selfie.”

Tim leaned forward on the desk, grumbling, “Entitled pre-Madonna coated in Axe and self-importance.”

Dylan side-eyed him with a smirk. “Someone sounds like they’re speaking from experience.”

“I still get migraines when I smell eucalyptus,” he muttered.

Grey raised a hand, silencing the chuckles. “Which is why I’ve thoughtfully chosen our VIP assignment today to go to…” He paused, eyes scanning the room before landing on Nolan and Bishop. “You two. Congratulations.”

Nolan blinked, then leaned forward. “Wait, seriously? Me?”

Grey just nodded. “You wanted fun, Rookie. This is it.”

As the room buzzed again, prepping for the day ahead, Dylan leaned toward Tim and murmured, “Think he’ll still think it’s fun when he’s been stuck in traffic with an armchair cop influencer trying to livestream the whole shift?”

Tim smirked, finally relaxing into his seat. “Five bucks says he’s begging to be reassigned by lunch.”

Lopez, overhearing, raised her brow. “You’re betting on Rookies now?”

Dylan smirked, eyes gleaming. “Only the ones who think VIPs are fun.”

The morning air in the station was crisp — one of those rare days when the LA sky felt clearer than usual. Officers buzzed through the corridors, clipping radios to belts, pouring coffee that was far too bitter, and checking assignments on the whiteboard. It should’ve been just another shift.

Sergeant Grey caught sight of Tim Bradford and gave him a quiet nod toward the hallway. “Bradford. A word.”

Tim glanced at Dylan, who had just zipped up her vest and slung her bag over one shoulder. “I’ll meet you at the shop,” he told her, voice low and even.

She tilted her head. “You good?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. Just go get it ready.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary — reading something under the surface — then gave a simple, trusting nod and turned to leave.

Tim followed Grey down the hall, past the briefing room, and into the small glass office just off the side corridor. Grey closed the door behind them and folded his arms across his chest.

“I wanted to tell you this before it spread through the department,” Grey said. His voice was even, but laced with quiet weight.

Tim’s jaw locked. He already knew something was wrong.

“The Narco unit made a bust overnight. Motel room in East Hollywood. Name came across the paperwork this morning.” He paused. “Isabel.”

Tim didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “She was there?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Grey nodded slowly. “She was one of the suspects. Caught with possession. Intent to sell. Pills, heroin. Not street-level quantities.”

The words felt like lead, dropping into the pit of Tim’s stomach. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t scowl or pace or break down. But something behind his eyes fractured.

“What’s she being charged with?” he asked.

“Possession with intent,” Grey replied. “They’re bringing her in today.”

Tim gave the faintest of nods. His fists tightened at his sides. He looked down briefly, his lips pressed into a hard line — like if he loosened them for even a second, everything inside him might come pouring out.

Grey, watching him carefully, added quietly, “I know this hits close, Tim. But she’s not your responsibility anymore. Don’t make her one.”

“I’m not,” Tim said. The words came fast. Too fast.

Grey studied him. “You sure?”

Tim didn’t answer. He stood there for another beat — silent, still — then gave another stiff nod and left the office without a word.

Down in the garage, Dylan Jenkins was perched on the hood of their cruiser, typing something on her phone. The second she heard Tim’s footsteps, she looked up. And immediately, she knew. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. His walk was the same. His gear was in place. But something was off. There was a tightness in his jaw, a new stiffness in his shoulders. That blank, unreadable Tim Bradford Wall was back in full force.

She slid off the hood, pocketing her phone. “All good?” she asked, careful.

He nodded once. “Let’s go.”

But the nod was too short. The voice too low. Dylan didn’t push. She wanted to. But she’d learned quickly that with Tim, pushing made walls go higher. So instead, she climbed into the passenger seat, letting the silence settle between them like dust.

But as Tim turned the key in the ignition, hands tight on the wheel, jaw clenched just a little too hard—

Dylan glanced sideways at him and said, softly, “Whatever it is… just don’t carry it alone.”

Tim didn’t look at her.

The cruiser sat idle in the parking bay, the radio murmured quietly with the start of morning dispatches, but neither of them made a move. Tim Bradford sat in the driver’s seat, hunched forward slightly, both hands gripping the steering wheel like he was holding on for dear life. He wasn’t moving, barely breathing — just staring straight ahead.

Dylan Jenkins had seen a lot in her life. A lot of grief. A lot of men pretending they were fine. But this… this was different. She’d seen Tim bruised, broken, stitched up and bleeding. But she’d never seen this kind of silence from him. Not the brooding kind. Not the tough-cop kind. This was… hollow. Like someone was shouting inside his head and he couldn’t shut it off.

She spoke softly, measured. “Tim.”

No response. His grip on the wheel tightened. Jaw clenched so hard the muscle twitched.

Dylan turned slightly in her seat. “You’re not okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said—” His voice cracked mid-sentence, barely loud enough to register. He stopped himself, swallowing hard, eyes still forward. His shoulders were rigid, every inch of him locked in place, like if he moved, the whole dam would break.

Dylan looked at him — really looked — and knew what had to be done.

“We’re not going out. You’re not in the headspace. I’m taking you back inside.”

“Jenkins—”

“Not a request.” Her tone was firm now. Calm, but immovable. “I’m not putting either of us, or anyone else, at risk because you think burying this makes you bulletproof.”

Tim looked at her then, eyes bloodshot, barely holding it together. He didn’t speak again. Just slowly opened the door and stepped out, shoulders heavy.

The bullpen was quiet when they walked back in. Everyone was out on patrol or paperwork. The chairs sat empty, files still scattered on desks. It felt like a moment caught between breaths.

Tim sat at one of the desks, lowering himself slowly like every inch of him hurt. He didn’t even lean back. Just sat there, staring down at his hands. Like they belonged to someone else.

Dylan left briefly, returning with a glass of water, placing it gently in front of him. He didn’t touch it.

“You don’t have to talk,” she said, voice low. “But don’t pretend.”

Then, with one last look, she turned and headed toward Grey’s office.

Sergeant Grey looked up the moment Dylan knocked.

“Is he alright?” he asked immediately, standing.

“No,” Dylan replied simply, stepping in. “And I’m not letting him on the streets like this. He’s trying to pretend, but he’s barely holding it together.”

Grey exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “Damn it. I knew it’d hit him hard, but—”

“I’ll stay with him,” Dylan offered. “But he needs time. He needs… someone to not just order him through it.”

Grey nodded, just as the sound of the front doors caught both of their attention. They turned to the bullpen windows just in time to see two plainclothes detectives escorting a woman through the station, her wrists cuffed, her head bowed beneath a mop of greasy, once-blonde hair.

Isabel. She looked thinner. Paler. Shadows under her eyes. But unmistakably her. Tim stood up from his desk slowly, robotically — like gravity was the only thing moving him. He stared at her, eyes wide, expression completely unreadable. Like he’d seen a ghost. Isabel glanced up for the briefest moment. Their eyes met. She looked away. And Tim? He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, haunted.

Dylan, watching from Grey’s side, could feel it in her chest — the way the world must’ve cracked under his boots in that moment. And she knew it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The walls of Interview Room 2 were too white. Too bright. Too silent. Grey stood with his arms folded, posture tight, face unreadable. Tim Bradford leaned against the far wall, shoulders hunched, jaw locked so tight his molars ached. Dylan Jenkins remained by the doorway, arms crossed, her eyes flicking between the people in the room — reading, calculating, silently bracing herself for the emotional fallout already pulsing in the air.

The two Narcotics detectives—Detective Ruiz and Detective Farrow—had just wrapped up the initial debrief. Now, they stood at the head of the table, flipping through a case file thick with evidence.

“We pulled her over off of Cahuenga,” Ruiz explained. “Anonymous tip led us there. She was driving a silver Buick, windows tinted beyond legal limit. No plates.”

“Inside the trunk,” Farrow picked up, “we found multiple vacuum-sealed bricks of heroin and oxy. Packaged for distribution. Street value’s not small. We’re talking intent to sell, no way around it.”

Tim shifted, his voice breaking in low, clipped: “She’s not a dealer.”

The room stilled for a second.

Ruiz met his eyes. “I get that. Maybe she’s not the top of the pyramid. Maybe she’s just a runner. Maybe she’s being used. But she was behind the wheel, Bradford. And the drugs were under her control.”

“She’s not—” Tim cut himself off, inhaling sharply. “That’s not who she is.”

“She had multiple burner phones in the glove box,” Farrow added gently, not unkind. “One of them had texts from a guy named Renny ‘Z’. Your girl’s arranging pickups.”

Tim looked like he’d been physically struck. The detectives both paused, sensing they’d said enough.

“We’re not looking to pin her for something she didn’t do,” Ruiz said carefully. “But we can’t pretend she wasn’t driving the car, carrying product, and fielding deals on a phone.”

Silence.

Then: “I’m sorry,” Farrow added, before they turned and quietly left the room.

The door clicked shut. And it was like the sound cracked something open. Tim hadn’t moved from the wall. His jaw was still clenched, eyes fixed on the floor, chest rising and falling in slow, forced breaths — but Dylan could see it. The tightness in his fists. The red rims of his eyes. The storm beneath the surface, rattling the foundations of every last bit of control he was clinging to.

Sergeant Grey broke the silence first, voice low and measured. “I think you should take a personal day.”

Tim didn’t look up. “It’s not necessary.”

“Bradford,” Grey said more firmly. “You’ve just been told your wife is being brought up on felony drug charges.”

“She’s not my wife anymore.”

Dylan flinched at the way he said it — the sharpness, the finality, like he was trying to convince himself harder than anyone else.

Grey didn’t back down. “I’m not asking.”

“I’m fine,” Tim snapped. His voice was hard, but his expression betrayed him — that thousand-yard stare, the crumbling wall he was trying too hard to reinforce. “I can do my job.”

“You sure?” Grey challenged, stepping closer. “Because the next time you respond to a call, I need to know your head is where it needs to be. If not for your sake, then for hers.” He nodded toward Dylan.

Dylan didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. She stood calm, quietly supportive, a solid presence just a few feet behind Tim — and the only one in the room who seemed to understand the kind of emotional implosion he was swallowing whole.

After a long moment, Tim exhaled slowly. “I’m okay with going back out,” he said.

Grey didn’t argue further. He studied Tim a moment longer, then gave a subtle nod. “Then go,” he said. “And don’t make me regret trusting you with the rest of the day.”

Tim pushed off the wall, still stiff, every movement like it hurt. Dylan followed him without a word as they made their way out of the room, past the bullpen now bustling with unaware officers.

The doors of the precinct shut behind them with a solid thunk. The air outside was warm, but the tension between Dylan Jenkins and Tim Bradford cut through it like winter wind. They walked in silence toward their shop. Dylan didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t need to. Her steps were faster than usual. Sharper. She wasn’t just concerned. She was pissed. Tim could feel it without even looking at her. She reached the car first, turned on her heel, and faced him.

“Do you even hear yourself in there?” she said, voice low but fierce.

Tim blinked, caught off-guard. “What?”

“You’re not okay, Bradford.” She took a step forward. “And I don’t mean that as a dig or an insult or whatever defence you’re about to throw at me. I mean you just stood in a room, hearing your ex-wife is about to be locked up for dealing — and instead of dealing with it, you’re pretending it didn’t touch you.”

“I said I’m fine—”

“No, you said the words,” Dylan snapped. “You’re not fine. Your hands were shaking back there.”

“I’ve been through worse,” Tim muttered.

Dylan scoffed, crossing her arms. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

She stared at him for a second — long and hard. The kind of look that could have cracked concrete. Her jaw was set, voice taut with a kind of fear she wasn’t used to letting people see.

“The point is I don’t want to get shot today because you’re too busy pretending your heart isn’t in pieces,” she said quietly.

That stopped him. Cold.

Tim looked at her. “You think I’d let something happen to you?”

“I don’t think anything,” she said. “But I’ve been partnered with someone who thought he could push his feelings down and do the job anyway. And when things got real, when the punches started flying, the knives—he wasn’t there.”

The weight in her voice landed like a punch. She didn’t need to explain it. Tim saw it in her eyes — whatever happened back in London, it had been bad. She’d almost lost her life, and someone she trusted hadn’t been fully present. She was terrified of it happening again.

He took a slow breath, stepping closer, voice softer now. “I’m not that guy, Jenkins.” She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. “I’ve got your back,” Tim said. “I mean it. Even if my world’s falling apart — I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Dylan’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. The air felt thick between them now, heavier than anger. It settled in her chest in a way she didn’t know what to do with. Tim’s eyes didn’t leave hers. For once, there was no wall. No hard edge. Just something honest. Raw. She looked at him — really looked — and beneath the frustration, the tension, the history they hadn’t talked about… was something else. Tenderness. And it scared the hell out of both of them. Dylan cleared her throat, forcing herself to look away.

“Good,” she muttered, reaching for the passenger door. “Because I’m not getting shot because you’re brooding.”

Tim gave a half-smile — small, tired, but real. “Noted.”

They climbed into the cruiser, and for a moment, neither spoke. But the silence wasn’t sharp anymore. It was full of understanding. And something that felt dangerously close to trust.

The precinct walls echoed with that familiar, sharp clatter of keys, doors slamming, and muffled voices — a rhythm that was usually background noise for Tim Bradford. But not today. He and Dylan had just brought in a suspect for a string of break-ins. While Dylan stayed behind at the front desk to process him, logging evidence with practiced efficiency, Tim made a quiet detour.

His boots hit the corridor floor with slow, deliberate steps, each one heavier than the last. He stopped just before the holding cells, jaw clenched tight, gaze fixed forward. There she was. Isabel. Sitting on the edge of the bench, hands wrapped around her knees, eyes hollow. That once-effortless beauty now dulled by dark circles, messy hair, and the weight of whatever chemicals still lingered in her system.

She looked up as he stepped into view. And sighed. “I screwed up.”

Tim leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, expression hard. “You think?”

Isabel gave a sad smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“How bad is it?” Tim asked.

She exhaled slowly. “It’s solid. Possession with intent. Texts. Trunk full of product. They’ve got me.”

Tim stared at her, a pit forming in his stomach. “Who’s Carson?” Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “The guy who owns the car,” he added, more pointed now. “Your new boyfriend?”

She shrugged, avoiding the question. “Sometimes.”

He clenched his jaw, voice lowering. “You need to say the drugs were his. All of it.”

“It won’t matter,” she murmured. “I was driving.” She stood then, slowly approaching him. Her voice changed — softer, more vulnerable, but with a familiar manipulative lilt beneath. “Is there anything you can do?”

Tim scoffed. “This is a big case. Narcotics division is all over it. I can’t make this go away, Isabel. I’m not a miracle worker.”

Isabel looked down, biting her lip. “It’s only gonna get worse.”

Tim’s brows drew together. “Why?”

“Tomorrow,” she said quietly, “they’ll get the warrant to search my place.”

Something in Tim’s chest turned cold. His voice dropped. “What will they find?”

She hesitated. Long enough for him to already know it was bad. Then: “Carson stashed a kilo of heroin in my heating unit.”

Tim pushed off the wall, his voice rising. “Are you—are you that far gone?! Why would you let him do that?”

Her face broke, trembling just enough to make his stomach turn. “I didn’t know at first,” she said. “And when I found out… I just didn’t care anymore.”

Tim’s eyes burned. He wanted to yell. Shake her. Beg her to be who she used to be. But instead, he stood there — frozen, overwhelmed, devastated.

Then Isabel stepped even closer. Her voice dropped into a desperate whisper. “When I go in there, Tim… jail? They’ll find out I’m ex-cop. They’ll find out what I used to be. You know what that means.” Tim’s breathing hitched. “I won’t make it,” she said. “Please… baby, I need you to go to my apartment. Just get rid of it before they get there.”

He shook his head slowly, backing a half-step away. “No. No way.”

“If you help me—” her voice cracked. “I swear, it’ll be different this time. I’ll go to rehab. I’ll do it right.”

Tim’s mouth opened — then shut again. His eyes were glassy now, chest visibly rising and falling as everything in him battled against the pull of her.

Meanwhile, The echo of footsteps in the corridor was soft but purposeful — steady, measured. Dylan Jenkins hadn’t meant to overhear, but voices carried. Especially when one of them belonged to a woman whose tone was laced with every manipulation trick in the book. She paused outside the holding cell door, just out of sight.

“…please, baby, I need you to go to my apartment…”

Dylan’s jaw tensed. The tone. The proximity. The desperation dressed in seduction.

She rounded the corner silently, just as Isabel stepped in closer — closer than anyone behind bars should — her face barely a breath away from Tim’s. Dylan didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, calm but firm, her hand reaching out to gently clasp Tim’s wrist, fingers warm against his skin. The touch wasn’t forceful — it didn’t need to be. He turned to look at her, startled. Something flickered behind his eyes — guilt, pain, maybe even gratitude — but he didn’t speak.

Dylan looked up at him, eyes steady. “That’s enough.”

Tim opened his mouth to argue — to say he had it under control. But Dylan’s gaze didn’t waver. It wasn’t an order. It was a plea. A quiet, unspoken please don’t let her do this to you. And Tim… stepped back. Slowly. Reluctantly. But he did.

Isabel tilted her head. “Oh, so now you’ve got someone new to save you, huh?”

Dylan turned her head, just slightly. Calm. Controlled. But her voice? Steel wrapped in silk.

“Tim, give us a minute.”

Tim hesitated again, looking between them — but when Dylan gently nudged his arm, he took the cue and walked away, retreating just around the corner but not far. He stopped, out of view, but not out of earshot.

Dylan turned back to Isabel. And for the first time since arriving, she really looked at her — saw the desperation buried beneath the theatrics, the remnants of someone who used to wear a badge now hiding behind the language of manipulation.

“You need to stop,” Dylan said softly.

Isabel raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Whatever this is—whatever hold you think you still have on him—it ends here.”

A beat. Isabel let out a breathy laugh, but there was no humour in it. “You think I’m trying to manipulate him?”

“I know you are,” Dylan replied, tone low. “You’re using his guilt. His history with you. And you know exactly what you’re doing.” She stepped a little closer — not threatening, but firm. Protective. “He’s a good cop,” she continued. “A better man than most. And he’s already carrying more than anyone should. You don’t get to drag him down with you.”

Isabel’s expression shifted, just for a second. Something flickered behind her eyes — shame, maybe. Or fear.

Dylan tilted her head slightly, voice gentler now.

“You’ve got your own fight. I get that. But you don’t get to make it his. Not anymore.”

Silence hung between them. And then Dylan turned and walked away, without waiting for a response. She passed Tim near the corridor wall — he stood half in shadow, arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes distant. But when she met his gaze, it softened.

“I handled it,” she said simply.

Tim swallowed hard, nodding once. “I heard.”

There was something in the way he looked at her — something quiet and reverent. He didn’t have words for it, not yet. But he’d heard every word. He’d heard her defend him. Protect him. Care about him. And it cut through the fog in his chest like a sharp blade of light.

“…Thanks,” he said, voice low.

Dylan just nodded, adjusting her jacket like the moment hadn’t shaken her, even though it had.

“Let’s go,” she murmured. “Before I end up in a holding cell too.”

Tim cracked the faintest smile. And for the first time in hours, he followed her without hesitation — like she was the only thing keeping his feet on solid ground.

The hum of fluorescent lights overhead was the only real sound in the bullpen now. The station had quieted, emptied. Most of the chatter, boots-on-tile clatter, and chaotic shuffling of shift change had passed. It was late, the outside sky a deep navy, streetlights flickering through the station’s high windows.

Dylan Jenkins sat at her desk, a half-finished stack of paperwork in front of her and a cold, forgotten cup of coffee by her elbow. Her shoulder ached faintly. Her jaw was tight. She didn’t even remember the last time she blinked. It had been a long shift. Not because of the paperwork. Not because of the calls. But because today hurt. Emotionally. Quietly. In that hollow, creeping way that sneaks up on you when you’re too busy pretending it didn’t.

She thought of Tim. Of the way he’d looked in that holding cell, standing in front of Isabel like he was still trying to figure out who she used to be. And the way he’d looked at her after — like she’d said something that mattered.

There were moments between them. Fleeting ones. Moments that felt… close. Not romantic. Not exactly. But something. Something that pulled. But just as quickly as it came, it would vanish — replaced by distance, defensiveness, and that wall they both carried like armor. She rubbed her eyes. Too much thinking. Not enough finishing this report.

The bullpen doors burst open, and in walked Nolan, Bishop, and a man dressed in a turtleneck, a long wool coat, and a scarf so obnoxiously fashionable it practically had its own zip code.

“—And that’s when I told Tom Cruise, mate, if you want realism, you’ve got to get hit. You can’t pretend to bleed!” The man’s voice echoed through the station. Rupert Payne. British. Film director. Today’s VIP ride-along.

Dylan closed her eyes slowly. Not him.

“Speak of the devil,” Bishop muttered under her breath as they entered.

Nolan looked exhausted. Bishop just looked done.

Payne’s eyes lit up when he spotted Dylan. “Ah! There she is! My compatriot in uniform! You’re from London, yeah?”

Dylan didn’t look up from her paper. “Clearly.”

Payne sauntered over like they were old friends. “You didn’t tell me you were from the Met, that’s the big leagues, love! You and me—same grit, same homeland, same ‘can’t be arsed’ attitude, yeah?”

Dylan let out a breath. “No, mate. Not the same.”

Payne laughed as if she were joking. She wasn’t. He leaned a little too close, gesturing wildly. “So I’m writing this script—gritty, grounded, a police procedural but emotionally raw, right? I’d love to pick your brain. Real experience is so rare. You’ve got presence, yeah? Maybe we give your character a tragic backstory—former MI5, betrayed by her lover—”

She snapped. “Mr. Payne.”

He blinked. Dylan looked up slowly, eyes sharp, tired, and utterly devoid of patience.

“It’s been a long day. A personal one. And I’m one coffee short of polite. So with all due respect — which, trust me, is hanging by a thread — I’m asking you nicely: leave me alone.”

The room went quiet. Bishop arched a brow, clearly impressed. Nolan froze mid-step, awkwardly pretending to check his phone.

Payne held up his hands, a half-smile of embarrassment creeping onto his face. “Right. Yep. Fair enough.” He shuffled back toward Nolan and Bishop, muttering something about “method actors being easier to talk to.”

As he wandered away, Bishop walked past Dylan’s desk, her voice low and amused. “Remind me never to bother you after a long shift.”

Dylan didn’t look up. “Good call.” She exhaled slowly, watching Payne’s dramatic exit in the reflection of her monitor, and sat back in her chair. Exhausted. Confused. And thinking about Tim Bradford all over again.

Dylan’s apartment was quiet — too quiet. She sat on the edge of her bed, changed into sweats, her hair still slightly damp from a shower she barely remembered taking. The lights were dim, her phone glowing faintly on the nightstand as she stared at it.

That gut feeling had started as soon as she got home. It twisted in her chest like an anchor pulling her down — heavy, nauseating, and familiar. Tim.

He hadn’t said much when he wrapped shift. Didn’t offer a dry sarcastic goodbye or one of his gruff, half-hearted shoulder claps. He’d just disappeared. And she knew. She knew.

She stood, pacing slowly across the wooden floor, arms crossed tightly. Her jaw clenched as she opened her phone and typed a message: You home? Just checking you didn’t murder anyone today.

Casual. Light. Disguised concern. She waited. The screen stayed silent. No reply. Her throat tightened.

Meanwhile…

Tim stood inside Isabel’s apartment, the dim, yellow lighting casting long shadows across the cracked walls and peeling paint. The place smelled like stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener. It looked smaller than he remembered. Sadder.

He’d told himself he just needed to see — to know if she was telling the truth about the drugs. The minute he unscrewed the vent on the side of the heating unit and pulled the panel free, it was there. A tightly wrapped brick of heroin. His hands shook as he stared at it. Part of him wanted to throw it, flush it, toss it off the fire escape. Another part… couldn’t move.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

He grabbed the kilo, slid it into a duffel bag he’d brought — what was he even doing? — and slung it over his shoulder. But as he turned toward the front door, headlights lit the living room wall through the thin curtains.

Then he heard it. The engine cut off. A car door shut. And something inside him dropped. He moved to the window, slowly pulling back the curtain.

Dylan. Her figure emerged from her car, phone in hand, her expression unreadable in the dark — until she looked up and locked eyes with him through the glass. Tim froze. And for a long moment, so did she. Then, she walked toward the building.

By the time he opened the door, she was already halfway up the stairs. The second she saw him — the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the exhausted look in his eyes — her face fell. And then hardened.

“You actually came,” she said, quiet but sharp.

Tim looked away, jaw working. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Dylan stepped forward, voice low but insistent. “And you shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I’m not—” he started, but his voice cracked.

She didn’t let him finish. “I knew it. I knew the second you left the precinct, you’d come here. Because even now, after everything she’s done, some part of you still believes you can save her.” He didn’t respond. Dylan looked at the duffel bag. “Is it in there?” Silence. Her expression twisted with pain. “Tim…”

“She said she’d go to rehab,” he said flatly, almost like he was convincing himself.

Dylan shook her head, stepping closer. “She’s not going. You know that. And even if she did, this isn’t on you. You can’t burn your badge to keep holding her hand.”

Tim’s hands tightened around the strap of the bag.

She softened her voice. “You act like you’re this rogue cop — hard lines, no grey area. But you’re not. You’re the guy who always makes the right call, even when it hurts. That’s who you are.”

He met her eyes. Finally. And there it was — guilt, frustration, and a sadness so raw it made Dylan’s throat tighten.

“If you do this,” she said gently, “you don’t save her. You lose you. And I’m not sure you come back from that.”

Tim looked down at the bag.

When he didn’t say anything, Dylan took a breath, blinking past the sting in her eyes. “You’re going through hell right now. I get it. But don’t let her take what’s left of the good in you.” She didn’t press further. Just stepped back and added softly, “I’ll be in my car. Whatever you decide — just know I came here because I care. About you. Even when you don’t care about yourself.” She turned and walked down the stairs.

Tim stood in the doorway, frozen. The weight of the duffel bag suddenly felt unbearable.

The morning light filtered into the Mid-Wilshire precinct, casting long shadows across the bullpen as the first wave of officers filtered in for roll call. The usual murmur of chatter, the clatter of chairs and the groaning of overworked coffee machines filled the space like background noise.

But Dylan Jenkins felt it the second she walked in. The shift in the air. The tension.

She glanced toward the far side of the room, where Tim Bradford stood at his desk, head down, flipping through a file that didn’t need flipping. His movements were too methodical. Too controlled. Last night still lingered between them — the confrontation outside Isabel’s apartment, the duffel bag, the plea in her voice. And the look in his eyes when she told him she cared. He hadn’t said a word since. And now, as she approached, the silence between them cracked like glass under pressure.

“Tim,” she said, voice low but even.

He didn’t look up. “Don’t.”

Dylan frowned. “Look, I wasn’t trying to—”

“Last night didn’t happen.”

His voice was sharp. Dismissive. But it carried a tremor underneath — not anger. Not indifference. Fear. He still hadn’t looked at her. Dylan stared at him for a moment, jaw tight, lips parted like she wanted to fight him on it — but before she could answer, Sergeant Grey crossed the bullpen and stopped beside Tim’s desk.

“Bradford.”

Tim looked up. His eyes were hollow, but alert.

Grey held a manila file in his hand, his face more serious than usual. “Got some news. Detectives executed the warrant on Isabel’s apartment this morning.”

Dylan’s breath caught — just for a second.

Tim’s shoulders tensed, but he nodded once. “What’d they find?”

Grey exhaled, gaze flicking briefly toward Dylan before returning to Tim. “Heating unit. One kilo of heroin. Clean wrap, uncut. No prints, but the intent charge holds. She’s not getting out any time soon.”

Tim closed his eyes, just for a second.

“I’m sorry,” Grey added quietly. “I know that’s not easy to hear.”

Tim didn’t answer. Just gave a tight, barely perceptible nod. Grey gave him a look — one of those rare, almost fatherly ones — then moved on, leaving Tim in silence again. Dylan stayed where she was, her arms crossed loosely, gaze softening.

There were so many things she could’ve said. A hundred sentiments. But she knew him too well already to dump praise on him. Not now. Not when he was still holding himself together by threads. So instead, she leaned slightly closer and murmured, just loud enough for him to hear:

“I knew you’d make the right call.”

Tim’s eyes flicked to her — just for a moment. Not a smile. Not a thank-you. But something shifted in his face. Like a weight had been nudged off his shoulders — just enough to let him breathe.

Dylan didn’t wait for a response. She turned and made her way to her desk without another word, letting the moment settle like dust in the quiet space between them.

Tim stood still. File in hand. Mind racing. But something inside him had calmed — a tiny, flickering truth cutting through the fog of what almost happened. Because he had been close. Too close. If Dylan hadn’t shown up… If she hadn’t looked at him the way she did, said what she did, he might’ve carried that duffel bag out the door and straight into a mistake that would’ve ruined him.

And the worst part? He wasn’t sure he’d have even regretted it — not until he saw her face. As Tim sat down, letting out a long, quiet breath, his eyes drifted to her across the bullpen. Dylan Jenkins. Sharp. Stubborn. Complicated. And somehow the only person who could see through him without even trying.

What would he do without her? The question lodged in his throat like a stone. And the truth that followed was even heavier: He really didn’t want to find out.

The transfer van sat idling outside the precinct, its engine a low, steady hum beneath the heavy stillness inside.

Isabel’s wrists were cuffed. Her expression hard — jaw set, eyes bloodshot, lips pressed tight to contain the anger simmering just beneath the surface. She stood in the hallway just outside the holding cells, flanked by two detectives from Narcotics, her jumpsuit wrinkled, her once-effortless beauty now dulled by wear and time.

Tim Bradford stepped forward, his badge clipped to his belt but his presence not that of a cop — not right now.

“Can I have a minute?” he asked the detectives, his voice low.

They exchanged a glance, then nodded and stepped back.

Isabel didn’t look at him for a long moment. Her gaze stayed on the floor, then lifted to meet his — sharp, wounded, full of resentment.

“You should’ve helped me,” she said, voice rough. “You of all people. After everything we had—after everything I’ve been through.”

Tim said nothing. Because what was there to say? That he had helped her, once — again and again and again — until there was nothing left to give? That she wasn’t the woman he’d loved anymore? That she’d taken pieces of him every time she asked for one more chance?

“I wasn’t asking for the world,” she hissed. “Just one thing. One thing. And you left me in that cell like a stranger.”

Still, Tim stood in silence, his throat tightening.

Finally, Isabel scoffed, stepping back. “We’re done talking.”

She turned her head away, and one of the detectives moved in, taking her arm to lead her toward the van.

Tim remained there, his feet rooted to the ground like the grief had weight. It was done. And it still felt like dying.

From down the hall, Dylan Jenkins watched it unfold. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken — she’d just waited, standing near the bullpen, watching the heartbreak settle like ash over Tim’s shoulders.

And then he turned. His eyes met hers across the distance. And Dylan saw it — the fracture. No mask, no sarcastic deflection, no hardened armor. Just a man who looked like he’d been hollowed out from the inside.

His chest rose once — sharp and uneven — and then the tears welled. Not the kind you fight off with a blink or a clenched jaw. The kind that had been waiting to fall for too long. Dylan didn’t speak. Didn’t hesitate.

She stepped forward slowly, her arms lifting — quiet, sure, without pressure. And Tim moved. One, two steps toward her, and then he was there, folding down into her space, falling into her arms like a man crashing into shelter after a storm. Her arms wrapped around his solid frame, one hand curling gently against the back of his neck, the other around his waist. He was so much broader, so much taller, but in that moment, he felt small. And Dylan didn’t say a word.

She just held him. Letting the weight he carried settle for a moment in her arms instead. His face was tucked into her shoulder, his breathing uneven, and though the hug only lasted seconds — no more than a breath in time — it held a kind of intimacy neither of them had expected. Not romantic. But something deeply close. Something… becoming.

Tim straightened slowly, clearing his throat, his eyes glassy but thankful. Dylan didn’t step back. She didn’t tease or ask questions.

She just said quietly, “I’ve got you.”

And Tim knew then — he wasn’t alone in this anymore.

The parking lot behind Mid-Wilshire Station was nearly empty, the orange hue of the setting sun casting long, slanted shadows across the asphalt. Tim Bradford sat in his truck, engine off, the world outside muffled by the silence inside the cab. His hands rested on the steering wheel — not gripping, just touching. Like he was waiting for something to ground him.

But nothing came. Not clarity. Not relief. Just… weight. The kind that settled in your bones.

He stared ahead, jaw tight, breathing slow and shallow. Isabel was gone. This time, really gone. No more “maybe”s. No more saving her. No more hoping she’d return to the version of herself he’d once loved. And he didn’t know if he felt grief, or guilt, or simply nothing anymore.

A sharp click broke the silence. The passenger door swung open, and Angela Lopez climbed in like it was her own car. No warning. No knock. Just Lopez energy. A beat later, the back door opened, and Dylan Jenkins slid into the rear seat, slouching slightly like she’d done this a hundred times before.

Tim blinked. “Uh. What… are you doing?”

Lopez reached over and clicked her seatbelt. “We’re here to hang out.”

“In my truck?”

“In your life,” Dylan corrected from the back, voice dry.

Tim sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Good,” Lopez said cheerfully. “We didn’t come to talk. We came to drink.”

Tim glanced at Dylan in the rear-view mirror. She met his eyes with that unreadable, British-brand calm, and gave the faintest shrug. “You’re buying.”

He let out a breath. It wasn’t quite a laugh. But it was close.

The bar they landed at wasn’t fancy — a dive on the corner of Wilcox and Santa Monica, low lighting, cheap beer, and worn booths with duct tape holding the seams together. But it was quiet. Familiar. Safe.

They slid into a booth, drinks in hand. Lopez went straight for a spicy margarita, Dylan stuck with whiskey, neat. Tim had a beer in front of him, untouched at first. They didn’t talk about Isabel. They didn’t talk about heroin, or prison transfers, or duffel bags of guilt.

Instead, Angela recounted a story from early in her patrol days involving a drunk guy, a missing parrot, and a taser incident that she still denies was her fault. Dylan countered with a story about a naked burglar in London who tried to escape through a doggy door and got stuck halfway in, halfway out — for three hours.

Tim, to his surprise, laughed. Actually laughed.

Angela raised her glass. “There it is.”

“What?”

“A real Tim Bradford laugh,” she grinned. “Not the sarcastic huff. Not the ‘I’m judging you’ scoff. That was the real deal.”

Dylan smirked behind her glass. “He’s evolving.”

Tim rolled his eyes, but there was a warmth growing in his chest he hadn’t felt in days. As they bantered, as they teased him, he felt lighter. Like the three of them had carved out a small space in the world where it was okay to just… exist.

Later, as Dylan wandered off to get another round, Angela leaned across the table, lowering her voice just enough to signal she was shifting gears.

“She’s good for you, you know.”

Tim’s brow furrowed slightly. “What?”

“Jenkins,” Angela said plainly. “You two… it works.”

Tim looked away, fingers drumming the side of his beer bottle. “She’s my partner.”

“And?”

Tim didn’t answer. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? She wasn’t just his partner anymore. She had seen him at his lowest — when the walls cracked. When the guilt flooded in. And instead of walking away, she held him. Without judgment. Without pity. Just there.

And now here they were. Sitting across from him, nursing drinks and sarcastically saving him from himself. He wasn’t sure what they were.

Co-workers? Friends? Something more? And the scariest part?

He didn’t hate the idea.

Dylan returned, sliding his fresh drink in front of him and reclaiming her spot with casual grace. “Still with us, Bradford?”

Tim blinked out of his thoughts and smirked, just a little. “Unfortunately.”

Angela snorted. “You’re lucky we like you.”

He glanced at Dylan again. She wasn’t looking at him — focused on her glass, relaxed but guarded. But something passed between them anyway. Unspoken. Simmering. Something was changing. And maybe… just maybe, Tim was starting to wonder what it would mean if he let it.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

[realityjoey]

SEASON 1, EPISODE 6, “HAWKE.”

The roll call room buzzed with early morning chatter — the kind that came from sleep-deprived officers nursing coffee like a lifeline and catching up on the previous night’s chaos. The whiteboard was already cluttered with scribbled notes, half-erased names, and bullet points left behind by the midnight shift.

Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins sat at their usual spot in the second row — though today, they were noticeably closer together. Shoulders nearly brushing. Legs just shy of touching under the table. Neither of them said a word about it. And, interestingly enough, neither of them seemed to notice.

Tim leaned back in his chair, reading something on the file in his lap. Dylan was next to him, sipping her coffee and scrolling idly through her phone, though her gaze kept flicking to the whiteboard at the front of the room.

The low hum of voices faded when Sergeant Grey walked in, holding a thick stack of manila folders in one hand and a coffee in the other. He looked tired. Irritated. Exactly how Grey always looked at 7:00 a.m.

“Alright,” he barked, dropping the folders onto the front table with a dramatic thud. “Since the midnight shift was apparently too busy playing poker or solving the mysteries of the vending machine, we’ve got some leftover work to clear up today.” A few groans filled the room. Grey ignored them.

He started calling out assignments, tossing folders to pairs of officers without so much as a glance up. Stolen vehicle recovery. Loud disturbance follow-up. Illegal fireworks seizure. Then he picked up a thick file and held it for a beat longer.

“Bradford. Jenkins.”

Both looked up. Grey walked over and dropped the folder squarely on their desk, right between them.

“Congratulations. You’ve been gifted a beautiful little search warrant from the burglary unit. House was hit late last night. They think the suspect’s cousin stashed stolen goods two blocks over. We’re the lucky ones who get to play doorbell tag and hope no one takes a swing at you.”

Tim sighed heavily, flipping the file open. “Seriously? A burglary follow-up?”

Grey raised an eyebrow. “I’ll cry for you later.”

Tim glanced up, unimpressed. “I thought you gave the boring stuff to Nolan.”

“Trust me,” Grey said flatly. “I was tempted.” That earned a few quiet snickers from nearby officers. “Look at it this way,” Grey added, already turning back to the front. “You get to knock politely, dig through someone’s underwear drawer, and write it all up with Jenkins’ immaculate penmanship.”

Dylan smirked. “He just wants my paperwork to set the bar higher.”

“Damn right I do,” Grey muttered, sipping his coffee.

As the sergeant moved on, assigning the rest of the leftover calls, Dylan and Tim both leaned in toward the folder in front of them — their heads almost touching without realising it.

Dylan flipped through the warrant paperwork, skimming it fast. “Single-level property. Previous drug charges on the cousin. Property damage from forced entry. Fun.”

Tim made a face. “We’re gonna have to crawl through a garage, I can feel it.”

“That or a basement full of roaches,” she said, flipping another page.

Still, neither of them leaned back. Still seated close, as if the space between them had always been this small. As if they hadn’t spent last night replaying a shoulder touch, a quiet conversation, or a look held a few seconds too long.

“Ready to go knock on some doors?” Tim asked.

Dylan gave a shrug, casual. “Only if you promise not to flirt with dispatch for brownie points this time.”

He glanced sideways, smirking. “No promises.”

She rolled her eyes — but the edge of her mouth tugged upward.

And just like that, they stood and left roll call together — their shoulder bags slung over opposite sides, the case file tucked under Tim’s arm, their footsteps in sync as they made their way to the cruiser. Still pretending nothing had changed. Even though it had.

The cruiser pulled up to a single-level house in a rundown corner of Glassell Park. Paint peeled from the siding, and empty beer cans littered the dead grass out front. It looked like the kind of place that had seen more arrests than renovations, and Tim Bradford already had the guy’s file in hand.

“Name’s Carter Miles,” he muttered, skimming it one more time as Dylan Jenkins stepped out beside him. “History of assaulting officers, multiple drug-related priors, and apparently this place has been searched a dozen times already without finding squat.”

Dylan pulled her hair back into a tighter ponytail. “So he’s not stupid.”

“Nope,” Tim said, snapping the folder closed. “Which means we’ve gotta think like a thief and a liar.”

They approached the front door. No barking dogs. No movement inside. Tim knocked. Three heavy raps. Silence.

He waited exactly five seconds. Then muttered, “Alright. We’re doing this the fun way.” He kicked the door in.

The deadbolt snapped with a metallic crack, the door swinging inward to reveal a dimly lit living room, the air thick with stale beer and weed. A man in his thirties stood halfway between the kitchen and a beaten-up couch, eyes wide and arms halfway raised.

“Yo, what the fu—”

“Down. Now.” Tim’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

Carter didn’t resist — maybe he remembered the last time he tried to swing on a cop and ended up with three fractured ribs. Tim grabbed him, spun him, and cuffed him to a chair, fast and tight.

“You know the drill, Carter,” Tim said flatly. “You’ve had more warrants than birthdays. Sit tight and keep your mouth shut.”

Carter snorted. “You pigs just mad you never find anything.”

“We’ll see about that,” Dylan muttered, already moving past the kitchen into the living room. Her eyes swept the space — a wreck of old furniture, laundry, takeout boxes, and years of dust. She dropped to her knees and started pulling up the edge of the couch, flashlight in hand. “He’s right. It’s clean on the surface. He’s not dumb — probably got a crawl space or a false panel somewhere.”

“I’ll check the vents,” Tim said, already moving toward the hallway.

But he wasn’t more than two steps away when it happened. Dylan was crouched, leaned forward with one arm under the couch, when Carter, watching her with a lazy, smug grin, opened his filthy mouth.

“Yo, lady cop… You can search my place all day if you’re gonna bend over like that.”

Everything stopped. Dylan’s body froze — not out of fear, but from pure, measured restraint. She started to rise, jaw tight, ready to respond— But she didn’t get the chance. Tim turned like a switch had flipped.

He stalked back across the room in three strides, smacked him across the back of the head, grabbed the back of Carter’s chair, and yanked it violently away from the table, forcing the man upright.

“Hey—!” Carter barked, but Tim already had him by the collar, spinning him around and slamming his chest against the peeling wall.

“Face the wall,” Tim growled, voice low and deadly.

Carter grunted, now pinned, arm twisted awkwardly behind him in the cuff. “What the hell—?!”

“You wanna mouth off? That’s one thing,” Tim said, his mouth near the guy’s ear now, ice-cold. “But you talk to her like that again, and I’ll make sure your next warrant comes with a concussion.”

The room went silent. Even Dylan stared, momentarily stunned — not because she couldn’t handle herself, but because Tim’s reaction was… different. Protective. Fierce. Personal.

Tim stepped back, eyes narrowed. “You want respect? Try giving it.”

Carter stayed quiet now — no cocky remarks, no slurs. Just a bitter, breathless silence as he slumped against the wall.

Dylan finally spoke. “Tim.”

His eyes flicked to hers — just for a second. She gave a small shake of her head. Not disapproving, just… surprised. But underneath it, a flicker of something else passed between them. Unspoken. Real.

Tim didn’t say anything as he walked past her and disappeared down the hallway to resume the search. And Dylan? She stood there, still catching her breath, still processing the heat behind his reaction — a heat that had nothing to do with protocol and everything to do with her.

What the hell was happening? And why did part of her not want it to stop?

The air inside Carter Miles’ house was stale, thick with old smoke, mildew, and the faint scent of body spray desperately trying to mask something much worse.

After restraining Carter and securing the premises, Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins regrouped in the living room, both now donning gloves and flicking through the search warrant again.

“He’s done a good job hiding this stuff,” Dylan muttered, shining her flashlight up into the corners of the cracked ceiling.

Tim nodded. “Which means we go back to basics.”

He pulled a pen from his vest pocket and wrote four bold letters on a napkin from the filthy coffee table: D. E. A. R.

“Deception, Elusive, Access, and Repulsive,” he recited. “You know the drill. Look where most people wouldn’t. Where they hide what they don’t want found.”

Dylan leaned against the wall, arms folded. “You’re assigning letters now?”

“Of course,” Tim said, smug. “It’s only fair.”

He pointed to the first letter. “D — Deception. Hidden panels, fake bottoms, containers disguised as something else. I’ll take that.”

Dylan arched a brow. “You’re assigning yourself the clever one?”

Tim grinned. “E — Elusive. I’ll also take that. Nooks, behind outlets, under floorboards.”

“I see what’s happening here—”

“A — Access. You’re good at that,” he cut in. “So you’re climbing into the crawl space.”

Dylan narrowed her eyes. “That leaves me with—”

Tim’s grin widened. “R. Repulsive,” he said. “Congratulations. That means garbage bags, toilets, and—oh—there’s a lovely box of sex toys in the bedroom. Top shelf.”

Dylan blinked. “You’re joking.”

Tim was already walking toward the hallway. “Nope.”

“I am not sorting through sticky handcuffs and god-knows-what,” she called after him.

“You don’t want to win today’s warrant game?” he called back, smug. “Could be something nestled between a pair of furry handcuffs.”

“I’m going to throw up.”

Tim popped his head back into the room. “Listen, Jenkins, if you’re too squeamish—”

“Oh, don’t even start,” Dylan cut him off, marching after him. “I’m not squeamish. I just have standards. Which includes not elbow-deep diving into a man’s porn collection for sport.”

Tim leaned against the bedroom doorway, arms crossed, all too pleased with himself.

“Fine,” Dylan snapped, pointing a finger at his chest. “Here’s how this works: I get three minutes. If I find the stolen jewellery before then, we skip the ‘Repulsive’ round altogether. If not, we both go in. Together. You touch the love lube just as much as I do.”

Tim made a face. “You’re terrifying.”

“I’ve had years of practice.”

He stepped aside, gesturing with a bow. “Your time starts now.”

Dylan moved fast. Focused. She started with Access, climbing onto counters to check behind the top cabinets in the kitchen. Found nothing. Moved to Elusive — behind vents, inside power outlets, under the bathroom sink panel. Still nothing. Two minutes in. She pivoted.

Back to the living room. Eyes scanned the furniture. Then something caught her attention — a slight gap between the drywall and the back panel of an entertainment unit. Looked like bad craftsmanship. Seemed like nothing. But it was exactly the kind of D = Deception tactic they were trained to notice.

She crouched low, pulled her flashlight up close… and gently pushed on the panel. Click. It gave way. Inside, tucked into a cutout hollow, was a velvet-lined pouch, bulging with rings, gold chains, and a Rolex. Dylan grinned.

“Bradford!” she called. He walked in, clearly ready to gloat — until she dangled the pouch in front of him like a trophy. “I believe this counts as a win for Team Jenkins.”

Tim blinked. Then let out a low whistle. “How long did I give you?”

“Three minutes,” she said, smug. “I did it in two.”

He took the pouch, opened it, and glanced inside. “You missed your calling as a burglar.”

“I’m an excellent detective with an excellent sense of smell,” she said. “And I’d rather not waste it sniffing my way through a drawer of vibrating socks.”

He shook his head, chuckling. As they walked back toward Carter — still handcuffed to the chair and looking not nearly as smug as before — Dylan bumped her shoulder lightly into Tim’s.

“Next time you try to assign me the gross job,” she said under her breath, “remember this moment.”

Tim looked over at her. And for a second, that same half-smile from the burger van flickered back.

“Noted,” he said.

But somewhere deep inside, beneath all the banter and bravado, something warm settled in his chest. And Dylan? Still couldn’t figure out if the flutter in her stomach was pride— Or something she didn’t want to name yet.

The sky was overcast, a thick sheet of grey hanging low over Los Angeles as Dylan Jenkins and Tim Bradford pulled up to the curb. The caravan in question sat crooked along the side of a residential street — nondescript, a little worn, the kind of vehicle you’d pass without a second thought. Except this one had just pinged from Jeremy Hawke’s phone — a once-respected officer, now on the run after an alcohol-fueled, violent incident the night before.

Tim killed the engine, the silence settling between them like a weight.

“Open door,” Dylan noted, tilting her head. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That he wants us to find this,” Tim muttered, eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”

They stepped out, both reaching for their sidearms instinctively. The caravan was parked tight against the curb, one tire dipped slightly into the gutter, the small window cracked open just enough to see movement inside. Tim moved forward first, gun low but ready.

“LAPD! Jeremy Hawke, if you’re in there, step out now!”

For a moment, nothing. Then the door creaked open and a head popped out — a man in his late twenties, shaggy hair, hands raised nervously.

“Whoa! Whoa. Don’t shoot, man. Hawke’s not here.”

Dylan kept her weapon raised, eyes locked on the man’s every move. “Who are you?”

“Uh, Jesse. I met him at a hotel, just outside the Valley.”

Dylan walked slowly around the side of the caravan, her boots crunching gravel beneath her. She scanned the undercarriage, the hitch, the wheel wells — all the typical places someone might stash something.

That’s when Tim appeared beside her, his brows furrowed in that way she’d learned meant something was clicking in his brain. Without a word, he stepped forward and popped the bonnet of the caravan’s attached vehicle. Inside, nestled carefully between the battery and the radiator fan, taped down in a black Ziploc bag, was a cell phone. Hawke’s phone.

Dylan let out a quiet breath. “He planted it.”

Tim nodded slowly, jaw tight. “Which means he’s running. And now he’s thinking like someone who knows our playbook.”

“Which makes him dangerous,” Dylan added. “He’s already one step ahead.”

Tim stared down at the phone, the low whir of nearby traffic muffled by the heaviness that had just settled over the scene. Dylan glanced up at him, reading the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand gripped the edge of the bonnet.

“You knew him well?” Dylan asked.

“He was an instructor when I was in the academy.” Tim said quietly. “He was brave. Impulsive. Kind of cocky, but in a harmless way. This? This isn’t the guy I knew.”

Dylan was quiet for a moment. Then: “It never is.”

Tim didn’t respond — just closed the bonnet with a low clunk and turned back toward the cruiser. “No more doubt,” he said grimly. “He’s officially running. Let’s call it in.”

As they headed back to the car, Dylan walked a little closer than usual. Not saying anything — but present. With him. Like always. Because cops on the run? They were unpredictable.

The radio crackled with urgency as Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins tore through mid-city traffic, sirens screaming and tires shrieking around every tight corner.

“—last seen heading westbound on Sunset. Suspect vehicle: black Chevy Silverado. Repeat, suspect is Jeremy Hawke. Suspect has evaded capture. Officers in pursuit—”

Tim was on the mic before dispatch finished. “This is 7-Adam-19. We’re in route. ETA two minutes.”

Dylan gritted her teeth behind the wheel, fingers tight on the steering wheel as they swerved between cars, moving faster than the law usually liked.

“Pushing it,” Tim muttered under his breath — not disapproving, just bracing.

“Then hold on,” Dylan snapped, flooring it.

Up ahead, Bishop and Nolan’s cruiser came into view, taillights glowing red through the thinning veil of smoke now billowing across the road. Their vehicle swerved violently, tires screeching as a thick grey cloud engulfed the entire intersection. Hawke had dropped a smoke bomb. Tactical-grade. Military issue.

Dylan swore. “He came prepared.”

Bishop and Nolan’s cruiser slowed behind the cloud, wipers flipping, lights still flashing — but it was clear they were momentarily blinded. Dylan veered hard left, bypassing the smoke entirely through a side street, engine roaring as she picked up speed.

Tim called it in. “7-Adam-19 — suspect has deployed obstruction. Bypass route initiated. We’re still tracking.”

Dylan’s foot stayed heavy on the gas, eyes sharp.

Then— “There!”

Hawke’s black Silverado. Barreling down an open street, weaving recklessly between lanes, smashing a mailbox as it took a corner too fast.

Dylan gritted her teeth, accelerating. “We’ve got visual.”

Tim’s voice cut through the tension. “He’s going to kill someone at this rate.”

Before she could respond, Captain Andersen’s voice broke through over comms.

“7-Adam-19, you are cleared to use vehicle intervention. Repeat, you are cleared to hit the target vehicle. Stop him now, before he kills someone.”

Dylan’s jaw tightened. “Copy that.” She closed the distance — fast.

The cruiser’s engine howled as she pulled up just behind Hawke’s rear bumper, eyes locked on the truck’s left tire. She angled slightly, ready to bump the rear quarter panel just enough to spin him. One second. Two— And then her eyes flicked to the side mirror of Hawke’s truck. Her breath caught.

“Wait—wait!”

She swerved hard, veering left and missing the Silverado by inches. The cruiser jolted, slammed against the curb, tires skidding against concrete.

Tim braced with one arm, gripping the handle above the window with the other. “Jenkins?!”

Dylan’s chest was rising fast. Her fingers trembled slightly on the wheel. “I saw a kid,” she said, breathless. “In the passenger seat. There’s a kid in the truck.”

Tim’s eyes widened. He was already grabbing the radio. “Dispatch, this is 7-Adam-19 — call off tactical intervention. Suspect is not alone. We have a possible child passenger. Repeat, possible child passenger. Likely to be Hawke’s son.”

Silence on the other end.

Then: “Confirmed, 7-Adam-19. Jeremy Hawke’s son was reported missing by his mother this morning. All units, adjust protocol.”

Tim turned to Dylan, still stunned. “You good?”

She nodded, swallowing thickly. “Yeah. I’m fine. I just—couldn’t risk it. Not with a kid.”

Tim looked at her for a long moment — longer than usual. And something in his expression shifted again. Not just admiration. Trust.

“You made the right call.”

Dylan stared ahead, heart still pounding, eyes following the fading shape of the Silverado vanishing into the horizon.

“He’s not just running,” she said quietly. “He’s desperate. And now he’s got a hostage who calls him Dad.”

Tim was already back on the mic. “Suspect is armed, unstable, and now mobile with a minor. We need containment now.”

And as the pursuit ramped up into a manhunt, Dylan hit the gas again — slower this time, steady, calculating. Because this wasn’t just about stopping Hawke anymore. It was about saving the child caught in the middle of the storm.

The sound of sirens was distant now — muffled behind the constant hum of engine noise and the chatter over the comms. Dylan Jenkins’ hands were steady on the wheel, her eyes locked on the black Silverado still speeding two blocks ahead, weaving through traffic with desperate, erratic swerves.

Behind them, a convoy of patrol units followed in coordinated formation — unmarked SUVs, black-and-whites, and even a traffic unit or two, all perfectly spaced, playing the long game.

It was a rare tactical move — make the suspect feel free by falling back into “tracking mode,” lights off, sirens off… letting him think he’s lost them.

What Hawke didn’t know — or so they thought — was that every traffic light had been turned green, and all side streets had been quietly barricaded. They were funneling him. Straight into the trap. Or at least, that was the plan.

Tim sat beside Dylan, eyes flicking between the Silverado, the GPS screen, and the map of coordinated unit positions.

“Fifteen more blocks and he’s boxed in,” he said, voice low but confident. “We’ve got him.”

Dylan glanced at him. “Unless he somehow grows wings or crashes into a farmer’s market, yeah.”

Tim leaned back slightly, a rare flicker of calm showing through his usually wired posture. “You know, if we’d used D.E.A.R to assess his next moves, we might’ve stopped him an hour ago. D.E.A.R works for any situation.”

Dylan rolled her eyes. “We are not doing this again.”

He grinned. “Come on. Deception? He left his phone in a decoy vehicle. Elusive? Disappeared before we even got to Megan’s. Access? Hitting places even seasoned cops wouldn’t think to look. And repulsive? The guy took his kid on the run — you think this isn’t repulsive?”

Dylan groaned. “You can’t just twist a tactical acronym to fit your narrative. That’s not how it works.”

“D.E.A.R works for everything,” Tim said, smug. “It’s a mindset.”

“You’re officially weird,” she muttered, turning the wheel slightly to hug the curve.

“And yet, here we are,” he replied, gesturing to the convoy behind them, “about to trap a rogue cop because someone thinks like a criminal.”

“You are not putting ‘Tim Bradford’ and ‘criminal mastermind’ in the same sentence—”

Suddenly, the radio burst to life. “All units, be advised — suspect is approaching final quadrant. Prepare to close in.”

Tim leaned forward, radio in hand. “7-Adam-19 is primary. Ready to block.”

The GPS showed it all — ahead of them, the funnel was narrowing. Barricades were in place. Backup was waiting.

“This is it,” Tim said, eyes locked on the road. “Three blocks. He’s boxed—”

The Silverado swerved. Hard. Left. Dylan swore and slammed the wheel, tires screeching as she followed.

“He turned! He turned left! He’s not following the funnel!” she shouted, taking the corner dangerously fast.

Tim scrambled for the radio. “Dispatch — he’s deviated. Suspect has turned onto Glendale Ave. He’s off the grid. I repeat, off the planned route.”

Static. Then a strained voice came through: “He must still have his radio. He’s been listening to us.”

Dylan’s heart dropped. “He’s a cop. Of course he kept his fucking radio.”

Tim’s expression hardened. “And now he knows we were closing in.”

The cruiser surged forward, lights back on, sirens slicing through the air again. Behind them, the convoy roared back into pursuit, scattered slightly by the sudden change in direction.

“He’s panicking now,” Tim muttered, buckling in tighter. “He’s not thinking straight.”

Dylan clenched her jaw. “That makes him more dangerous. Especially with a kid in the truck.”

They could see him again now — two blocks ahead, barely visible through the blur of tail lights. The Silverado jolted over a speed bump, bouncing like a bull let loose in a city.

Tim leaned toward the dash, voice grim. “Now we stop chasing Hawke the officer—”

Dylan finished it quietly. “And start chasing Hawke the criminal.”

The convoy continued through the city, sirens wailing now, engines roaring in an all-out pursuit. Jeremy Hawke’s Silverado was weaving erratically through traffic, clipping mirrors, jumping red lights, barely holding the line. Behind him, a swarm of black-and-whites followed, every unit in range mobilised, boxing him in tighter and tighter — but not quite enough.

In the second cruiser back, John Nolan gripped the radio in both hands, jaw clenched. His voice cracked slightly as he pressed the mic. “Jeremy… it’s me. It’s John.”

Static filled the channel for a moment. Then— nothing.

Nolan tried again. “You don’t have to keep doing this. Look, I get it. I know you. I know you didn’t plan for this to go this far. I know you’re scared. But you’ve got your son in the car, man. You can’t—”

Click. A sudden, sharp break in the static. And then: “Don’t talk to me like you know me.” The voice that came through was strained. Angry. Not the Jeremy Hawke anyone knew. “You think you know what this feels like?” he snarled. “You think you understand what it’s like to have your whole life ripped away? Your family. Your badge. Your name.”

“Jeremy,” Nolan tried, softer now. “We can fix this. You can still walk away—”

“No, we can’t!” Hawke’s voice exploded over the frequency. “It’s already done. You’re either with me or you’re not. Don’t call me again.”

The channel went silent. Not a click. Not a word. Just silence.

Back in the lead pursuit cruiser, Tim Bradford exhaled slowly, face grim. “He’s gone dark.”

Dylan’s fingers flexed around the wheel. “And if he’s gone quiet, it means he’s stopped caring who hears what. That’s not good.”

Tim leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing as he tracked the Silverado’s route on the GPS.

“He’s not heading for an exit. He’s circling. Looping. Like he’s looking for something.”

Dylan was already ahead of him. “Or someone.”

“What would you do?” Tim asked suddenly. “If it were you — desperate, cornered, son in the car, and no way out?”

Dylan frowned. “I’d look for cover. Somewhere dense. Somewhere I could disappear long enough to either blend in or take a hostage.”

Tim tapped the map. “Somewhere crowded. Big. Confusing.”

Dylan’s eyes snapped up. “Covered parking.”

They both said it at once— kind of.

“The mall.” “The shopping centre.”

Tim grabbed the radio. “Dispatch, 7-Adam-19 — suspect may be heading for the Glendale Galleria or surrounding commercial parking structures. He’s circling. It’s not random.”

Dylan was already flooring it again, taking a hard right and veering onto a faster access road. “If he parks that truck and disappears into a crowd—”

“—with a gun and a kid,” Tim finished grimly. “It’s a nightmare scenario.”

More voices buzzed over the comms. Confirmations. Redirects. Units repositioning. But inside the shop, Dylan and Tim were locked in their own storm — two minds in sync, thinking like the man they used to work beside. A man they now had to stop at all costs.

Dylan’s voice was tight. “We need to cut him off before he makes it into that parking structure.”

Tim nodded. “Then let’s move like we mean it.”

The chase had ended. But the hunt had begun.

The mall was alive with noise — the soft hum of overhead music, the murmur of shoppers, the occasional burst of laughter or the screech of a toddler — all layered over the quiet, pulsing intensity of the LAPD as they moved, spread out, eyes sharp, steps quiet.

No sirens. No shouting. They couldn’t spook the public. Not with children everywhere. Families. A hundred places for Jeremy Hawke to hide. Or worse — take someone else with him.

Dylan Jenkins spotted them first. A flash of movement through the glass — Hawke, holding his son’s hand, head low, moving fast past the cosmetics counter at the edge of the department store.

“Bradford!” she hissed, breaking into a sprint.

Tim was already moving beside her, weaving through shoppers, badge in one hand, free hand waving people aside.

“LAPD — out of the way!”

Hawke turned. Their eyes met. And for a split second, Dylan saw it — not rage. Not panic. But guilt.

He yanked open the security door into the store’s stockroom, dragging his son with him. Tim and Dylan pushed through just as the metal security barrier began to descend behind them.

“Slide under!” Tim shouted, diving under the barrier and holding it just high enough for Dylan to slip beneath. Seconds later, the metal slammed shut behind them, cutting them off from the rest of the store — and the public.

Inside was a maze of racks and boxed-up shipments. Bright fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead.

Then came the voice. “Don’t follow me!”

It was Hawke. Near the back.

“Jeremy, stop!” Tim shouted, rounding the first corner.

Suddenly — Nolan burst through from a side access hallway, out of breath but determined.

“Jeremy—please,” he called, voice lower, more measured. “Let’s just talk. You don’t have to do this.”

They saw Hawke now — crouched beside a display rack, breathing hard, his son standing behind him, confused, clutching his small backpack.

“I can’t go back,” Hawke muttered. “I’m not going to rot in some cell while she moves on and pretends none of it happened. I’m not losing everything.”

“You haven’t lost your son,” Nolan said. “He’s here. He’s scared. And you’re still the person who raised him — you can still end this without destroying everything else.”

Hawke shook his head. “He’s better off without me.”

Then, in one swift motion, he snapped a handcuff around the boy’s wrist, latching the other end to the steel leg of a clothing rack.

“Jeremy!” Tim and Dylan shouted in unison.

“I can’t take him with me. He’ll slow me down.”

“Don’t do this,” Nolan said, stepping forward.

But Hawke was already moving. He bolted toward the rear exit — a shipping bay door left slightly ajar — and disappeared through it. The child was now crying, pulling at the cuffs.

Dylan ran over immediately, crouching, gently placing a hand on the boy’s back. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

Tim was already calling it in. “Suspect has exited through the loading area. Child secure. All units converge on northeast quadrant.”

Moments later, the rest of the team arrived — Grey, Bishop, Chen, and two officers from mall security. Everyone looked tense. Wired. Grey’s brow was furrowed deep, sweat beading at his temple.

“He’s still inside,” Grey muttered. “Security footage confirms — no exits triggered beyond the west loading dock. We’ve got most exits covered.”

“Then where the hell is he?” Bishop asked.

“He knows this place is a labyrinth,” Lucy added, glancing at the map of the mall floor plan on her phone. “Employee corridors, utility stairwells, back offices…”

Tim turned to Dylan, who was now standing, jaw set. “What would you do?” he asked.

Dylan’s mind was already racing. “He won’t try for the loading docks. Too open. Elevators and exits are probably covered. If he’s smart—”

“He is,” Tim cut in.

“—then he’ll go low. Basements. Mechanical areas. Maybe maintenance tunnels if this place has them. He won’t go high — he’ll want a place to hide, not jump.”

Grey nodded. “Alright. Jenkins, Bradford — check sub-levels. Bishop, Nolan, Chen, take cameras with security. I want every hallway monitored. He’s somewhere in this building, and he’s running out of time.”

They nodded, already moving.

As Dylan and Tim jogged side by side down a concrete corridor toward the lower levels, her voice was quiet but firm.

“He’s unraveling.”

Tim glanced at her. “And desperate.”

“That makes him the most dangerous man in this building.”

The fluorescent lights had died three turns ago. Now, the only thing guiding them was the hum of the emergency bulbs lining the concrete wall — pale red and flickering, casting long shadows through the sub-level maintenance corridor of the Glendale Galleria.

Dylan Jenkins moved silently along the left flank of the hallway, her Glock steady in her grip. Each footstep was careful, calculated, her body pressed close to the cinder block wall. The air smelled of damp steel, dust, and something chemical.

On the opposite side — equally quiet — Tim Bradford moved in tandem. They were tracking Jeremy Hawke. And they were close. There’d been movement. Breathing. A metallic scrape that echoed too long.

Then— “Don’t come any closer.”

The voice floated from the shadows. Cold. Measured. But fractured.

“Hawke,” Tim called out, voice calm, weapon raised. “You’re boxed in. Just drop the gun, and we’ll talk this out.”

A bitter laugh echoed back. “You think you’ve got this under control?” Hawke said, stepping out from behind an electrical unit. He was dishevelled, pale, sweat beading at his temples — but his hands were steady. Gun drawn. Pointed squarely at Dylan.

Tim froze. Dylan didn’t move. Her grip tightened slightly — nothing else. Her stance was strong. Her aim was perfect. But her eyes locked on the barrel aimed directly at her. Tim’s heart dropped.

“Hawke—” he started, voice lower now, laced with something close to desperation.

“You made a rookie mistake,” Hawke said, almost smug, almost gleeful. “You’re both too close. Your lines of fire cross. If you shoot me, you risk hitting her. If she shoots—well. She might take out her partner.” His eyes shifted, twitching with something broken behind them. “You two really think you’re the heroes here? You think you’re different than me?”

“No one said we were heroes,” Dylan said, voice level despite the cold sweat trickling down her spine. “But we’re not pointing guns at our own people.”

He took one step closer.

Tim’s voice sharpened. “Don’t. Jeremy, listen to me—if you hurt her, if you even twitch wrong, I swear to God—”

“She’s just leverage,” Hawke muttered. “You won’t shoot if it puts your partner at risk, Bradford. I know you. I know the type.”

Tim’s voice cracked, barely audible: “You’re not gonna shoot her.”

“Is that a threat or a prayer?” Hawke whispered.

Dylan’s finger hovered over the trigger, her breathing steady, every muscle poised but still. She could feel Tim’s presence behind him, the weight of the moment, of this moment, settling like concrete in her chest.

“He’s bluffing,” Tim said, eyes locked on Hawke’s back. “He won’t shoot you.”

He was speaking to Dylan. And to himself. Because the truth was, if Hawke pulled that trigger, and Dylan— He wouldn’t survive it. He wouldn’t come back from that. Not again. Not after he’s already seen her shot for saving his life.

“Jeremy,” Dylan said softly, “you’re not thinking clearly. You’re scared. You’re angry. But this—this isn’t you. And the man I read about? The cop you used to be? He wouldn’t pull that trigger.”

Jeremy Hawke’s gun was still raised, though his finger hovered loosely near the trigger now. His eyes — bloodshot and wired — flicked from Dylan to Tim.

“What’s the endgame here, Jeremy?” Tim asked, voice low, steady despite the storm building behind his eyes.

“You think I’m going to be the guy who surrenders? Gets dragged out in cuffs while news cameras wait to plaster me all over every channel?” Hawke spat. “Nah. I go out my way.” He dropped the gun to the floor with a deliberate clunk. “But we do it like men,” he added. “No bullets. Just blood.” He looked at Tim with a sick, eager grin. “Been waiting years to test you, Bradford. And you…” — he turned to Dylan — “can’t wait to see what you’re made of.”

Dylan exhaled, already sensing where this was going. “Of course,” she muttered, lowering her weapon with a roll of her eyes. “Because why wouldn’t I want to get into a bare-knuckle brawl with a riled-up ex-cop in a maintenance corridor on a Tuesday?”

Tim gave her a sideways glance. “You can handle it.”

Dylan snorted. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean I want to.” But she holstered her gun and raised her fists all the same.

Hawke’s knuckles cracked as he squared up. “Let’s dance.”

Tim charged first, always the battering ram when instinct kicked in — but Hawke was faster than expected. He ducked low and slammed his elbow into Tim’s temple, sending him spinning to the ground, stunned.

“Tim!” Dylan barked, eyes flashing.

Hawke turned to her, grinning. “You’re up.”

She didn’t hesitate. She lunged. The first punch landed square in her gut, knocking the air out of her lungs, but she didn’t go down. Instead, she twisted with the blow, using the momentum to grab Hawke’s shoulder, kneeing him hard in the ribs. But he was big. Strong. Experienced. He grabbed both her wrists, and slammed her against the wall, the back of her skull bouncing painfully off the concrete.

“Still think you can take me, Jenkins?” he hissed, inches from her face.

Then— Slide. A small object skidded across the floor, barely audible. Pepper spray.

Tim — still groggy, still down — had pushed it her way, his hand bleeding from where it scraped the concrete.

Dylan didn’t hesitate. With her wrists pinned, she maneuvered just enough to hook the spray can with her boot, popping it upward into reach. Hawke realized too late — she snatched it, and sprayed directly into his face, holding it until he screamed. Hawke reeled back, eyes clamped shut, shouting and swearing, clawing at his face.

And that’s when Tim struck. From the floor, he whipped out his taser, arcing it forward and driving the probes into Hawke’s leg. TZZZT. Hawke seized up mid-stagger, body locking before he collapsed to the ground like a toppled statue.

Moments later— Footsteps. Running.

Bishop and Chen burst into the corridor, guns drawn and eyes scanning—only to see Hawke unconscious, and Tim and Dylan slumped against opposite walls, both breathing heavily, both bruised and scraped.

“Clear!” Bishop called out, holstering her weapon and moving in to cuff Hawke.

Chen’s eyes widened. “Holy sh—are you two okay?”

“Define okay,” Dylan groaned, wincing as she stood upright, hand to her ribs.

Tim sat back, breathing hard. “He got a cheap shot. I was distracted.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “You were overconfident. And slow. Guy elbowed you into next week.”

Tim gave her a tired glare. “I got you the spray, didn’t I?”

“Right after eating the floor like a rookie,” she said, grinning despite her split lip. “What would you do without me?”

Tim couldn’t help it. He smiled — a real one, bruised and tired and sincere. “Shut up, Jenkins.”

They looked at each other then, breath catching slightly. Because beneath the ache in their limbs and the adrenaline crashing down, there was something else. Something quiet. Something neither one of them could keep brushing off much longer. But now wasn’t the time. Now, Hawke was in cuffs. His kid was safe. The building was clear. But the air between Dylan and Tim? Still crackling. Still unresolved. And with every near-death moment, every brush with danger, whatever this was kept getting harder to ignore.

The station was quieter than usual, that rare after-hours lull hanging in the air. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a soft, sterile glow over the worn linoleum floors and cluttered desks of the bullpen. Most of the chaos from earlier had died down, and the adrenaline that had carried them through the last few hours was finally starting to drain from their limbs.

Dylan Jenkins and Tim Bradford emerged from the locker room, now in their civilian clothes — Tim in a plain black Henley and jeans, Dylan in her usual black hoodie and joggers, her hair tied loosely back. They looked like two people who’d been through a warzone… and maybe had.

The hallway stretched out in front of them, but Dylan could feel it — that weight hanging off Tim’s shoulders, subtle but there. The way he walked just a little slower than usual, quieter. A shadow of guilt clinging to him like dried blood.

And she knew why. Because he hadn’t been there. Not the way he wanted to be. He hadn’t stopped Hawke before Dylan got slammed against that wall. Before she had to fight her way out of it.

So, naturally, she decided to do what she did best. Ruthless sarcasm.

“So,” she began casually, slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder, “just to recap, I took a punch to the stomach, got pinned to a wall by a six-foot, rage-filled ex-cop, sprayed him in the face with his dignity, and had enough energy left to quip about it—”

Tim sighed, eyes fixed forward. “Jenkins—”

“—while you, my ever-capable partner, threw yourself headfirst into an elbow and spent the next five minutes face down on the floor like a Victorian lady fainting over corset tightness.”

That did it. A breath. A huff. The barest edge of a smile.

“Don’t make me regret pushing you the pepper spray,” he muttered, but his tone was lighter now.

“Oh, you regret it?” Dylan turned to him with mock outrage. “I had this whole image in my head of the great Tim Bradford — training officer, tactical god, the man, the myth, the very large shoulder pads — and then boom. Down like a sack of potatoes.”

Tim shook his head, that smile tugging a little further into view. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And still standing,” she shot back proudly. “Unlike you.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t deny it. In fact, he looked over at her then — really looked — and there was something in his eyes that lingered. Not admiration. Not just respect. Something quieter. Heavier. Real.

She felt it too. Which is probably why she looked away first, bumping his elbow lightly with her own.

“Don’t go brooding on me,” she added. “I’m not made of glass.”

“No,” he said, voice softer. “You’re not.”

They turned the corner together, still shoulder-to-shoulder, still close enough that their elbows brushed occasionally. And across the bullpen, Angela Lopez and Lucy Chen sat at their desks, both mid-report — or, they had been. Now, they were just watching.

Lucy nudged Angela subtly with her pen. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

Angela’s eyes followed Dylan’s hand as it briefly touched Tim’s shoulder during another laugh, her body leaning slightly into his space. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away. If anything… he leaned back.

Angela sipped her coffee, eyebrows raised. “Oh, I see it.”

Lucy tilted her head. “Do we say something?”

“God, no,” Angela whispered, eyes gleaming. “We let it simmer.”

They watched as Dylan and Tim continued walking, voices quiet, laughter low and intimate — not romantic yet, not overt. But definitely… something. Something brewing.

It was nearing the end of the shift the next day. The bullpen hummed with the usual end-of-watch energy — officers typing up their final reports, the faint buzz of vending machines in the corner, someone laughing in the breakroom two doors down. Outside, the LA sun had started to dip low, casting warm gold light across the tiled floor.

Angela Lopez, Lucy Chen, and Jackson West sat clustered around a shared table near the windows, each of them with cold coffees, tired limbs, and more curiosity than paperwork at this point.

Jackson leaned back in his chair, stretching with a groan. “I still can’t believe what went down with Hawke yesterday. That could’ve been really bad.”

Angela nodded. “It was really bad. But the fact no one got shot? That’s a miracle.”

Lucy swirled her iced coffee with a straw, eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah, well… I can’t stop thinking about Bradford and Jenkins.”

Angela smirked. “Here we go.”

Jackson glanced between them. “What about them?”

Lucy leaned in, like she was about to share classified intel. “They walked out together yesterday after being cleared. Civilian clothes. All normal on the surface… until she started doing her British charm— all sarcasm, subtle intimacy.”

Angela laughed. “British charm?”

“Oh yeah,” Lucy nodded. “You saw it. You saw Tim’s reaction. Lucy said. “He smiled. Like an actual, real smile. You know how rare those are.”

Angela gave a knowing look. “Weird thing is, I saw them at the hospital. Both of them looked like they’d been a bit busted up from the scrap with Jeremy — bruises, blood, dirt… and neither one of them cared. They were just asking if the other was okay,” adding onto the speculation and gossip Jackson was now intrigued with.

Jackson leaned forward. “You think something’s going on?”

Angela lifted her hands in mock innocence. “I’m just saying… Jenkins is tough. Closed-off. Doesn’t let many people in. But with Tim? She lets him in. That’s not nothing.”

Lucy grinned. “They bicker constantly, they work like they’re reading each other’s minds, and now they’re touching each other every five seconds like it’s not a big deal.”

Jackson gave a slow, impressed nod. “I mean… they do have chemistry. But Tim? With someone like Jenkins?”

Angela raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just mean,” Jackson said quickly, “she’s… intense. And smart. And… British.”

Lucy smirked. “And intimidating. You forgot intimidating.”

Angela leaned back. “So is Tim. They’re basically the same person. Stubborn, protective, emotionally constipated—”

“��but quietly loyal and kind of terrifying in a crisis,” Lucy added.

Jackson shook his head, laughing. “Okay, okay. So what are we thinking? A thing?”

Angela sipped her coffee. “Not yet. But it’s heading there.”

Lucy twirled her straw. “Give it a month.”

Jackson grinned. “You think it’ll be Jenkins who cracks first or Bradford?”

Angela and Lucy both answered at once:

“Bradford.”

They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Angela reached into her back pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill, sliding it onto the table. “I’m putting this down on ‘within the month.’”

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

[realityjoey]

SEASON 1, EPISODE 5, “THE ROUNDUP.”

The morning buzz of the precinct was sharper than usual — something unspoken rippling through the bullpen like static. Officers were smirking at one another, coffee cups raised in quiet challenge, subtle jabs being traded across desks.

Roll call was minutes away, and the tension was less about briefing updates and more about bragging rights. Because everyone had heard the rumour. Something was going down today. And it had Team Bradford’s fingerprints all over it.

The roll call room filled quickly. Officers took their seats, murmuring, while a few rookies double-checked their notepads and tried to look more alert than exhausted. Angela Lopez and Talia Bishop slipped in side by side, followed by Dylan Jenkins, who carried her usual air of sarcastic calm, coffee in hand. But what made her pause — what made everyone pause — was the sight of Tim Bradford already standing at the front of the room. In Grey’s spot. Arms folded. Expression smug.

“Morning, officers,” he said in a mock-authoritative tone. “Before we get started, I just wanted to say — I’m proud of all of you for showing up today, knowing full well that Team Bradford is going to crush every single one of you.”

Lopez groaned, slumping into her chair. “Oh God, here we go.”

Dylan strolled past, whispering, looking at him, “You’re aware this is delusion, right?”

“Confidence,” Tim corrected, like he was about to announce a world tour. “Team Bradford doesn’t do second place.”

“Team Jenkins doesn’t do participation trophies,” she muttered back.

Before he could respond, the door opened. Sergeant Grey walked in, coffee in hand, stopping mid-step when he saw Tim standing front and center like he owned the place. The room stilled. Grey raised an eyebrow.

Tim gave him a slow, cheeky nod. “Just warming up the crowd.”

Grey stepped forward, deadpan. “Thank you, Officer Bradford, for that deeply unnecessary performance.”

Tim retreated to his usual seat — which happened to be directly next to Dylan, Lopez, and Bishop — still grinning like a schoolboy who just got caught trying to lead assembly.

Grey exhaled and turned to the room. “Alright. Since he’s already spoiled the surprise — yes. We’re doing a challenge today. Friendly competition. T.O and rookie or partner pairings. The team with the most arrests by end of shift wins.” He paused. “Felony arrests are worth seven points. Misdemeanours, three.” The room came alive with quiet excitement. “But let me be clear,” Grey continued, narrowing his gaze. “This is not officially sanctioned. It’s not in any manual. It’s not what policing is about. This is not about padding numbers or racing to throw people in cuffs. This is about proactive, smart, ethical policing.” He looked directly at Tim.

Tim raised both hands in mock innocence. “Wouldn’t dream of anything less.”

Grey wasn’t buying it. “Remember: do the job. Don’t game the system. And don’t make me regret this.” With that, Grey dismissed them, and officers began filtering out to their units.

As Dylan and Tim made their way toward the parking lot, she gave him a sideways glance. “You heard the man. No playing dirty.”

Tim nodded solemnly. “Of course.” Then added, under his breath: “We’re still winning. No matter what.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re competitive,” he shot back. “Don’t pretend you didn’t feel the itch the second Grey said ‘challenge.’”

She didn’t reply right away. Then: “Seven points for a felony, right?”

Tim smirked. “Thought so.”

The morning air was still crisp when they stepped out into the lot, walking toward their cruiser. The buzz of Grey’s challenge still danced between them, unspoken but electric. Tim Bradford had that trademark gleam in his eye — the kind that only came out when he was in full “game mode.”

But just as Dylan reached for the passenger side door, Tim stopped short. “Wait.”

She turned, brows raising. “What?”

Instead of answering, Tim knelt down, unzipped one of the war bags in the trunk, and pulled out something she absolutely did not expect: a small, carefully wrapped present. It even had a neat little red bow on top.

Dylan blinked. “What… the hell is that?”

Tim didn’t answer. He just straightened, adjusted the present in his hands like it was a bomb he was proud of, and started walking with purpose across the lot — straight toward the dispatch centre.

Dylan stood there for a beat, watching him with that deep, British mix of suspicion and dry amusement. “This should be good…” She followed — slowly.

Inside the dispatch centre, the atmosphere was worlds apart from the precinct — dim lighting, hushed voices, glowing screens, and headsets. Operators worked like quiet gods, dispatching chaos across the city with calm, rapid precision. And sitting at the far end, headset off for now, sipping from a baby-pink thermos covered in cartoon fox stickers, was Nell. She was small, red-haired, and clearly not used to Tim Bradford entering her world — because as soon as he stepped in, her eyes went wide and she nearly dropped her cup.

“Nell,” Tim greeted smoothly, the kind of charm in his voice Dylan had never once heard directed at her.

“Officer Bradford—hi! Um, wow, hi.” Nell blushed instantly, nearly knocking over her keyboard. “Uh. What brings you—?”

“You,” Tim said simply, holding out the present. “Saw this in the bookstore yesterday. Thought of you.”

Nell blinked. “Me?”

“Mm-hm,” Tim nodded. “I remembered you said you loved graphic novels, and this one looked like something you’d adore.”

Behind him, Dylan watched like someone watching a live car crash. Equal parts amused, horrified, and deeply fascinated. Who the hell was this version of Tim Bradford?

Nell turned so red, Dylan thought she might combust on the spot. “That’s… really sweet. You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Tim said, smooth as ever. “But I wanted to.”

Nell cradled the gift like it was holy. “Thank you! Really. That’s—wow.”

Tim leaned a little closer, voice dipping into something just slightly lower, just slightly more suggestive. “So, listen… I was wondering if you could do me a tiny little favour.”

Nell tilted her head, nervous. “Um. Sure?”

“You know the T.O challenge today, right?” Tim asked, casual.

“Yeah, I heard,” she nodded, clutching the book like it might fly away.

“Well,” Tim said, flashing his most disarming grin, “it’d really help if you sent me and Jenkins any felony calls you get first. You know. So we can stay on top.”

Nell’s eyes widened. “Oh. Um. I don’t know. That might count as, like… dispatch favouritism.”

Tim smirked. Leaned in a little closer. “But I am your favourite,” he said in that dangerously soft voice. “Right?”

Dylan audibly scoffed behind him.

Nell turned bright red, grinning helplessly. “I—I guess I could forward a few priority calls your way…”

Tim winked. “Knew I could count on you.” As he turned, he gently placed a hand on Nell’s shoulder, then strolled out like he’d just picked up a dry cleaning order. Dylan was still standing there, arms folded, staring at him like he’d just sprouted devil horns.

Outside, she followed him toward their cruiser, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

Tim tossed the empty war bag into the trunk. “Worked, didn’t it?”

“I thought you didn’t ‘do’ charm,” she said. “Now I know it’s a tactical weapon.”

He shrugged. “Only when the mission demands it.”

Dylan scoffed again. “Poor girl looked like she was about to combust. Do you use that voice on everyone who stands in your way?”

He smirked, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Just the redheads.”

Dylan slid in beside him, laughing despite herself. “Remind me never to let you near dispatch unsupervised.”

“Oh, we’re supervised,” Tim said, flicking on the ignition. “By fate. And now, by every felony call in the city.”

Dylan leaned back in her seat, smirking. “Alright, Romeo. Let’s go win this stupid challenge.”

And with a spin of the wheel, the shop rolled out into the streets — the game on, the score zero-zero, but the odds? Firmly stacked in Team Bradford’s favour.

The inside of the shop was warm, quiet, and filled with the rhythmic hum of tires on asphalt as Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins cruised through their sector. The morning had been productive — a few low-level stops, some citations, and a clean misdemeanor arrest that got them three points. But it wasn’t enough. Not with the group chat blowing up.

Dylan’s phone buzzed again in her vest pocket. She sighed, pulled it out, and read aloud with a deadpan tone: “‘Team Lopez & Chen — 13 points, thank you very much.’” She scrolled. “Nolan and Yates are on 10. And Jackson? Somehow just hit 17. How the hell did West pull that off?”

Tim scoffed. “Fluke.”

She raised a brow. “Sounds like we’re falling behind, Captain.”

Tim kept his eyes on the road but smirked. “Right. Time to deploy our secret weapon.”

Dylan blinked. “Secret weapon?”

“Call Nell.”

Dylan gave him a look. “Seriously?”

“Absolutely,” Tim replied, already pulling his personal phone from the dash mount and handing it to her. “You’re driving the charm offensive this time.”

“I’d rather stick my hand in traffic,” she muttered, but dialled anyway, pressing the phone to her ear with a grimace. A beat. Then— “Hey, Nell!” Dylan said, all awkward cheer.

Tim leaned closer. “Put it on speaker.”

She did.

Nell’s voice came through, a little flustered. “Oh! Hey. Officer Jenkins, right?”

Tim leaned in again, pitch dropping into that voice — the smooth, teasing one Dylan was rapidly learning to recognise. “Nell,” he drawled. “I’m hurt. Have you… forgotten about me?”

Dylan immediately pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh God.”

Nell stammered through the line. “No! I mean — of course not! It’s just been quiet over here, I swear.”

“Mm,” Tim said, resting one hand lazily on the wheel, his tone low, velvety. “I was starting to think you were favouring Jackson’s team. And here I thought we had something special.”

Dylan visibly recoiled in her seat. “I’m going to throw myself out of the car.”

But before Nell could reply, her voice changed. Sharper now. “Hold on — call coming through. Possible armed robbery at a liquor store, suspect fleeing on foot. Third and Glendale.”

Tim straightened, tone immediately professional. “We’ll take it. Send us the call.”

“Copy that,” Nell replied, already dispatching the call across the board.

Tim hit the lights. Dylan was already buckling her seatbelt tighter. “That’s seven points if it sticks.”

Tim grinned. “Told you she’d come through.”

As they sped through the streets, weaving between cars with sirens wailing, Dylan stared out the window, jaw tight. She wasn’t sure what was more annoying — the fact that Tim’s stupid flirtation worked… Or the fact that watching him do it stirred something unexpected inside her. That stupid voice. That casual confidence. The way he leaned in, the flash of charm in his eyes — it was practiced, sure. But it wasn’t fake. And she hated that a small, irritating flutter had started somewhere low in her stomach. Butterflies. Nope. Absolutely not. She turned her head away, trying to shake it off. This was just a game. Tim Bradford was an excellent cop, a shameless flirt, and absolutely the wrong person to be getting flustered over. She’d seen men like him before. Except… she hadn’t. Not quite like this.

“Jenkins,” Tim said, glancing at her. “You okay?”

She blinked once. Then replied with a smirk. “Let’s just win this thing so I can go home and wash the sleaze off.”

Tim laughed — a real, deep laugh that curled around her spine in ways it shouldn’t. And as the shop rounded the corner toward the scene, sirens still blaring, Dylan squared her jaw and told herself to get her head in the game. It’s just adrenaline. Just adrenaline. Wasn’t it?

The cruiser carved through late morning traffic, lights flashing, sirens wailing in the distance as they approached the location Nell had given them. Tim Bradford was focused, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly near the siren controls. Dylan Jenkins sat in the passenger seat, her eyes scanning every corner they turned, the adrenaline building — but not just from the call. Something else was simmering too.

Dylan tapped her fingers once against her thigh before speaking. “Nell seems nice.”

Tim didn’t take his eyes off the road. “What’s your point?”

Dylan smirked faintly. “You really gonna play that card?”

“I’m driving,” he said flatly. “Not in the mood for riddles.”

“She likes you,” Dylan said simply. “It’s obvious.”

Tim exhaled through his nose. “She’s just doing me a favour.”

Dylan turned toward him slightly, brow arched. “Come on, Bradford. You gave her a present. Complimented her like she was on a runway. Dropped the voice.”

“What voice?” he asked, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

She gave him a look. “That voice. The one that makes people forget their own name,” she said. “You turned the full charm offensive on a dispatch officer to rig a friendly competition. That’s… pretty cold, even for you.”

Tim’s grip on the wheel tightened ever so slightly. “It’s just part of the game, Jenkins. She knows that.”

Dylan shook her head. “No, I don’t think she does. She’s sweet. Shy. She clearly thinks it means something.”

Tim finally glanced at her, annoyed. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to stop using people’s feelings just because you’re good at manipulating them,” she said, sharp but not cruel. “You’re better than that.”

That landed. Tim didn’t respond right away. His jaw was tight now. Eyes flicked back to the road. But before the silence could turn into something heated, Dylan’s gaze snapped forward. “Suspect. Two o’clock.” And just like that, the conversation died. The world narrowed into a singular focus. A man in a black hoodie, jeans, and gloves sprinted across an intersection two blocks ahead, weaving through cars, a crumpled brown duffel bag bouncing at his side.

Tim swerved hard, tires screeching as the cruiser jerked toward the sidewalk. Both officers burst from the vehicle before it had even come to a full stop. “LAPD! Stop!” Tim shouted, hand already on his weapon as he chased after him. Dylan sprinted beside him, boots pounding against pavement. Whatever awkward tension had existed in the car? It was gone now — burned away by the heat of pursuit. But even as they ran, adrenaline pumping and the call consuming their attention… Dylan’s words still echoed in the back of Tim’s mind. “You’re better than that.” And for some reason — that mattered.

The alley reeked of piss, old oil, and the faint sting of copper — the scent of blood from the suspect’s grazed elbow where he’d fallen trying to scale a fence. He hadn’t made it far. Tim Bradford had flanked left through the open loading dock, while Dylan Jenkins took the alley head-on, cutting the man off as he stumbled over discarded crates behind the liquor store he’d tried to rob. By the time he pulled the gun again — clumsy and desperate — Dylan already had hers aimed center-mass, calm and unflinching.

“Drop it. Now.”

He blinked. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Then the pistol slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. Dylan moved fast. She kicked the weapon away and shoved him against the brick wall, wrenching his hands behind his back with practiced force. Click. Click. Cuffs on.

Tim jogged up beside her a second later, breathing steady, eyes sharp. “Nice work.”

But Dylan didn’t answer. Because the suspect — mid-thirties, bloated face, eyes bloodshot, reeking of whiskey — had started mumbling to her. “You know what the problem is with the world?” he slurred, lips close to her ear as she kept him pinned. “Everyone thinks love’s supposed to fix you. Nah. Nothing fixes you like a bottle. Nothing. Not even the people who say they love you.” Dylan’s jaw twitched. “I had a wife. She begged me to get clean. Said she’d leave if I didn’t. So I let her.” He chuckled, bitter and warped. “Didn’t even hesitate. Booze stays. Booze don’t ask questions. Booze don’t care who you are.”

Tim saw something change in Dylan’s face. He saw it in the way her eyes hardened. Saw it in the sudden set of her shoulders, the shift in her grip. Like something snapped behind her calm.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low and cold. “Shut your mouth.”

The man laughed again, still leaning his weight on her like they were sharing a secret. “You get it, don’t you? That’s why you look so damn angry.”

She shoved him forward, not hard enough to hurt — just enough to make him stumble. He didn’t speak again.

Tim stepped closer, subtly placing a hand on her forearm, grounding her. “You okay?”

Dylan nodded once — too fast. “Fine.”

But Tim had seen that expression before. Not on suspects. On her. And though she didn’t say anything more, the look in her eyes said enough: the man’s words hadn’t just touched a nerve — they’d struck something buried deep. Something old. Something rotten. Something that sounded too much like her father. The words echoed in her mind, old and new overlapping like a bruise being pressed again: “It’s not me, Dylan, it’s the drink. The drink’s the only thing that gets me through.” “Don’t act like love’s enough. Love doesn’t pour into a glass, does it?” She looked away sharply.

Tim didn’t push. But his hand remained there, light and steady. “We’ve got him,” he said. Calm. Professional. “Let’s get him processed.”

She nodded again, slower this time. The suspect stumbled toward the cruiser, eyes glazed, still muttering — but Dylan didn’t hear the words anymore. She heard echoes. Heard ghosts. Tim opened the back door of the cruiser, and she helped guide the man inside. He didn’t resist. When the door slammed shut, Dylan stood still for a second longer than necessary, her breath shallow, hands flexing at her sides.

“You sure you’re okay?” Tim asked again, voice quieter now. Not a demand. Just an offer.

Dylan looked at him. Eyes colder than usual. But inside them, something hurt. “Let’s just win this damn challenge,” she muttered.

He didn’t press her again. But as they drove off, Tim kept glancing sideways — not at her hands, or her posture. He watched her eyes. Because something had shifted. And even if she wouldn’t say it… He’d felt it.

The burger van sat parked in its usual spot — the paint peeling from its sides, the smell of sizzling onions and cheap beef floating through the lot like a beacon. Officers gathered around the picnic benches and folding tables, radios clipped to vests and half-buttoned uniforms swaying in the breeze. The mid-shift energy was a blend of exhaustion and friendly competition. Today, it buzzed with more than just rivalry. Because Team Bradford & Jenkins had just pulled up. And something was… off.

Tim parked the cruiser and stepped out, stretching his shoulders. Dylan followed suit, but the moment her boots hit the pavement, she immediately pulled away — not toward him, not toward the usual gathering spot with their fellow training officers, but toward the farther table, where Jackson, Lucy, and Nolan were already mid-lunch, joking over sodas and comparing scores. Her silence spoke volumes. The air between her and Tim crackled — not with their usual playful tension, but something colder. Unresolved. Bitter.

Tim clocked it instantly. So did Angela Lopez, who approached with a drink in each hand and a furrow in her brow. “Hey,” she said, offering one to Dylan. “You okay?”

Dylan didn’t stop walking. “Not thirsty.”

Angela watched her go, concern deepening, before turning to Tim, who was now casually leaning against the side of the van like nothing had happened. Angela raised an eyebrow. “You two fight?”

“No,” Tim said coolly. “She just has a headache.”

Talia Bishop joined them, unimpressed. “She seemed fine at the last call.”

Tim shrugged, keeping his face unreadable. “Sun’s brutal today. Doesn’t take much.”

Angela narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying it, but decided not to press. Instead, she flopped down on the nearest bench with a dramatic sigh and held her hands out like she was accepting an award. “Well,” she declared, “Team Lopez & Chen have officially hit twenty-eight points.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, sitting beside her. “That so?”

“Twelve felony points. Two misdemeanors. And a guy who tried to run from us with a boot full of meth. Which I personally chased down, thank you very much.”

Talia groaned. “I told you, I’m not playing.”

Angela grinned. “And yet you’re still losing. That’s tough.”

Tim took a sip of his drink, watching Dylan from across the lot as she leaned into conversation with the rookies, head low, voice too quiet.

“Long shift left,” he muttered. “Plenty of time to turn it around.”

Angela smirked. “You sitting at seven, aren’t you?”

“Seven with a bullet,” he shot back. “And I’ve got Jenkins.”

Talia glanced sideways. “Who currently won’t look at you.”

“She’s just pacing herself,” Tim said flatly. “Like any good competitor.”

Lopez raised an eyebrow. “She’s pissed about something. And if it’s about the challenge, you better hope it doesn’t affect your chances, Romeo.”

Tim didn’t respond — not directly. But his jaw tightened, and his gaze flicked toward Dylan again. She was laughing now — or pretending to — at something Jackson said. But her fingers were tapping restlessly on the table. Her eyes never quite matched her smile. Tim knew that look. He’d seen it when suspects pressed buttons they didn’t understand. He’d seen it when her past bled through the cracks. And now? Now it was directed at him.

Angela leaned back, arms stretched across the back of the bench. “Face it, Bradford. You might have the best partner. But if she’s not talking to you?” She smirked. “You’re not winning anything today.”

The buzz of lunch at the burger van carried on like any other day — laughter, teasing, bites of greasy burgers between radio calls and scoreboard updates. But Lucy Chen sat quietly, barely touching her food, her dark eyes flicking across the table every so often to where Dylan Jenkins sat stiffly, surrounded by conversation but not in it. Dylan’s usual sharp wit had dulled to half-hearted sarcasm. Her posture was defensive — arms crossed, shoulders tight. Her foot tapped against the gravel, a subtle rhythm that belied the chaos under the surface. Lucy noticed everything. Always had. It was a curse and a gift of being raised by two psychologists. You learned to read tone, timing, body language — and Dylan was screaming without saying a word.

So, Lucy reached casually for her drink, bumped Dylan’s arm gently, and said, “Hey, want to walk with me to the van? I need more napkins.”

Dylan blinked, caught off guard. “You’ve got five right in front of you.”

“Yeah, well…” Lucy gave a weak smile. “They’re emotionally contaminated.”

Dylan gave a half-laugh — but she followed her anyway. They walked a short distance toward the van, then veered off to the far side, where the shade was deeper and the voices faded behind them. Lucy leaned against the brick wall of the adjacent building, napkins forgotten, and turned to face her. Dylan didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

Lucy tilted her head, voice soft. “You’re spiraling.”

Dylan blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re doing that thing. Tapping your foot, checking your phone like it’s going to rescue you, clenching your jaw like you’re fighting with a ghost. Something’s off.”

Dylan looked away. “I’m fine.”

“My mum says when people say ‘I’m fine’ but their body’s tense, it usually means they’re in emotional quicksand.”

Dylan smirked faintly. “Your mum’s very insightful.”

“My dad says it too.”

Dylan sighed, scrubbing a hand down her face. “You corner all your colleagues like this, or am I just lucky?”

“Only the ones pretending they’re fine when they’re not.” Lucy’s voice didn’t waver. “You don’t have to tell me. But I’m here if you want to.”

Dylan looked at her for a long moment. And something shifted — her posture softened, the deflective energy beginning to crack. And then, almost reluctantly: “We had a call this morning. Armed robbery. Guy was drunk, rambling. We cuffed him pretty quickly, but he just kept talking. Slurring stuff in my ear.” Lucy waited. “He kept going on about how alcohol’s better than love. That it doesn’t leave you. Doesn’t ask anything of you. That he let his wife walk out because she expected him to quit drinking, and he didn’t even care.” Her voice was low now. Brittle.

Lucy’s chest tightened. “That hit a nerve.”

Dylan gave a tight, humourless smile. “My dad was a drunk. Still is, I think. We don’t talk. Not since I left. He used to say stuff like that all the time — that we were the problem, not the bottle. That alcohol never disappointed him.” Lucy didn’t interrupt. She just let her speak. “And hearing it come out of that guy’s mouth today? It just… I don’t know. Punched a hole through me. Like time rewound.” Dylan shifted her weight, glancing away. “And then I got sharp with Bradford. Cold. Because I didn’t want to explain it, and he just kept being—him. All stoic and unreadable and stubborn.”

Silence stretched between them. Then Lucy said gently, “It doesn’t make you weak to want someone to see you.” Dylan blinked at her, thrown by the softness. “You’re human,” Lucy added. “And Tim? He may not always know what to say. But he pays attention. I’ve seen it. He’s probably still trying to figure out what the hell he did wrong.”

Dylan ran a hand through her hair, exhaling. “He didn’t do anything wrong. I just… projected. And now I’m acting like a brat because I don’t know how to be mad at a ghost, so I’m mad at the closest person instead.”

Lucy smiled faintly. “My mum says that too.”

Dylan huffed. “Your mum’s got all the answers.”

“She thinks she does. But I think you’ve got more than you realise.”

Dylan looked at her — really looked — and something softened. “Thanks, Chen.”

“Anytime.”

They stood in silence a moment longer, side by side in the shade.

Then Dylan said, dryly, “Alright. Let’s go pretend these napkins were an emergency.”

Lucy laughed, bumping her shoulder. “If anyone asks, I emotionally contaminated at least three.”

They walked back together, a little lighter, a little steadier. And for the first time that day, Dylan didn’t feel quite so alone.

The air inside the shop was cooler now, the A/C humming softly as the cruiser rolled back onto the main road. Post-lunch lull had settled over the city, the sun sitting heavy above the skyline, and for once — for the first time all day — Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins were silent. Not their usual silence. This one was loaded. Tim tapped the wheel lightly with his thumb, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She wasn’t scrolling her phone. Wasn’t giving one of her dry one-liners. She just sat there, arms folded loosely, eyes on the window, but not seeing it. And for Tim, that was more disconcerting than any raised voice or sarcastic jab.

He cleared his throat. “So…” She didn’t look over. “I need to know if I should be worried.”

That got her attention. Her brow furrowed. “Worried?”

“About your mood,” Tim said, not unkindly. “Because if we’re going to win this competition — and, you know, continue functioning as partners — I need to know if the storm cloud over your head is going to keep raining.”

Dylan blinked. “Seriously?”

Tim shrugged. “I’m not asking for a full therapy session. Just a weather forecast.”

Dylan gave a soft exhale, somewhere between amusement and surrender. “I’m fine.”

Tim let that sit for a beat. He stared ahead, then slowly pulled them into a quieter street, easing off the gas. Then, he said, “I don’t know what your past looks like. And I’m not asking. But what that guy said? All that crap about alcohol being more reliable than people?” He paused, jaw tight. “That’s not true. You need to know that.” She stared at him. No sarcasm. No retort. Just… quiet. The kind of quiet Tim had never seen on her. And maybe it was because she’d already broken earlier with Lucy, or maybe it was the way Tim said it — like it wasn’t a performance, like he wasn’t trying to fix her, just reach her — but Dylan nodded. Once. It was small. But it meant everything.

Tim didn’t push further. Didn’t need to. The moment hung there, delicate, as the cruiser slowly rolled past a row of faded storefronts. Then Dylan’s phone buzzed on the dash. She grabbed it, blinking out of whatever haze had held her.

“Yeah?”

A familiar voice crackled through the speaker. Nell. “Jenkins? Got something for you and Officer Bradford — possible B&E in progress, residential property near Atwater. Neighbour says they saw two men breaking through the back window.”

Dylan glanced over at Tim, who was already flipping on the lights. She smirked faintly. “Copy that, Nell. We’re en route.”

The sirens kicked up again, the hum of the engine rising with purpose. And just like that — they were back in motion. But this time, there was something different in the air between them. Not gone. Not fixed. But lighter. Understood. Stronger.

The street in Atwater Village was eerily still. A quiet block of suburban homes with neatly trimmed hedges and silent driveways. The sun cast long shadows across the pavement as Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins rolled up slowly, eyes scanning every corner. But the moment they turned into the cul-de-sac— Gunfire erupted. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

“Gun! Gun! Gun!” Dylan shouted, just as the windshield exploded into a spiderweb of shattered glass, bullets tearing through it in violent succession.

Tim didn’t hesitate — he reached across the centre console and shoved Dylan down, shielding her with his body as they ducked behind the dash. The whine of ricocheting rounds and screaming tires filled the air, hot brass clinking against the pavement. More bullets. More chaos.

“Stay down,” Tim growled, voice low and protective, even as his eyes never stopped tracking movement through the fractured glass.

Dylan, heart pounding against her ribcage, felt the weight of Tim over her — his arms braced to keep her protected, his breath steady, calculated, like this was just another day. “Windshield’s done,” she muttered, voice tight.

“Then we move.” As the gunfire slowed — a break, a reload, a hesitation — Tim reached for the door. “Go!”

Both officers threw open their doors at the same time, ducking low and using the ballistic panels as cover. Their weapons came up like clockwork. Two shooters were standing beside a black getaway van parked across the street — both armed, both firing recklessly. But after a few exchanged rounds from Tim and Dylan, the suspects turned and bolted behind the van.

“They’re falling back,” Dylan said, eyes narrowing. And then they disappeared — slamming into the back of the van and locking themselves inside.

“Bulletproof box,” Tim muttered, watching the glint of reinforced metal around the van’s rear.

Dylan swore. “We’re gonna have to wait for SWAT.”

Tim was already shaking his head. “No. No, this is our window.”

She glanced at him. “Bradford—”

“They think they’re safe,” he said, grabbing something from the tactical kit in the back of the shop. “Which means their guard is down.”

She followed his eyes as he pulled out a small canister of pepper spray — industrial grade. Dylan blinked. “You’re gonna gas them?”

Tim’s mouth curved into a grin. “I’m gonna smoke ‘em out.”

Moments later, the two were crouched low on either side of the van, quiet and invisible behind parked cars. Tim pointed to a small airflow slit just above the wheel well — likely overlooked during the van’s reinforcement.

Dylan nodded. “Let’s make it fast.”

Tim slithered forward, keeping his body low, and without a sound, he aimed the canister into the vent and sprayed — a long, powerful stream that hissed like a serpent. Nothing happened at first. Then— coughing. Loud, guttural. Panicked. Inside the van, chaos erupted — choking, gagging, one suspect yelling about not being able to see. Tim bolted back into position, gun raised, eyes sharp. Then— bam! The rear doors flew open, and both suspects stumbled out, blinded and coughing violently.

They didn’t make it two steps. Dylan was waiting. “LAPD! Hands where I can see ‘em! Down on the ground!” One dropped immediately, hacking and swiping at his eyes. The other hesitated—then tried to run. Too late. Dylan stepped forward and slammed him against the van, weapon still raised. “Try me.” He dropped.

Tim swept in beside her, cuffing both as backup arrived, lights flashing around them. Seventeen points. Felony arrests. Weapons recovered. Suspects in custody. Team Bradford was back in the lead.

Back inside the cruiser, adrenaline still coursing, Dylan slid into the passenger seat, catching her breath. Her face was flushed, eyes wide — and though she didn’t say it, she was impressed.

She turned to Tim. “That was reckless. Borderline illegal.”

Tim shrugged, smug as ever. “Creative problem-solving.”

She stared at him for a beat longer. Then, finally, she cracked a grin. “You’re such a menace.”

He smirked. “Seventeen points worth of menace.”

And as they pulled away from the scene, lights fading in their rearview mirror, Dylan leaned her head back and let out a long breath. The day wasn’t over. But something told her Team Bradford & Jenkins wasn’t done surprising people yet. Especially each other.

The street was dark, quiet — just past 10 p.m. The warm glow of porch lights cast shadows across the trimmed lawns of the upscale neighbourhood, and if not for the radio chatter still echoing in their ears, it could have passed for any peaceful night in the suburbs. Two cruisers pulled up in tandem, headlights dimmed, emergency lights off to avoid alerting the suspects. John Nolan and Talia Bishop stepped out of their unit first, already on high alert. Moments later, Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins exited theirs, expressions sharp, steps silent as they approached the house. They didn’t need words. One look at the front window told them everything. Blood. A long smear of it painted the inside of the glass like a warning. And just beyond it — through sheer curtains and fractured blinds — was hell.

A woman was tied to a chair in the living room, blood dripping from her mouth, her eyes swollen and wild with terror. A man beside her was already slumped sideways, bruises blooming across his face. And three masked intruders moved around them — one pacing, one yelling, and another punching the male victim again, vicious and unrelenting. And on the front step? The cleaner — face-down in a pool of blood. Throat slit. A mop bucket tipped over beside her, pink-stained water leaking down the brick.

Dylan crouched low, scanning every angle. “We’ve got hostages.”

Tim gave a short nod. “We interfere now, or these people don’t make it.”

Bishop stepped forward, voice quiet but clear. “We’ll breach the front and go low. You two get upstairs, clear top-down.”

Nolan, already gripping his weapon tighter than usual, gave a shaky nod. “Let’s do it.”

Tim and Dylan peeled off toward the side gate, moving quickly and silently. The wooden fence was tall, almost eight feet — enough to make it tricky. Tim knelt, cupping his hands.

“Up,” he whispered.

Dylan hesitated — only for a second — but he noticed. Still, she stepped in, bracing one hand on his shoulder. As he lifted, his hands naturally moved to her hips, guiding her up with practiced precision. What he didn’t see — couldn’t see in the dark — was how tense she went. Her jaw locked. Her breath hitched. She made it over and dropped lightly on the other side. Tim followed seconds later, landing beside her. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

“Alright?” he murmured.

“Fine,” she said tightly. Then softer, “Let’s move.”

They entered through a second-floor balcony — unlocked. Sloppy. The invaders weren’t pros, just desperate and violent. Inside, the hallway was dimly lit by a hallway nightlight. Every sound was magnified — the floorboards creaking beneath their steps, the muffled screams from downstairs, the static tension pressing in on them like a vice. Tim took point, gun raised, sweeping each room with military precision. Dylan followed close behind, eyes sharp, breath controlled. Then — movement. One of the suspects, young, lanky, armed with a kitchen knife, stepped out of a bedroom just ahead. He didn’t even see them. CRACK! Dylan struck fast, elbow to the back of his head before he could scream, taking him down with surgical precision. She cuffed him silently.

They moved forward — another room, another threat. A second man, clearly the leader, was on the phone, pacing the upstairs hallway. Tim lunged first, tackling him from behind. The suspect slammed against the wall with a grunt, the phone clattering to the ground. Before he could reach for the pistol tucked into his belt, Dylan kicked it away and shoved him into the wall, cuffing him with one hand. They met eyes for a split second. No words — just breath, movement, adrenaline.

Downstairs, a loud crash echoed.

Then: “Clear!” Bishop’s voice rang out.

Dylan exhaled.

Tim touched his radio. “Upstairs secure. Two in custody.”

Moments later, officers began flooding in through the front — lights sweeping the house, backup arriving in waves. Dylan leaned against the hallway wall, rolling her shoulder out. Her heart still thundered in her chest, but her hands? Steady. Her aim? Unshaken. Tim stood across from her, face lit by the strobing lights outside, breathing hard. They looked at each other for a beat longer than necessary.

Then he gave a nod — quiet, acknowledging, respectful. And for the first time since lunch, she nodded back.

The sun had dipped below the skyline, casting a golden-pink haze across the precinct lot. The heat of the day was finally easing, replaced by a cooler breeze that ruffled the edges of uniforms now replaced by jeans, hoodies, and well-worn t-shirts. The burger van glowed under its string of fairy lights, a gathering place that had become unofficial tradition. The scent of grilled onions and ketchup wafted lazily through the air, mingling with the low hum of laughter and banter as officers leaned against cruisers, picnic tables, and one another.

It had been a long day. A brutal one. But there was still one last order of business.

Angela Lopez, dressed in joggers and a denim jacket, climbed on top of one of the folding benches like a queen taking her throne. A half-eaten burger in one hand, her phone in the other, she cleared her throat dramatically.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and competitive maniacs,” she called out, “it is time.” The chatter hushed, heads turning. “I am here,” she continued, “to announce the results of today’s most ridiculous, questionably ethical, and completely unsanctioned competition.” Cheers and mock groans rippled through the group. Angela smirked, scrolling through her notes. “In last place — with a grand total of zero points, due to total lack of participation — Team Bishop.”

Talia raised her drink. “Proudly uninterested.”

“In third place,” Angela went on, “Team Nolan and Yates — with 22 points and at least one slightly illegal donut bribe.”

“Hey!” Nolan called. “That was strategy.”

Angela ignored him. “In second, Team Lopez and Chen — 28 points, three foot chases, one badly parked patrol car—”

Lucy raised her hand. “Not me.”

“Which means,” Angela announced, voice rising, “the winners, with a whopping 31 points, two felony busts, one hostage rescue, and some highly questionable flirtation with dispatch…” She grinned. “Team Bradford and Jenkins.”

A mix of applause, whistles, and good-natured groans filled the air. Jackson fake-bowed in their direction. Nolan started slow-clapping sarcastically. But Dylan barely heard it. Because beside her, Tim Bradford smiled. Not the usual smirk. Not the cocky, I-told-you-so grin. A real smile. Unfiltered. Honest. Just for a second. And it caught her completely off guard.

“Nice work, Jenkins,” he said, holding his hand up.

Dylan blinked, then returned the high five — sharp and solid. But as their hands dropped, his arm stayed up, and for just a brief moment, he slung it around her shoulders in a loose, casual way. Friendly. Harmless. Except it wasn’t. Because something fluttered in her stomach. Subtle — barely there. But real. And she hated it. Because this was Tim Bradford, for god’s sake. The moody, grumpy, bossy cop who yelled too much during foot chases, pushed too hard in training scenarios, and somehow pissed her off at least once every single day. And yet… Here he was. Arm around her shoulder, laughter in his chest, warmth radiating off him like it had any right to touch her so easily. And there she was. Standing still. Feeling it.

She forced a smirk. “You’re going to be unbearable about this tomorrow.”

Tim’s arm dropped, but his eyes didn’t lose their brightness. “You say that like I wasn’t already.”

She rolled her eyes and turned toward the van. “I need a drink. A cold one.” As she walked off, she didn’t look back. Didn’t have to. Because she could still feel the ghost of his arm over her shoulder. And those butterflies? Still fluttering. Still refusing to be ignored.

The chatter around the burger van slowly dwindled as the night deepened. Most of the squad had started peeling off — heading home, grabbing takeout, or lingering just long enough to brag one last time before calling it a day.

Dylan stood off to the side now, a soda in hand, the condensation dripping lazily down the side of the cup. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, and she was staring out across the dimly lit parking lot like it was saying something only she could hear. She wasn’t even sure why she was still here. But she hadn’t left. And neither had Tim.

He appeared beside her like he always did — quiet, present, infuriatingly observant. One hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding a burger he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there. With her.

Dylan finally glanced sideways. “You waiting to say ‘I told you so’ again?”

Tim shrugged. “Thought you were going to beat me to it.”

She smirked faintly, but didn’t hold it. “You’re lucky I like winning more than I like proving you wrong.”

“I’m not lucky,” he said. “I’m strategic.”

She let out a short laugh and shook her head. Silence settled between them again — but it wasn’t awkward. It was just… quieter. After the rush. After the shouting. After the guns and cuffs and the adrenaline. Now there was only this. Stillness. And maybe… something else.

“You did good today,” Tim said eventually, voice low.

“So did you.”

“I mean it,” he added, eyes on her now. “That call earlier? The hostage situation? You were locked in. You didn’t flinch. I trust you out there.”

Dylan’s chest tightened in a way she didn’t expect. She looked down at her soda.

“That means more than you think,” she said quietly.

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Another beat of quiet. She could feel him looking at her. She didn’t know what she expected to see — maybe smugness, maybe that usual Bradford ego — but when she looked up, his expression had shifted. He looked… almost soft. Unarmoured. Like maybe she wasn’t the only one feeling something strange in the pit of her stomach.

“About earlier,” she said suddenly, breaking eye contact. “When I was cold with you. That was me. Not you.”

Tim frowned slightly. “You don’t owe me an apology.”

“I know.” She met his eyes again. “But I’m giving you one anyway.”

He gave a slight nod — accepting, not dismissive. “Thanks.”

She nodded too, then looked away again, taking a slow sip from her drink.

A moment passed.

Then Tim leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice quieter now. “You sure you’re good?”

Dylan hesitated.

Then: “Yeah. Just… still figuring a few things out.”

“Anything I can do?”

She looked at him then — really looked — and for just a moment, the tension cracked.

“You already are,” she said.

And suddenly, the air between them changed.

Tim looked at her a moment longer. Then — gently, quietly — he nudged her shoulder with his.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Let’s.”

They walked back to their cars in silence. But something followed them. Something new. Something real. And neither of them dared say it yet. But both of them felt it. Louder than any siren.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

[realityjoey]

is this real life?

[realityjoey]

SEASON 1, EPISODE 4, “THE SWITCH.”

The morning hum of the precinct had its usual rhythm — coffee brewing, boots stomping across tile, the occasional shouted “Where’s my damn vest?” echoing from the locker rooms.

But there was an energy in the air. A kind of anticipatory buzz that hinted at chaos, the kind that only Sergeant Grey seemed capable of orchestrating without ever raising his voice.

The bullpen filled fast. Tim Bradford leaned against the wall at the back of the briefing room, arms folded across his chest, watching the usual suspects file in. His expression was unreadable — but the slight twitch of his jaw said he was already skeptical.

Beside him, Dylan Jenkins strolled in, black coffee in hand, her eyes sharp and steady, that usual air of British smugness wrapped around her like armour. She clocked the mischievous glint in Grey’s eyes before he even said a word.

Uh-oh.

Grey cleared his throat, standing tall at the front with his clipboard. “Today is a special day.”

Bradford rolled his eyes. “Here we go…”

Dylan smirked into her coffee.

Grey continued. “As part of your ongoing development, and because some of you are getting a little too comfortable in your partnerships, we’re mixing things up.”

A ripple of surprise — and light panic — moved through the room.

“Today, you’re each going to work with someone new. Not just to test your adaptability, but to challenge your communication, your habits, and your trust.”

He began reading off the new pairings, voice firm and deliberate.

“Chen — you’re with Bishop.”

Lucy blinked, wide-eyed, and looked over at Bishop, who just offered a tight-lipped, amused smile.

“Nolan — you’re riding with Officer Yates.”

John sighed softly and gave a nervous thumbs up to the corner where Yates leaned, already unimpressed.

“Bradford — you’re with West.”

Jackson grinned like a kid unwrapping a gift. “Let’s go, Coach.”

Tim muttered under his breath, “This is going to be a long day…”

“Lopez,” Grey said, “you’re with Jenkins.”

Angela Lopez’s eyebrows shot up — and despite herself, she let out a soft but audible: “Yes.”

Dylan looked over, amused. “You alright there, partner?”

Lopez played it cool. “Just… always nice to work with someone who’s actually intimidating on purpose.”

Dylan’s grin widened. “Flattery gets you a better playlist.”

The truth was, Angela Lopez was genuinely thrilled. She’d admired Dylan since day one — her quiet intensity, her control, that cool accent and no-bullshit approach. Dylan was a walking detective’s manual with a tragic past and a wry sense of humour. And she carried herself like someone who could win a bar fight with one arm.

Lopez wanted to learn. And Dylan? Dylan secretly felt the same. Lopez was sharp, assertive, and charismatic in a way Dylan would never be. She liked her. Which unnerved her slightly.

But she wasn’t going to admit that. Obviously.

Grey stepped forward again. “One more thing — today’s not just about routine patrols or team-building exercises.”

Cue Tim’s second eye-roll of the morning.

Grey went on, “Your objective today is to learn one personal thing about your temporary partner. Something they don’t advertise. Something real.”

There was a collective groan from every corner of the room.

“No surface-level nonsense,” Grey clarified. “I don’t want to hear about favorite bands or pet names. I want something they wouldn’t normally share. And by end-of-shift, you’ll each report back.”

“Seriously?” Tim muttered.

Grey met his eyes directly. “Yes, seriously. You all spend more time with each other than your own families. It’s about time you acted like it.”

“Sounds invasive,” Dylan said casually, sipping her coffee. “I’m in.”

Grey glanced at her. “Careful, Jenkins. You’re not as impenetrable as you think.”

She raised a brow, accepting the challenge with a half-shrug.

Tim pushed off the wall, heading toward Jackson without a word. But the moment his back was turned, Dylan caught the way he glanced her way — just for a beat.

That half-second pause.

A reluctant tug at the corner of his mouth.

He wouldn’t say it — ever — but she knew.

He was going to miss riding with her.

As Dylan turned toward Lopez, Angela was already flipping open a notebook from her vest pocket.

“Alright,” she said. “First question — what’s your interrogation strategy when someone’s clearly lying but knows they’re cleverer than you?”

Dylan blinked. “Wow. Straight to it.”

“I don’t mess around.”

Dylan smirked. “You’re not going to let me get through the day without talking about my feelings, or detective tips, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

And with that, the pairs began to peel away, fanning out toward patrol cars, assignment sheets in hand, new energy in their step.

Dylan Jenkins had no doubt she’d uncover something about Lopez.

What she didn’t realise — not yet — was just how much Lopez was going to dig out of her.

The briefing room had emptied quickly after roll call, with rookies filing out toward their assigned units like chess pieces scattering across the board. The parking lot hummed with the sound of cruisers starting up, boots hitting pavement, clipped conversation crackling through open radios.

But just outside the rear entrance, in the slight shadow of the awning, four training officers lingered.

Tim Bradford. Talia Bishop. Angela Lopez. And Officer Yates.

All four leaned against the concrete wall in practiced silence — the kind that only came from people used to leading the charge. For a moment, no one spoke. Just the shared nods, the low clink of coffee cups and tactical belts.

Then, naturally, Lopez broke the silence.

“So,” she said casually, hands on her hips, “Jenkins. What am I in for?”

Tim didn’t immediately respond. He stared out toward the lot, watching as Dylan disappeared around the corner with her coffee in one hand and her signature walk — unbothered, steady, quietly intimidating — cutting across the asphalt.

“She’s solid,” he said finally. “One of the sharpest cops I’ve worked with in a long time.”

Lopez raised her brows. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”

“It was,” Tim said flatly. Then, reluctantly, he added, “But she’s got a few… quirks.”

“Oh, I love quirks,” Lopez said with a grin. “Shoot.”

Tim shifted his weight slightly, arms folded across his chest. “She’s got a short fuse. Controlled — mostly — but if someone’s being an idiot or doing something reckless, she doesn’t always hold back.”

Lopez nodded. “Noted.”

“She also takes too many risks,” Tim continued. “Not the adrenaline-junkie kind — more like… if she sees someone in danger, she doesn’t hesitate. Even if it puts her in the line of fire.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Bishop murmured with a look toward Bradford.

Tim ignored it.

“She’s got instincts like a detective who’s worked twice her years,” he added. “Cuts through lies like nothing, picks up on details most people miss. But…”

“But?” Lopez prompted.

Tim hesitated.

“She shuts down sometimes,” he admitted, voice lower now. “Just… goes quiet. You’ll be mid-shift, everything fine, then something will hit her — a call, a suspect, a phrase — and she’ll go radio-silent. Detached.”

Yates glanced over. “Trauma?”

“Definitely,” Tim said. “What kind, I don’t know. She doesn’t talk about it. Not to me.”

Lopez tilted her head thoughtfully. “So she internalises. Pushes through. Bottles it up.”

“Exactly.”

Bishop crossed her arms. “And yet you still say she’s solid?”

Tim looked at her, voice even. “She is. She doesn’t let it get in the way of the work. But you’ll see it if you’re paying attention. She’s not a mess — she’s just carrying something big. And she’s good at hiding it until it gets too heavy.”

Lopez nodded, taking all of it in with a quiet seriousness.

“She’s one of the best partners I’ve ever had,” Tim added after a pause. “But she doesn’t want people to know that she still bleeds.”

The group was quiet for a moment, the weight of his words settling over them like heat.

Yates finally broke the silence with a grunt. “I’ve got Nolan. He’s probably already offering to pay for lunch.”

Bishop smirked. “Chen’s practically allergic to talking about herself. This should be fun.”

Lopez took one last sip of her coffee, then dropped the cup into a nearby bin.

“Well,” she said, stretching her shoulders, “sounds like it’s going to be an interesting day.”

Tim offered a dry smirk. “Just keep your seatbelt fastened.”

Lopez glanced over at him as she headed toward her cruiser. “Don’t worry. I’ve been waiting for this ride for a while.”

As the others dispersed, Tim lingered for a beat longer, eyes following the direction Dylan had walked.

He wouldn’t say it aloud.

But part of him hated that someone else was riding with her today.

Not because he didn’t trust Lopez.

But because he did.

The cruiser rolled down a sleepy stretch of side street near Echo Park, warm sun filtering through the windshield, the usual city noise quieted by a rare pocket of calm.

Angela Lopez gripped the wheel with one hand, trying very hard to look casual — and failing. The second she’d been assigned to ride with Detective Dylan Jenkins, she’d been a mixture of giddy, focused, and slightly terrified. Dylan wasn’t just sharp — she was magnetic. The kind of cop whose silence made people talk, whose gaze could unearth things buried years deep.

Angela wanted to learn. Desperately.

And Dylan?

Dylan was the kind of person who didn’t give anything away for free.

Which is why Lopez had parked in the shade, killed the engine, and said — casually, but very much on purpose — “Figured now’s a good time for the whole ‘tell me something personal’ thing Grey’s making us do.”

Dylan, in the passenger seat, raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re really following through with that?”

“Absolutely,” Lopez said, turning to face her fully. “You’ve got layers, Jenkins. And I want to know what’s underneath.”

Dylan gave a soft snort and looked out the window. “You’re too eager.”

“I’m ambitious,” Lopez corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Dylan didn’t respond immediately. She seemed to weigh the silence, like she was deciding whether to fill it or let it stretch.

“You know what, let’s just get this over with.” Then she said, very quietly: “I had a younger brother.”

Angela’s smile faded slightly, caught off guard by the abrupt sincerity in her voice. “Yeah?”

“Rio,” Dylan continued. “He was… a mess. Charming, funny, but always in trouble. Drugs, theft, fights — you name it.”

Lopez stayed quiet, sensing the shift.

Dylan’s voice was calm. Controlled. But there was something just beneath it — like she was walking across glass, barefoot.

“I was more of a parent than a sister. Our dad was a drunk, high more often than not. Mum never cared enough to ask where we were, let alone what we were doing. So I took care of him. Cooked, cleaned, covered for him. Tried to keep him on the rails.”

Angela frowned, already feeling the tightening in her chest. “That’s a lot for a kid.”

Dylan nodded slowly. “When I joined the Met, started working my way toward detective, I got tunnel vision. Thought if I made it — if I became someone — I could pull him out of it all. But I stopped watching. He started acting off. Secretive. Jumpier. I chalked it up to immaturity.”

She went quiet for a beat.

Then said, so softly it nearly disappeared: “One day, I was on shift. Got called to a scene. Anonymous tip. Body dumped in an alley behind a kebab shop in Camden. Male. Early twenties. Gunshot to the chest.”

Angela didn’t move.

Dylan stared straight ahead, eyes locked on something far away. “It was Rio.”

The air in the cruiser went still.

“I was the one who unzipped the bag,” Dylan said. “Didn’t even realise what I was looking at until I saw the tattoo on his collarbone. I still see it. Every single day.”

Lopez’s throat tightened. “Dylan…”

“I should’ve done more. Should’ve pushed harder. Should’ve seen it coming.” Her fingers tapped once on her thigh. “That guilt? It doesn’t fade. It just shifts. Changes shape. But it never leaves.”

Angela took a slow breath, grounding herself. “You were a kid trying to carry two lives. And then you were a woman trying to fix something no one trained you for. That’s not your fault.”

Dylan finally looked at her. “Tell that to the part of me that sees his face every time I look in a mirror.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Real.

Angela, moved but composed, reached into the console, pulled out a granola bar, and handed it over like it was a peace offering.

Dylan blinked at it. “What’s this?”

“Something to chew on instead of your guilt,” Lopez said simply. “Also, you skipped breakfast. I saw you.”

Dylan let out a surprised huff of laughter. The smallest, briefest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“You’re relentless,” she muttered.

Angela grinned. “Ambitious. We went over this.”

They sat for another quiet moment, the engine off, the city moving around them like distant waves.

And for the first time since the shift started, Dylan felt like she wasn’t just being studied — she was seen.

The cruiser had been rolling again for about ten minutes, but the earlier conversation hung in the air like dust — soft, but ever-present.

Angela Lopez hadn’t stopped thinking about Rio. About the way Dylan’s voice had shifted when she said his name. About the quiet resilience behind the guilt that she wore like armour. Dylan had cracked open something real and painful, and somehow she hadn’t done it for sympathy — she’d done it like it was nothing more than breathing.

Angela was still in awe.

Which was exactly why she was caught off guard when Dylan said, casually:

“Alright, your turn.”

Angela blinked. “My turn?”

“Grey’s little challenge?” Dylan said, glancing at her with a hint of a smirk. “You got my tragic backstory. Time to cough up yours.”

Angela tried to laugh it off. “Come on, I don’t have anything near as heavy as that.”

Dylan didn’t look away. “Didn’t say it had to match. Just said it had to matter.”

Lopez hesitated. Her hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, knuckles flexing as she stared straight ahead. The light turned red, and the cruiser rolled to a gentle stop.

She exhaled slowly, thinking. Then, finally:

“I wasn’t supposed to make it this far.”

Dylan turned toward her, intrigued.

Angela kept her eyes on the road. “Not that I wasn’t capable. But where I’m from, people like me — young, brown, working-class — we don’t get handed a damn thing. My older brother? In prison. My cousin? Dead at twenty-two. My mom worked three jobs and still couldn’t keep the lights on sometimes. Every teacher I ever had told me I was ‘spirited’ — which is just code for ‘you’re gonna burn out or blow up.’”

Dylan listened in silence, her gaze steady, but not pressing.

Angela’s voice dropped slightly. “I learned how to fight young. Not physically, just… push back. Speak up. Out-talk, out-work, out-smart everyone around me. I told myself I’d get out. Become something.”

“And you did,” Dylan said quietly.

“Not yet,” Angela replied, her smile faint but tight. “Detective’s still the goal. Getting the badge, cracking the cases, putting my name on something that matters.”

She paused again.

“But sometimes… I still feel like that girl from Boyle Heights. The one who got overlooked. Like at any minute, someone’s gonna realise I’m faking it.”

Dylan was quiet for a long beat.

Then, with a small smile: “Imposter syndrome.”

Angela nodded. “Yeah.”

Dylan leaned her head back against the seat, watching the world move past the window. “You’re not faking it. You’re earning it. Every damn day.”

Angela glanced at her, surprised.

“You’re sharp,” Dylan continued. “You lead with your instincts, but you’re not reckless. You want to learn, but you don’t beg. You ask. Direct. Respectful. And you listen. Not many people do that.”

Angela’s chest tightened slightly — not from discomfort, but from something deeper. Recognition. The rare feeling of being seen and understood without having to scream for it.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Dylan didn’t make a big deal of it. Just gave her a slow nod.

And just like that, something unspoken fell into place between them.

Not rivalry.

Not hierarchy.

But mutual respect. The kind that comes before a real friendship.

The rest of the shift passed in a comfortable rhythm — answering calls, sharing dry humour, working like they’d been doing it for years.

And as they drove back to the precinct with the city dipped in gold from the setting sun, Angela looked over at Dylan and said, half-smirking:

“You ever think about transferring to training officer? You’d make a pretty great mentor.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “You saying I’m old?”

“I’m saying I’m learning more from you in one shift than I have from some people in six months.”

Dylan scoffed. “Don’t get sentimental. It doesn’t suit you.”

Angela just smiled wider. “Too late.”

And this time, when Dylan smiled back, it wasn’t guarded or small.

It was genuine.

The beginning of something solid.

The warehouse sat low and wide in the fading light, its corrugated steel walls already rusting at the seams. It looked forgotten, tucked between a scrapyard and a storage yard, but the intelligence was solid — it was a front. A gun runner had been operating from the inside, moving modified rifles and pistols through the city like clockwork.

Tim Bradford stood just outside the perimeter fence, his vest heavy over his chest, one hand resting on the grip of his service weapon. Jackson West stood beside him, less steady, shifting from foot to foot like he couldn’t quite settle his nerves.

Tim gave him a glance. “You good?”

Jackson nodded, but it was the kind of nod that came too fast — automatic. Not rooted in confidence. His eyes were wide, scanning everything too quickly.

Tim noted it. Tucked it away.

They moved in with two other units, taking different access points around the back of the warehouse. The tension hung thick in the air — that razor edge before the breach, when anything could go wrong and usually did.

Tim signalled.

They stepped through the side door into shadow and must.

Then came the shout.

“LAPD! Show me your hands!”

The response was immediate — the pop of gunfire cracked through the air like a whip, loud and disorienting in the tight space.

And that was when it happened.

Jackson froze.

He dropped to his knees behind a steel crate, arms over his head, his entire body trembling with the sudden crash of adrenaline. His gun hung useless at his side. Breath ragged. Eyes locked on nothing, like he’d been transported somewhere else entirely.

Tim barely had time to process it — diving behind a forklift, returning fire with precision. One suspect went down. Another bolted through a side door, and the sound of boots echoed through the far corridor.

Once the gunfire stopped, everything went still.

Except Jackson.

Still crouched. Still shaking.

Tim’s heart thundered in his chest — part residual adrenaline, part something heavier.

He holstered his weapon and crossed the floor, boots crunching over spent casings and shattered glass. He crouched down beside Jackson, his voice low but firm.

“West.”

No response.

“Jackson. Look at me.”

Jackson finally did — and his eyes were glassy, terror swimming just beneath the surface.

Tim’s gut twisted.

This wasn’t just rookie nerves. This was real fear. The kind that locked the body down and cut off instinct. The kind that, in the wrong moment, could get someone killed.

Tim had seen it before. Hell, he’d seen it in himself once — long ago.

He helped Jackson to his feet slowly. The kid didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His silence said everything.

Later, once the scene was cleared and backup had taken over, Tim stood near the cruiser, arms folded, watching Jackson sit quietly in the passenger seat, staring out at the pavement with haunted eyes.

Tim had seen rookies break before. It came with the job. But this moment, this bust — it brought something else back to the surface.

Dylan.

That gunfight. The blood. The noise.

The way she’d run to him — even as she bled.

The way she stayed focused, stayed sharp, and dragged him out with one arm and zero hesitation.

He’d almost died that day.

But she hadn’t frozen.

She hadn’t flinched.

She’d acted.

She’d saved him.

And now, watching Jackson crumble under the same kind of pressure, Tim felt that truth dig deeper than before:

He was fucking lucky.

Lucky Dylan had been the one with him that day.

Lucky she hadn’t second-guessed herself.

Lucky that, even carrying her own trauma, she still ran toward the danger, not from it.

Jackson wasn’t ready.

He might never be.

And Tim?

Tim realised, for the first time in weeks, just how rare it was to have someone like Dylan at your side when everything went to hell.

The lunch crowd at the burger van buzzed with casual energy — the clatter of boots, the scent of grease in the air, and the familiar sound of laughter bouncing off brick walls. Officers gathered in loose circles, leaning against cruisers, paper-wrapped burgers in hand. It was one of those rare moments where the precinct exhaled.

Angela Lopez and Dylan Jenkins sat together at one of the dented folding tables beneath the truck’s faded yellow awning. Grease-stained napkins rustled in the soft breeze, and the sun baked gently on their shoulders as they picked at fries and sipped lukewarm sodas.

“I swear,” Lopez was saying through a grin, “if Bishop gives me one more lecture on ‘leading with empathy,’ I’m going to start handing out emotional support stickers during arrest reports.”

Dylan smirked. “And here I was thinking the point of training officers was to beat the empathy out of people.”

Lopez snorted. “You and Bradford are basically a ‘Caution: Emotional Repression’ poster.”

“Flattered,” Dylan replied dryly, but her eyes glinted with amusement.

That’s when they heard it — the unmistakable screech of tires, a black-and-white cruiser pulling in too fast, skidding slightly before jolting to a stop just beyond the picnic area.

Lopez and Dylan both looked up.

Tim Bradford climbed out of the vehicle. His vest hung open, jaw set, hands flexing at his sides like he was physically trying to contain something.

“Lopez!”

His voice snapped through the air like a gunshot — sharp, commanding, pissed.

Angela froze mid-reach for her drink. Her smile vanished.

She turned toward Dylan with an uneasy glance. “Give me a sec.”

Dylan nodded, slowly lowering her cup, but her eyes never left Tim. She knew that walk. That energy. Something had gone very wrong.

Lopez met him halfway, intercepting him just before he stormed past the van. She kept her voice low, cautious. “Tim. What’s going on?”

Bradford didn’t sugar-coat it. “Why the hell did you let me hit the street with a rookie who folds under fire?”

Lopez flinched — barely — but Dylan caught it from the table.

“What are you talking about?” Angela asked, her stomach tightening.

“Jackson froze.” Tim’s voice was rising now, louder than it needed to be, hot with frustration. “We hit that warehouse, called out ‘LAPD,’ and the second bullets started flying, he dropped behind cover, covered his damn head and did nothing. Didn’t draw his weapon. Didn’t return fire. Didn’t even radio. Just shut down.”

Lopez swallowed hard. “I—” She hesitated. “I knew he had an issue with gunfire. Early on. Back in the first few weeks. But we worked through it. I thought it was handled.”

Tim’s eyes flared. “You thought wrong.”

Angela’s mouth opened, but she couldn’t find the words.

“I could’ve been killed,” he snapped. “We could’ve all been killed. You think I don’t know rookies mess up? Of course they do. But freezing like that in an active fire zone? That’s not just a mistake — that’s a dangerous blind spot. And you should’ve flagged it.”

“I didn’t hide it,” Lopez said quietly. “We worked through it. I saw him improve. I thought he’d gotten past it.”

“Well, today proved he hasn’t.”

Across the lot, Dylan sat still, gaze sharp. She didn’t move, didn’t interrupt, but her entire posture had changed — alert now, spine straight, fingers slowly flexing around her soda cup.

She could hear every word. So could half the lot.

Lopez’s voice dropped, the weight of it heavy. “You think I’d knowingly put you at risk?”

Tim didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched. “No. But that doesn’t make this better.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Lopez promised, regret lining her voice now. “I’ll handle it.”

Tim nodded once, clipped, then turned and stalked back toward his cruiser, tension still radiating from his frame like heat from asphalt.

Angela stood there a moment longer, blinking against the sun, before making her way back to Dylan — slower now, each step heavier.

She dropped into the seat with a quiet exhale and rubbed her temples.

“I thought he was ready,” she muttered. “I really thought we fixed it.”

Dylan was silent for a beat. Then, gently: “Some cracks don’t show until the pressure’s real.”

Angela glanced at her. “Bradford’s right to be pissed.”

“He is,” Dylan said evenly. “But you’re not the first to believe in someone and get proven wrong.”

Angela’s eyes drifted toward the squad car where Tim sat alone behind the wheel, gripping the steering wheel like it might anchor him.

“You think he’s okay?” she asked.

Dylan looked at Tim, her voice unreadable. “No. But that’s not the question he’s ready to answer.”

The lot was starting to thin out.

The post-lunch lull had settled, officers drifting back to their cruisers or stretching out a few more minutes in the rare California shade. Dylan stood a few paces from the burger van, arms folded, eyes tracking the patrol units as they loaded back up.

She spotted Jackson West lingering beside the passenger side of his and Bradford’s shop, face tight, posture tense — clearly still rattled. He kept glancing toward the ground, like the pavement might offer him answers. Or forgiveness.

Dylan stepped away from the table and casually made her way over.

“West,” she said softly, keeping her voice level. “You alright?”

Jackson startled, looked up. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Fine.”

“Liar,” Dylan replied calmly.

He gave a nervous chuckle, but didn’t deny it.

She leaned lightly against the car, looking ahead rather than at him. “I’ve seen that look before.”

Jackson frowned. “What look?”

“The one where you think one bad moment defines the rest of your life.”

Jackson’s throat bobbed. “It wasn’t just a moment. I froze. Completely.”

“And you think you’re the first?” she said, turning toward him now. “You think every single cop out there is born fearless? Invincible?”

“No,” Jackson murmured. “But Tim—Bradford—he’s not like that. He doesn’t tolerate fear.”

“No,” Dylan agreed. “He doesn’t. Because he’s scared of what it says about him. Not you.”

Before Jackson could respond, a familiar voice cut across the lot like a blade.

“Jenkins!”

Tim Bradford was marching toward them, face flushed, jaw locked.

Dylan sighed through her nose. “Here we go.”

Tim didn’t slow as he approached, his voice low but laced with fury. “Stay out of this.”

“I was talking to him,” Dylan replied, equally low. “Not you.”

“I don’t need you softening my rookie.”

Dylan pushed off the cruiser. “Maybe if you offered an ounce of actual support, he wouldn’t need someone else to do it.”

“Leave. Now.”

Dylan stared at him for a second, jaw tight, then turned to Jackson. “You’ll be alright. You’re not broken.”

Then she walked off without waiting for Tim’s reaction.

She found Lopez leaning against a light pole nearby, arms crossed, having clearly seen the whole thing.

“He’s in one of those moods,” Angela said.

Dylan scoffed. “He’s in one of those lives.”

Angela offered her a burger she hadn’t touched. “Peace offering?”

Dylan smirked. “Only if it comes with duct tape for his mouth.”

Later that day, the fluorescent lights of the locker room buzzed overhead as Tim changed out of his vest, shirt sticking to his skin after a long, tense shift.

The room was mostly empty.

Until Jackson walked in.

He hesitated by the row of lockers, then made his way over, standing a little too straight, his voice shaky but determined.

“Sir.”

Tim didn’t look up from re-strapping his sidearm. “What is it, West?”

“I just wanted to say… I know what happened today wasn’t acceptable. I know I screwed up. But I’m not giving up. I’m in this for the long haul. I just… I need some guidance.”

Tim finally looked up, meeting his eyes. Cold. Measured.

“I don’t do lost causes,” he said flatly.

Jackson flinched. “Sir—”

“You want a badge, prove you deserve it. Tomorrow, you show up and either act like a cop, or don’t bother showing up at all. Because if this happens again, it won’t just be your life on the line.”

Jackson’s face fell.

Then he nodded once, quietly. “Understood.”

He turned and left.

From behind a locker wall, Dylan stepped out.

She hadn’t meant to overhear — but she didn’t look sorry about it.

She folded her arms and stared at Tim, unimpressed. “That was brutal.”

Tim didn’t flinch. “It was honest.”

“It was unnecessary,” Dylan shot back. “You’re not training a robot. You’re training a person. One who just admitted he needs help.”

Tim snapped the locker shut, glaring. “He’s a cop. There’s no room for indecision when bullets are flying. You freeze, you die. Or worse, your partner dies.”

“I know that,” Dylan said, voice sharper now. “But he’s trying. You gave up on him before he even had a chance to process what happened.”

Tim’s voice dropped, low and cold. “I don’t have time to hand-hold people through panic. That’s not the job.”

“No,” Dylan said. “But it is the job to know when someone needs a hand and not a fist.”

The room crackled with tension.

Finally, Dylan shook her head, backing away. “No wonder you miss riding with me. I didn’t need to be perfect to get your respect — I just had to bleed.”

She turned and left.

Tim didn’t stop her.

But for the first time that day, the locker room felt colder.

And Bradford stood there, completely alone.

The morning sunlight was sharp and clear over Los Angeles, the city buzzing as it always did — too bright for how heavy some of its people felt. Jackson West had reported for duty on time, polished and proper as always, but a heaviness still clung to him. Not just the aftermath of freezing up during the bust, but the weight of disappointment — in himself, and maybe in how Bradford had looked at him afterward.

So when Tim Bradford told him they were taking a detour before patrol, Jackson expected another brutal reality check. Maybe a shooting range, or worse — a walk-through of the warehouse from the day before.

Instead, they pulled up outside a modest apartment block in Echo Park. Nothing fancy — rust along the railings, windows smudged with city grime, a building that had seen things.

Jackson followed Tim inside, silent and confused, until they stopped outside apartment 4B.

Tim knocked once. Twice.

The door opened a few inches — a cautious pair of eyes peeking out from behind the chain.

“Wallis. It’s me.”

The man behind the door blinked, then let out a breath of recognition and slowly unlatched the chain.

Wallis was short, round, pale-skinned with glasses too big for his face and a hoodie that looked two sizes too large. He shuffled back, waving them in. “Sorry. I don’t do well with… surprises.”

“You’re fine,” Tim said. “Thanks for letting us stop by.”

Jackson entered slowly, eyes scanning the small apartment. It was spotless but dark, the windows covered with blackout curtains. Video game consoles were neatly stacked beside a TV, and the faint smell of takeout hung in the air.

“Wallis,” Tim said, gesturing to Jackson, “this is Officer Jackson West. Jackson — this is Wallis. He’s a good man who went through something real. Something he’s still working through.”

Wallis gave a sheepish smile and a nervous wave. “Hi.”

Jackson returned it with a polite nod. “Nice to meet you.”

Tim glanced at Wallis, voice softening. “You mind telling him what happened?”

Wallis hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the couch. “Couple years ago, I got jumped. Hate crime. Three guys. They waited for me outside my building. Didn’t like that I… existed, I guess.”

Jackson blinked, slowly lowering himself into the chair opposite.

“I had broken ribs. Lost a few teeth,” Wallis said, trying to keep it light. “Bradford found me. Made sure I got to the hospital. Checked in on me every week for months. Even when the case went cold.”

Tim stayed silent — arms crossed, eyes low. Letting the moment belong to Wallis.

Wallis continued. “Now? I can’t even open the door without picturing those guys again. I don’t go outside. Groceries, meds, work — it’s all delivery or remote. I live in a box of fear.”

Jackson’s expression shifted, something deeper unlocking behind his eyes. “I think I get that.”

Wallis looked up at him. “You froze, huh?”

Jackson nodded. “Yeah. In a shootout. And now I can’t stop thinking about how badly it could’ve gone. How I should’ve moved, should’ve drawn my weapon, done something.”

Wallis nodded. “Sounds like you’re thinking a lot about what you didn’t do. That’s the loop. It’ll kill you if you stay in it.”

“What do you do?”

Wallis gave a wry smile. “I do it anyway. Scared. Shaking. Sometimes crying. But I do one thing each week that scares me. It’s slow, and some days I fail. But I figure if I move through it just once, I’ve already won.”

Jackson absorbed that like a sponge. His shoulders weren’t quite so tense anymore.

“Thanks,” he said. “That… helps.”

Later that day, the squad gathered in the roll call room. Grey stood at the front with a whiteboard covered in intel and a projected map behind him.

“Alright,” Grey said, “we’ve got word of a sizable drug operation operating out of a residential house in Glassell Park. Mid-level supplier, running fentanyl-laced product through the East Side. We’re moving tonight. Tactically. Quiet. No heroics.”

The room rustled as officers shifted in their seats, nodding, focusing in.

Dylan Jenkins, sitting at the end of the second row, noticed something immediately.

Jackson West looked… different. Still reserved, still serious, but his shoulders weren’t hunched anymore. His jaw wasn’t clenched. His hands weren’t fidgeting in his lap.

She glanced sideways, toward Bradford, who sat like he always did — arms crossed, jaw locked, attention sharp.

But when she caught the faintest, most subtle flicker of Tim’s eyes drifting to Jackson — just for a second — it clicked.

After the briefing, as everyone stood to disperse, Dylan sidled up to Tim, her voice pitched just for him.

“You took him to see someone, didn’t you?”

Tim didn’t look at her. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She smirked. “You big softie.”

That made him snap his eyes to hers, jaw tightening. “I am not a softie.”

“You kind of are.”

“I took him to someone who’s been through it,” Tim muttered. “Doesn’t mean I’m braiding his hair and journaling about my feelings.”

Dylan grinned. “No, you’re just personally helping scared rookies face their trauma head-on. With community support. Very un-Bradford of you.”

He glared at her. “You done?”

“Oh, not even close,” she replied, patting him on the arm. “But I’ll let you stew in your accidental emotional growth for now.”

She walked off, still smiling.

Tim stared after her.

Grumbling to himself.

But he didn’t deny it.

Not this time.

The briefing room had the kind of buzz that only came with high-risk operations — quiet but charged, like the air just before a thunderstorm.

Sergeant Grey stood at the front with a large printed layout of a multi-level car park, each floor marked with red ink and annotations in his tidy, efficient handwriting. A drone photo hovered behind him on the projector — grainy, but clear enough to show the layout. Five levels. Dozens of cars. At least six points of entry and exit.

And, according to intel, one active drug deal happening in the chaos of mid-afternoon foot traffic.

“This is not your standard takedown,” Grey began. “No front doors to kick in, no guaranteed sight lines. They’re using the location for exactly one reason — chaos. The suspects know they can disappear fast if we don’t move right.”

He tapped the map.

“We believe the exchange is going to happen here,” he said, indicating a blind corner on the third floor, tucked between two supporting columns and shielded by parked cars. “There’ll be lookouts posted on either side — that’s our first problem. The second? It’s public. Civilians everywhere. We need eyes. Fast reaction time. Zero gunplay unless absolutely necessary.”

The room was tense. Focused.

Grey began assigning positions.

“Chen and Bishop, northeast stairwell. Nolan, Yates — top deck. Lopez, south exit ramp. Bradford and Jenkins—” he pointed to the lower west stairwell, just adjacent to a pedestrian bridge.

Dylan arched a brow, glancing across the room at Tim. He gave her a single, silent nod.

Grey finished his rundown, making it clear: once the signal was given — a visual confirmation of the handoff — every unit would converge. Quick, quiet, and tight.

No heroics.

No missed beats.

Two hours later, the sun was still high and unforgiving, baking the concrete structure of the car park like an oven.

Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins sat together in the shop, parked one block away. Their position was locked in — they’d be on foot, moving through the side stairwell once the suspects entered the third floor. For now, they waited. Radio quiet. Phones dark. Everyone on standby.

Tim sat behind the wheel, shades on, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in slow, measured beats.

Dylan had her vest half-unfastened, sipping on a bottle of warm water, eyes watching the pedestrian traffic beyond the windshield.

“Ever notice how stakeouts are always ninety percent boredom, ten percent near-death?” she muttered.

Tim didn’t look at her. “Try doing them with Nolan. Apparently he narrates the pigeons.”

Dylan smirked. “Bet you’d love that.”

“Absolutely not.”

There was a moment of quiet between them, not uncomfortable — just heavy with anticipation.

Dylan shifted slightly in her seat. “This one feels off.”

Tim glanced over. “How?”

“Too messy,” she said. “They’re not amateurs, but using a crowded car park in broad daylight? That’s erratic. Either they’re desperate, or they’re baiting.”

Tim gave a slow nod. “You think it’s a trap?”

“I think it’s a warning,” Dylan replied. “To someone. Maybe even us.”

Tim’s gaze lingered on her, thoughtful.

“Still,” she added, tightening the straps on her vest, “wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Tim’s mouth twitched slightly. “You like the chaos too much.”

“Only when I know who’s watching my back,” Dylan said simply.

Tim didn’t respond at first. He just looked back out the windshield, jaw flexing once.

Then, quietly, he said, “I’ve got you.”

The words weren’t sentimental.

But they didn’t have to be.

They were true.

A static crackled on the radio — Grey’s voice, low and sharp:

“Units be advised — suspects have arrived. Silver SUV, third level, west end. Eyes on. Prepare to move.”

Tim clicked on the dash cam. Dylan pulled her gloves tighter.

The hum in the air snapped to attention.

“Let’s go,” Tim said.

And they stepped out of the car — two shadows moving into the fray, calm in the storm, partners in the fire.

The car park stank of oil and sunbaked concrete, the kind of staleness that stuck in your throat. From their shadowed position behind a row of cars on the third floor, Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins moved with silent precision, each footstep calculated, bodies low and tight.

The air buzzed with tension.

They had eyes on the suspects now — three men, one holding a duffel bag, the other two scanning the lot with too much frequency to be mistaken for anything but muscle. One leaned against a pillar, tapping his boot anxiously. The other kept a nervous hand close to the hem of his oversized hoodie.

Tim muttered into his comm, “Visual confirmed. Suspects are in position. Package in hand.”

Grey’s voice crackled back: “Standby for signal.”

But the suspects must have caught a shadow, a flicker, something out of place — because in a single heartbeat, everything went to hell.

“Cops!”

Then—

Gunfire.

The deafening crack of it echoed through the concrete cavern.

Tim immediately shoved Dylan down behind the engine block of a black SUV as bullets pinged off metal and shattered windshields.

“Third level! Shots fired, shots fired!” Tim shouted into his comm, drawing his weapon and returning two sharp, clean shots toward the far wall.

Dylan was already moving — rolling across to better cover, taking up position at the rear wheel of a parked sedan. Her breaths came fast, shallow, but her grip was steady. Her eyes flicked to Tim’s position, checking on him.

And he was checking on her just as frequently.

Neither of them said it, but the fear was there — not for themselves, but for each other.

This was their first gunfight since the day they both bled into asphalt.

The last time, Dylan had dragged Tim out while bleeding herself.

The last time, Tim had nearly died.

That memory clung to both of them, silent and heavy.

Suddenly — movement.

One of the suspects broke from cover, sprinting across the open space toward the stairwell exit. Dylan pivoted sharply, gun raised, tracking him—

—and a second suspect turned and fired.

At her.

CRACK.

The bullet whizzed past her face — so close it clipped the edge of her vest strap. She threw herself behind a concrete pillar, her back slamming into it with a grunt.

“Dylan!” Tim’s voice sliced through the chaos, panicked, raw.

He lit up the shooter with three controlled bursts — two to the shoulder, one to the leg. The man went down hard, screaming.

Backup swarmed seconds later, a flood of officers closing in from every stairwell, guns raised, shouting commands. Suspects were cuffed, weapons kicked across concrete. The air reeked of smoke, rubber, and adrenaline.

And through it all, Tim was already moving toward her.

“Dylan—Dylan, talk to me.”

“I’m good,” she said hoarsely, pushing up from her cover, but he was already there — hands on her, pulling her behind another car, shielding her like the danger wasn’t already over.

She blinked, startled. “Tim, I’m fine—”

He didn’t listen.

His hands moved to her vest, checking her sides, her back, his fingers shaking slightly as he searched for blood.

“Take it off,” he muttered.

“I’m—”

“Take. It. Off.”

His voice was low, sharp, almost desperate.

So she did.

He yanked the vest off and ran his hands along her shirt, brushing her shoulder, ribs, waist — and then finally stopped. His hand lingered just above her stomach, pressing lightly.

Nothing.

No blood.

She placed her hand over his, stilling him.

“I’m okay,” she said, eyes steady on his.

His chest rose and fell like he couldn’t believe it yet — like he was waiting for the red to bloom somewhere anyway.

She softened. “You okay?”

He let out a slow breath. “Yeah. I just— it was close. Too close.”

Their hands were still touching. Her vest lay between them, forgotten on the ground.

Something passed between them then. Not just the rush of post-gunfight adrenaline. It was quieter. Heavier. Unspoken.

A kind of care that didn’t fit in their usual back-and-forth. Something unfamiliar, yet impossible to ignore.

Dylan was the first to pull back, sliding her vest back on and tightening the straps herself.

“You’re a menace when you go into protective mode,” she muttered.

Tim straightened, clearing his throat. “You almost got shot. Again.”

“And you looked like you were about to rip someone’s throat out with your bare hands.”

He shrugged. “Just part of the job.”

But neither of them believed that.

They didn’t say what it really was:

It was fear.

It was protectiveness.

It was something brewing that neither of them had language for.

And neither of them dared to name it.

Not yet.

The locker room was quiet, the day winding down, the adrenaline from the bust slowly giving way to exhaustion. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting pale reflections on the tiled floor. Most officers had already cleared out, heading home or to paperwork — but Dylan Jenkins sat on the edge of the bench, rolling her shoulder gingerly, trying to hide the grimace she didn’t want anyone to see.

Except Tim Bradford wasn’t just anyone.

He walked in without a word, a first aid kit tucked under one arm, a bottle of water in the other. His vest was half undone, shirt untucked, a line of sweat clinging to his jaw from the chaos of the day. But his eyes were on her.

She smirked. “Let me guess. Florence Nightingale routine?”

“I’d say ‘patching up my rookie,’ but you’d probably bite my hand.”

Dylan tilted her head. “Tempting.”

Still, she didn’t protest when he dropped the kit beside her and knelt slightly to her side, fingers tugging at the strap of her vest to pull it down and assess the bruising near her collarbone. The bullet had missed, but just barely — it had clipped her vest, grazed the edge of her skin, close enough to leave a wicked bruise already blooming beneath the fabric.

Tim’s hands were steady — at first. But then his fingers stilled.

Just below the bruise, a sliver of skin was visible — a fresh, pink scar, still healing. A reminder of the last time they’d been under fire.

The day they both got shot.

Only difference was… Dylan didn’t stop for herself that day.

She’d bled through her shirt, dragging him to cover, patching him up while ignoring her own wound.

Tim stared at the scar. The way it stretched just beneath the bruise, fresh but closed. Clean, but not forgotten.

His jaw tightened.

He wasn’t touching it, but he didn’t need to. The image alone sparked a flash of memory:

—her face pale, focused, bleeding and still firing rounds—

—her hand pressed to his hip wound, voice urgent in his ear—

—“I’ve got you, stay with me”—

—blood on her shirt, her hands, her eyes locked on his, even when her own body was failing—

“Tim?”

Her voice broke through the spiral.

He blinked, pulling his hand back, eyes flicking up to hers. She was watching him now — not confused, just quiet. Knowing.

He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

But she knew what he’d seen.

And she knew what it meant.

Before anything more could pass between them, the locker room door burst open.

“Aww, come on!” Angela Lopez strolled in, peeling off her gloves and grinning wide. “I knew it. I knew I’d walk in on some weirdly charged moment.”

Dylan rolled her eyes and pulled her vest the rest of the way off. “It’s not charged. He’s just overdramatic.”

Tim stood, trying to shake off the look in his eyes. “You were almost shot. Again.”

“And yet I wasn’t. You’re welcome.”

Angela raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “Well, whatever’s happening here, I’m glad you’re both still in one piece.”She walked over to Dylan, softer now. “Hey. Just wanted to say thanks. For today. For the backup. For the calm-in-the-storm thing you do so well.”

Dylan smirked. “You’re welcome. You’re not terrible either.”

Angela grinned. “I think we’re gonna get on really well.”

Dylan gave her a look. “We already do.”

Lopez patted her on the good shoulder, then turned to Bradford. “Don’t let her bully you too much, okay?”

Tim grunted. “She can try.”

Angela left with a wink, disappearing down the hallway, leaving a heavy silence behind.

Dylan glanced over at Tim as she started to strap her vest back on.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off her scar.

“You alright?” she asked, voice low.

He nodded once. “Yeah. Just… saw something I should’ve noticed sooner.”

She paused. Then added, gently, “It wasn’t your fault.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.

Instead, he bent down, zipped the first aid kit shut, and muttered, “Let’s get out of here.”

But as they walked toward the door side by side, his hand brushed hers — barely there, feather-light.

She didn’t move away.

And neither of them said a word about it.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

[realityjoey]

SEASON 1, EPISODE 3: “THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY.”

The buzz of a new workweek vibrated through the precinct. Phones rang. Radios crackled. The hum of conversation and the occasional barked command created the usual chaotic symphony that made the building feel alive.

For the first time in three weeks, Detective Dylan Jenkins stepped back into it.

She wore her full uniform for the first time since the shooting—crisp blues, her badge catching the light on her chest. Her left arm was no longer in a sling, though she still moved it carefully, the stiff way someone does when their body remembers trauma before their brain does. The bruises had faded, but there were remnants in her posture, the tightness in her eyes, the way she instinctively scanned every room like something might explode.

Still, she looked sharp. Focused.

And she was glad to be back.

Sort of.

Her first stop wasn’t the bullpen, or the break room where Lucy had probably already stashed a welcome-back donut. It was the Watch Commander’s office—where she now stood outside the open door, knocking twice on the frame.

Sergeant Wade Grey looked up from behind his desk, his hands steepled over a manila folder.

“Detective Jenkins,” he said with a nod. “Come in.”

She stepped inside, arms crossed loosely, giving him that standard Dylan smirk that she used to deflect anything remotely emotional. “You called me in here to personally inspect my battle scars?”

Grey didn’t even blink. “No. I called you in here because before I send anyone back out onto my streets, I need confirmation they’re not just physically cleared—but mentally ready.”

Dylan sighed and dropped into the chair opposite his desk. “So, therapy mode today. Fantastic.”

He opened the folder and tapped the paper inside. “You passed your medical clearance. Shoulder’s healing well. Range of motion acceptable. No nerve damage. But none of this tells me what I actually need to know.”

“Which is?” she asked, already bracing.

“That you’re ready to come back and not pretend like getting shot didn’t affect you.”

Dylan scoffed. “Come on, Sarge. I’ve been through worse. This isn’t my first traumatic Tuesday.”

“I’m aware,” Grey said calmly. “I read your London file. The forced entry that went sideways. Your partner who bled out. That time you were held at knifepoint by a domestic suspect and refused to stand down. Your brother.”

Dylan’s smirk faltered. Just slightly.

“This,” Grey continued, “isn’t about what you can survive. You’ve already proven that. Repeatedly. This is about how you survive it. Whether you’re going to let this job eat you from the inside out like it has a thousand others who thought they were invincible.”

She shifted in the chair. “I’m not one of those people.”

“No?” Grey leaned forward, voice low. “You dragged a bleeding officer out of a gunfight while you were bleeding yourself. You didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t even notice—because your adrenaline was pumping so high, and your focus was so external, you ignored your own life being on the line. That doesn’t go away when the stitches come out.”

Dylan clenched her jaw. Looked away for the first time.

Grey studied her a beat longer, then softened—just a touch.

“You’re good, Jenkins. Damn good. But you’re not made of steel. Neither is Bradford.”

At that, her eyes flicked up. Sharp.

“He needs to take it easy too,” Grey said. “You both do. That kind of bond—what happened out there—that’s not just something you walk off. You took a bullet for him. He watched you go down right in front of him. You think either of you came out of that untouched?”

Dylan swallowed.

“No one’s telling you not to be here,” Grey added. “But slow down. Be smart. This job doesn’t reward martyrs—it buries them.”

She was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “You done psychoanalyzing me now, or should I get horizontal and talk about my childhood?”

Grey leaned back, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Just go easy on the hero complex for a few weeks.”

She stood slowly, the sarcasm already returning to her voice like armor. “I’ll try. Can’t promise anything if Tim gets sentimental again, though. Might have to throw myself into traffic.”

Grey smirked. “Welcome back, Jenkins.”

As she left the office, Dylan’s expression was unreadable—wry on the surface, but something quieter underneath.

Maybe Grey was right. Maybe flipping the switch didn’t work like it used to.

But if she was going to do this job right—again—she might need to start learning a different way to survive.

The moment Dylan Jenkins stepped out of Grey’s office, her head was buzzing — but not in the way it usually did before a shift. It wasn’t adrenaline. Not nerves. Just… noise. The kind of internal hum you get when someone touches a nerve you didn’t realise was still raw.

Grey’s words echoed behind her eyes: “This job doesn’t reward martyrs — it buries them.”

She tucked them away, buried deep behind her usual smirk, and headed toward the briefing room, where the rest of the squad was already beginning to filter in. The place was half-full when she slipped in and leaned against the back wall, one arm hanging loosely by her side, the other still stiff from the injury, though she was pretending otherwise.

At the front of the room, Sergeant Grey stood with his usual quiet authority, clipboard in hand. The second she walked in, his eyes met hers. A single nod.

Then, in his no-nonsense tone, he spoke.

“Alright, listen up. We’ve got a priority case from last night. Armed robbery, downtown. Citizens’ Bank on Seventh. Five masked suspects. Got away with over eighty grand in cash.”

A few murmurs rippled across the room.

Grey held up a hand, then motioned toward the aide next to him, who began passing out photocopied stills from CCTV footage. Blurry, grainy images showed figures in tattered, grimy clothes — makeup smeared across their faces, fake blood splashed over ripped shirts.

Zombies.

Dylan squinted at the grainy image as the sheet landed in her hand. “Oh, for f—”

“Yeah,” Grey said, hearing her before she finished. “Halloween came early.”

A chuckle floated from somewhere near the front. Tim Bradford, seated with arms folded across his chest, gave Dylan a look — amused, knowing — but said nothing. She returned it with an eye-roll.

“These five suspects,” Grey continued, “stormed the bank at 2:37 a.m., full ‘undead’ getup, armed with handguns. One fired into the ceiling. No casualties, no injuries, but they cleared the vault in under four minutes and vanished before patrol arrived.”

“Witnesses?” someone asked.

“Only one worth anything,” Grey said. “Night janitor. Said they moved like they’d done it before. Coordinated. Not amateurs.”

Dylan tapped her sheet with one finger. “So we’re looking for a pack of criminal thespians?”

Before Grey could respond, the door at the side of the room opened, and in walked Captain Andersen — composed, elegant, eyes sharp as ever.

The room stiffened slightly. Her presence always commanded attention, not through volume, but precision.

Her gaze scanned the group quickly — and then stopped squarely on Dylan.

“Detective Jenkins,” she said, her voice firm but warm.

Dylan straightened instinctively.

“Glad to see you back on your feet.”

“Ma’am,” Dylan replied with a respectful nod.

“If you need anything,” Andersen continued, walking toward the front of the room, “you come directly to me. Any resources, any support — medical or otherwise. Understood?”

There was a beat of silence. Dylan could feel a few heads turn in her direction. Not pitying — just… watching.

“I appreciate that,” she said, calm and measured. “But I’m good.”

Andersen studied her for half a second longer, then gave a curt nod and turned to the group.

“Regarding the robbery,” she said, taking over from Grey with seamless authority. “Intel suggests the suspects are part of a fringe performance collective — formerly tied to small-time theft and vandalism. They call themselves the ‘Dead Awake’ Crew. Most of their previous run-ins have been harmless. Art school dropouts with a flair for dramatics.”

Someone near the front snorted.

“They’re not a joke anymore,” Andersen said coolly. “They’re armed. Organised. And they’ve just pulled off the cleanest bank robbery we’ve seen this year.”

Tim’s brow furrowed as he glanced at the photo again. “Why now? Why escalate?”

“That’s what you’re going to find out,” Andersen replied. “Grey will coordinate the ground work. Jenkins — I want you plugged in on the criminal psych angle. Dig into their previous group affiliations. Bradford, you’ll partner.”

Dylan blinked. Her eyes shifted sideways — and locked with Tim’s.

He raised an eyebrow.

Of course.

Grey clapped the clipboard shut. “You know your assignments. I want updates by end of shift. Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped. Conversations bubbled. Officers began filing out, some excited by the bizarre case, others rolling their eyes at the thought of chasing down zombie-costumed robbers.

As Dylan folded her copy of the CCTV stills, Tim walked by and smirked at her.

“So. Back on the clock.”

“Back in the frying pan,” she muttered.

“You know, if you wanted attention, you could’ve just worn a cape,” he added, falling in step beside her as they walked toward the exit.

She shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m saving the cape for the press conference. Think it’ll match my bullet scar?”

Tim chuckled.

And just like that — the day began.

But beneath the sarcasm and weirdness of zombie crews, Dylan felt something settle inside her. She was back. Still healing. Still raw.

But back.

And this time, she wasn’t doing it alone.

The afternoon sun cast long streaks of light through the windshield of the patrol car as it cruised slowly down Melrose, weaving through a maze of street vendors, graffiti-tagged alleyways, and the occasional jaywalker with a death wish. It was the kind of shift that felt deceptively calm—no high-speed chases, no shootouts, no chaos. Just simmering tension beneath the surface.

In the front seat, Dylan Jenkins sat slouched with one leg bent against the dash, flipping through case notes for the “Dead Awake” robbery. Her shoulder twinged every now and then, but she ignored it. She wasn’t about to mention it. Not after the looks she’d been getting all day.

Beside her, Tim Bradford drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the radio, gaze scanning the street with practiced calm.

For a while, the only sound was the distant chatter of dispatch and the occasional rustle of paper in Dylan’s lap.

Then Tim cleared his throat.

“You uh… bleeding out again, or just brooding dramatically?”

Dylan’s eyes flicked toward him, unimpressed. “Wow. Subtle.”

He didn’t look at her. “Just asking. You’ve been quiet.”

“Because I’m reading.”

“You hate paperwork.”

“And yet it still makes better company than you.”

Tim smirked, but she could tell he was still watching her—really watching. His eyes drifted toward her shoulder, toward the way she shifted every so often, like the seat wasn’t quite right. She could feel it—his concern tucked beneath sarcasm, like it always was.

“I’m fine, Tim,” she said flatly.

“You sure?”

“Don’t start,” she snapped, sharper than intended. “If one more person asks me if I’m okay like I’m made of glass, I’m going to scream.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say you were made of glass.”

“Didn’t have to.” She dropped the files onto her lap and turned slightly toward him, the fire behind her voice impossible to miss. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t handle it. You think Grey would’ve cleared me if I wasn’t ready? You don’t see me fussing over you, and you got shot too, or did we all just forget that part?”

Tim was quiet.

The tension between them hung in the cab, thick and heavy, until finally—he exhaled.

“Alright,” he said, nodding slowly. “Fair.”

Dylan looked away again, jaw tight. Her fingers drummed against the case file, restlessness creeping in. She hated this part. The hovering. The worry. People thinking they were being kind when really, they were just picking at the scab before it healed.

A beat passed.

Two.

Then, softly—almost too soft to hear over the hum of the engine—Tim said, “Good to have you back.”

Dylan turned her head slowly.

Her expression shifted, just a touch. Still guarded. But something about his tone caught her off guard. It wasn’t a joke. Wasn’t performative. Just honest. A little raw around the edges.

Her lips curled into a slow, smug smile.

“Of course it is,” she muttered, turning back to the window. “Your life’s boring without me.”

Tim let out a short laugh. Quiet. But real.

“I’ll give you that.”

They didn’t say anything more for a while.

Didn’t have to.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, or heavy. It was something else. Something earned.

The kind of silence that lives between two people who’ve been through something together—and come out the other side still on the same page.

Not partners in name only anymore.

Something deeper.

Something real.

The call had come in just after lunch. A Code 44 — entrapment. Unusual location: a bank ATM vestibule. Even more unusual? The trapped subject was not a thief, but a repair technician who’d somehow gotten wedged inside the back of an ATM overnight after crawling in to fix a malfunction.

By the time Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins pulled up in their shop, the sidewalk outside the small neighborhood bank was buzzing with confused onlookers, two twitchy bank managers, and one extremely muffled voice yelling something about “airflow” from within the ATM booth.

“Only in L.A.,” Tim muttered as he slammed the door shut.

Dylan squinted at the glass-walled enclosure just off the main lobby, where the clunky metal ATM sat bolted into the wall like an angry refrigerator. “How the hell does someone get stuck inside an ATM?”

“Apparently he crawled in through the maintenance hatch, the latch jammed, and no one noticed he didn’t leave last night,” Tim replied, reading from the report. “He’s been stuck in there for almost twelve hours. And his oxygen’s running out.”

Dylan blinked. “There’s no air vents?”

“Not proper ones. Machine’s designed for security, not comfort.” Tim turned to the flustered manager. “Fire department?”

“On their way,” the man said, wiping sweat from his temple. “But ETA’s another ten minutes. They’re dealing with a multi-vehicle pileup on the 101.”

Tim glanced back at the ATM, then at the tiny speaker where a garbled voice was shouting something about “suffocating in here!”

“Ten minutes is too long,” he muttered. Then, to Dylan: “Get the breaching kit from the trunk. We’re breaking him out.”

Dylan’s eyebrows shot up. “You want us to hammer down the wall of a bank?”

Tim was already striding toward the shop. “The part of the wall surrounding the ATM, not the safe. Don’t get dramatic.”

“I’m British. We invented dramatic,” she muttered, but followed him.

Moments later, both of them were back in the vestibule, geared up with mini sledgehammers, crowbars, and a tactical pry bar. The bank staff looked uneasy. Tim ignored them.

“Start on that left panel,” he instructed, “right where the power cables meet the base. It’s weakest there.”

Dylan nodded and braced herself, gripping the sledge with her good arm and using the injured one for balance. She swung — once, twice — and felt a sharp jolt of pain sear down her shoulder and into her chest.

The third hit didn’t come.

She stood still, breathing hard, jaw clenched, her body locked in place by the flare of agony. The old bullet wound pulsed beneath her skin, deep and raw despite the healing. She stared at the wall, not moving, her hammer gripped tightly in one hand.

Tim’s voice came from beside her. Calm. Steady.

“You good?”

She didn’t look at him.

“I’ve got it,” she muttered, teeth gritted.

Tim watched her carefully. “You’re compensating. Your grip’s off.”

“I said I’ve got it.”

She lifted the hammer again — but stopped halfway. Her shoulder gave a warning throb, and she knew: one more hit, and she’d be down.

Silence lingered for a moment.

Then, without a word, Tim stepped forward.

He gently took the hammer from her hand. Didn’t meet her eyes. Didn’t mock. Didn’t offer sympathy.

Just got to work.

Swing.

Swing.

Swing.

With practiced rhythm, he drove into the panel where Dylan had started, the metal groaning under each impact. Cracks spread through the drywall and insulation until, finally, a panel gave way with a crunching pop.

A loud gasp came from inside the ATM as fresh air rushed through the opening. “Oh thank God! I thought I was gonna die in here!”

“Hold tight,” Tim called, grabbing the crowbar to widen the gap.

Within two minutes, they’d peeled away enough of the surrounding wall to slide the technician out — drenched in sweat, wide-eyed, and babbling his thanks like he’d just been reborn.

EMS took him from there.

Tim set the tools aside, breathing hard. Dust clung to his sleeves. Sweat beaded on his brow.

He finally turned to Dylan.

She hadn’t moved much. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were fixed on a spot on the wall that no longer existed.

“I was fine,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Tim replied, brushing dust off his vest. “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

She looked at him then. Not angry. Not even annoyed. Just tired.

And grateful, in a way she didn’t say aloud.

Tim didn’t push.

Didn’t press.

They walked back to the shop in silence.

And though she wouldn’t admit it — not even under interrogation — letting him take over just this once didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like partnership.

The kind built one busted ATM at a time.

The drive back from the ATM call had been quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, or even heavy — just tired. They both smelled like drywall dust and sweat, and Dylan’s shoulder still pulsed like it had its own heartbeat. But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

They were almost back on patrol, cruising down a wide East L.A. street, when Tim’s phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen, and the change was instant.

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. His back straightened. His whole body seemed to lock into place — like a building bracing for an earthquake.

Dylan noticed it immediately.

“You good?” she asked, brows furrowing.

He didn’t answer. Just clicked on the Bluetooth and answered with a tight, “Yeah. It’s Bradford.”

A voice crackled through. Too muffled for Dylan to make out the words. But she didn’t need to hear them to understand.

His jaw clenched.

Then: “Which hospital?”

More garbled words.

Tim’s entire demeanor shifted. A flash of something in his eyes — fear, fury, panic. He ended the call with a stiff jab of his finger and floored the accelerator.

The car lurched forward, tires screeching slightly as he cut across two lanes and gunned it through a yellow light turning red.

Dylan gripped the dash. “Jesus — Bradford. What the hell’s going on?”

His voice was clipped, dry. But underneath, it cracked. “Emergency Room. County General.”

Dylan didn’t ask questions. She just buckled her seatbelt and braced.

They pulled up to the emergency bay minutes later, the cruiser barely in park before Tim threw open the door and stormed into the hospital. Dylan followed at a slower pace, more cautious — watching him from behind, watching his shoulders tense with every step.

Inside, the fluorescent lights were brutal, and the waiting room buzzed with distant cries, the rustle of paperwork, and the low wail of someone down the corridor.

Tim went straight to the front desk.

“I’m looking for Isabel Bradford,” he said, voice steady but barely contained. “She was brought in maybe thirty minutes ago. OD.”

The nurse didn’t even blink. “Room 14.”

He didn’t thank her. Just turned on his heel and marched toward the hall.

Dylan followed — a few paces back now, unsure of where she stood in this. But instinct told her not to leave. Not yet.

As Tim reached Room 14, the door opened — and there she was.

Isabel.

She looked even worse than last time. Gaunt. Pale. Her skin had a yellow-grey tint, and her eyes were dull, ringed in dark bruises like smoke. She was wearing hospital scrubs now, thin socks on her feet, arms trembling slightly as she moved.

She froze when she saw Tim.

Her lips pressed together in a bitter line. “Oh. Of course.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He reached for her arm — gently, but firmly — and guided her back into the room, closing the door behind them.

Dylan was left in the hallway, just outside. But the walls were thin. The door wasn’t fully latched. And the moment Tim spoke, she heard it all.

“You OD’d.” Tim’s voice cracked — not with rage, but with heartbreak. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are that someone even found you?”

“I didn’t ask to be found,” Isabel replied, her voice hollow, tired.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he snapped. “You’re trying to disappear, and if you keep doing this — you will.”

There was a long pause. Then he went on, voice rising, emotional.

“Do you know how many dead junkies I bring in every month? Alone. Blue-lipped. Ice cold. No ID. No family. Just another bagged body someone has to zip up while the rest of the world shrugs.”

“Tim—”

“No. You don’t get to cut me off this time.” His voice cracked. “You think I don’t get it? You don’t want to come home. You don’t want help. Fine. I can’t drag you back. But what do you think this is doing to the people who still love you?”

Silence.

“To me?” he added, voice low now. Broken. “You think this doesn’t rip me apart every time I wonder if the next OD call I get is going to be you?”

Another pause.

Then Isabel spoke, flat and cold.

“Save the tough love for someone else.”

Tim’s breath caught.

“I’m not your responsibility anymore,” she went on. “I stopped being your wife the day I left. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I don’t—owe—you?” he echoed, stunned.

She laughed bitterly. “Stop trying to be my white knight, Tim. You couldn’t save me then. You can’t save me now. Just let it go.”

And then the door burst open.

Isabel stormed past Dylan without even a glance, scrubs flapping, hospital socks skidding slightly on the tile.

Tim stood inside the room, staring at nothing. Shoulders heaving.

Dylan didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

She just stood outside the door, quiet — still.

The hallway outside Room 14 still buzzed with fluorescent light and low murmurs, but Dylan didn’t hear any of it.

She was frozen, eyes locked on the corridor where Isabel Bradford had just stormed off, shoulders tense, body vibrating with the sting of what she’d heard behind the door.

Inside that hospital room, a silence had fallen — sharp and echoing.

Then—

BANG.

A crack echoed through the wall, deep and jarring. Dylan flinched.

She didn’t wait.

She pushed open the door to see Tim, standing in the center of the room, fist buried in the drywall, knuckles scraped and red, his entire frame heaving with barely suppressed rage.

The wall had dented around the impact — a jagged, angry wound matching the look in his eyes.

“Tim,” she said quietly, closing the door behind her.

He didn’t turn. Just stared at the wall like he might punch it again.

Her voice was lower this time. Calmer. “You alright?”

He yanked his hand from the hole, shaking out his fingers. The skin over his knuckles was already turning red, the kind of bruising that would bloom purple by morning.

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

Dylan blinked. The sharpness in his voice wasn’t surprising — but it was too sharp, too immediate. It wasn’t defense. It was deflection.

She took a step closer. “Yeah, okay, but if you’re planning on breaking every hospital wall we visit, I’d appreciate a heads up. I’ll bring gloves.”

He turned sharply toward her, jaw clenched. His face was pale with fury and frustration, his eyes rimmed red — but no tears. Tim Bradford didn’t cry. He just imploded quietly.

“I said I’m fine.”

“Sure,” she said coolly. “Which is why your hand is bleeding and your jaw looks like it’s about to snap in half.”

He shook his head, biting down the snarl of emotion bubbling behind his eyes.

“You didn’t need to follow me in here.”

“No,” she replied, crossing her arms, “but I did.”

His eyes met hers then — a flicker of something raw and barely contained.

That was when it hit her.

He was exactly like her.

Stubborn to the bone.

Too proud to admit when something cut too deep.

Too afraid of what would happen if they stopped to feel it all.

And maybe that was why she didn’t back down.

But before she could say anything else, his radio crackled.

Dispatch, crisp and cold:

“7-Adam-19, Units in the area respond.”

Tim grabbed it instantly.

“7-Adam-19 responding. En route.”

Dylan stared. “Seriously? After that?”

He was already heading to the door. “We’re still on duty.”

“Tim—”

“I’m fine, Jenkins.”

He didn’t wait for her. Just walked out, leaving her in the quiet wreckage of a hospital room that had seen too many kinds of pain in one day.

She looked at the hole in the wall. The dust still floating in the air. The smudge of blood on the plaster.

Then she exhaled, grabbed her jacket, and followed him.

Because stubborn or not, he didn’t need to be alone right now.

Even if he didn’t say it — especially if he didn’t.

Echo and Franklin wasn’t exactly the glitziest part of town on a good day — but tonight, it looked like trouble had parked itself and cracked open a few beers.

As Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins pulled up to the curb, they were greeted by the low thrum of engines and the roar of masculine laughter. Chrome flashed under the streetlights. A pack of six bikers, all thick-necked, denim-vested, and clearly drunk, stood outside a rundown bar, smashing bottles against the curb and revving their bikes like they were gunning for a drag race in the middle of the sidewalk.

The Dead Bastards.

Dylan eyed them through the windshield. “Charming.”

Tim didn’t respond right away. He gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, jaw still locked from the hospital. His expression was unreadable — which told Dylan exactly what she needed to know.

“You sure you’re good to do this?” she asked quietly.

He unbuckled his seatbelt. “Yeah.”

She didn’t move.

“Tim,” she said, softer now. “After Isabel—”

“I said I’m fine.”

His voice wasn’t sharp this time — it was flat. Cold. Like he was trying to cut off the feeling before it reached the surface.

Dylan glanced out at the bikers again. One of them was already watching the cruiser, arms crossed, a toothpick hanging from his mouth like a dare.

“This group have a rep?” she asked.

Tim nodded once. “Dead Bastards. Local outlaw motorcycle club. Half of them have records. Guns, fights, DUI, some armed robbery. But not all of them are in yet.”

Dylan raised a brow. “Prospects?”

“Exactly. The way it works,” Tim continued, finally slipping back into his calm, informative rhythm, “is that to earn your patch — full membership — a prospect has to commit a felony. But not just any felony. It has to be done in front of patched members.”

Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “So this isn’t just some drunk guys posturing.”

Tim shook his head once, eyes still on the group. “No. This is an initiation waiting to happen.”

Dylan leaned back in her seat, scanning the cluster of bodies, the barely-contained aggression. One guy — younger, twitchier — kept flexing his fists. He didn’t have a vest. No patch.

She followed the logic quickly. “The unpatched one’s going to swing at us.”

“Probably.”

“Then we should call backup.”

Tim turned to her, expression unreadable. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Dylan gave him a flat look. “That’s not an answer. That’s a reckless one-liner.”

He was already opening the door.

“Bradford.”

He looked back at her. That edge of fire still smoldered beneath the surface, his knuckles bruised from the wall, his heart still bleeding from the hospital.

But his voice was calm when he said, “I’m not letting today spill into this. You cover my six, I’ll cover yours.”

Dylan didn’t believe him. Not fully. But she knew she wasn’t letting him go in alone.

She stepped out of the car.

The bikers turned toward them like wolves scenting blood.

“Evenin’, officers,” one of the patched men called, voice oily. “Come to join the party?”

“Party’s over,” Tim said, approaching with hands raised just far enough to show calm, not submission. “You’re loitering, you’re drunk, and you’re blocking the sidewalk. Get on your bikes and leave.”

The young prospect stepped forward.

Exactly as predicted.

“Or what?” he sneered. “You gonna arrest me for breathing too loud?”

Dylan stepped up beside Tim, her hand hovering near her belt. “No. But the minute you take a swing, I’m going to be the one putting you face-first into the asphalt.”

The biker grinned, stepping closer. “You sound fun. Maybe you cuff me nice and slow.”

Tim’s voice dropped. Low. Dangerous. “You make one move toward her, and you won’t like how I handle it.”

Tension snapped like wire pulled tight.

The moment the prospect stepped forward, chest puffed and nostrils flared, Dylan could feel it.

Tim Bradford wasn’t diffusing the situation.

He was feeding off it.

The tight set of his jaw. The way he squared his stance. The way he looked at the younger man like he wanted him to make the first move.

Then came the words.

“Alright,” Tim said, loud enough for everyone to hear, tone razor-sharp. “Here’s the deal. We fight. If I win, you get cuffed and booked. If you win, you walk. No charges. Just me and you.”

Dylan’s head snapped toward him. “Bradford.” She warned, for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

He ignored her. Eyes locked on the prospect.

The biker’s lips curled. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

It was reckless. Impulsive. So stupidly out of character it chilled Dylan’s blood.

The biker didn’t hesitate. He lunged.

Fists collided with ribs. Boots scraped against gravel. Tim and the prospect slammed into each other with the weight of barely-contained violence, grunting and growling as they swung.

The crowd surged, forming a circle of shouts and jeers. Dylan tried to push through, hand on her radio, “10-10 in progress,” already in her mouth — but something about the look in Tim’s eyes stopped her cold.

This wasn’t just a fight.

This was a man bleeding out emotionally, and trying to stuff it all back inside with his fists.

Tim took a hard jab to the side — right near his healing bullet wound — and staggered. His grunt of pain was sharp, but he kept going, ducking low and driving his shoulder into the biker’s gut, both of them crashing to the ground in a scuffle of limbs and curses.

The prospect landed two more punches — one to Tim’s ribs, another to his jaw — before Tim rolled, mounted him, and slammed his fist down hard enough to split the guy’s eyebrow.

Blood sprayed.

The cheering stopped.

And in the hush that followed, Tim yanked the biker’s arms behind his back and cuffed him, breathing like a warhorse, face flushed with fury and pain.

The silence between Tim and Dylan was deafening as they walked back to the cruiser.

Dylan’s boots stomped hard against the pavement. Tim moved slower, one hand pressed discreetly to his side — trying, and failing, to hide the fact that he’d reopened something beneath the stitches.

They reached the car.

Dylan spun on him.

“What the hell was that?”

Tim said nothing at first. He reached for the door, wincing. Then, without looking at her: “Handled it.”

She stepped in front of him. “That wasn’t handling it. That was picking a fight with a wannabe criminal so you could bleed out your emotions on the sidewalk.”

He looked up then — eyes sharp, defensive. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“No,” she snapped. “It didn’t. It made you reckless. It made you stupid. And it made me watch while you tried to implode because you can’t deal with the fact that Isabel OD’d.”

He stiffened.

“You think that was police work?” she went on, relentless. “That was a fucking therapy session with fists.”

Tim said nothing.

Dylan stepped closer, her voice low now — tighter, furious, but barely trembling. “I’ve seen what this kind of thinking does to good cops. First you chase the adrenaline, then you start believing it’s the only thing that makes you feel anything. You’ll stop calling for backup. You’ll stop thinking about protocol. And one day, someone’s gonna end up dead.”

Still, he didn’t look at her. Just kept his eyes on the cruiser.

So she hit him with the last card.

“If you ever pull something like that again,” she said, voice cold and sure, “I’m telling Grey.”

That got his attention.

He looked at her now — really looked.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

And behind all that righteous anger was something else — fear. Not just for him. But for the version of herself she recognized in him.

Finally, after a long, taut moment, he nodded. A shallow, heavy nod.

“Got it,” he said quietly.

Dylan exhaled and turned away, opening the car door.

“Good.”

And as they sat in the silence of the cruiser, neither of them spoke.

But something had shifted.

Because for the first time, Tim Bradford had been slapped with the truth — not from a superior, or a therapist, or an ex.

But from someone who actually saw him.

And wouldn’t let him fall.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the haze of downtown L.A., casting long shadows across the cracked concrete and flickering neon signs. Tim Bradford pulled the shop into a grim-looking side street just south of Pico — the kind of neighborhood that reeked of hopelessness and long-faded ambition.

Dylan Jenkins sat in the passenger seat, gaze flicking between Tim and the crumbling apartment block they’d parked in front of.

“Where are we?” she asked cautiously.

Tim didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small white box, sealed and labelled in bold: NARCAN – NALOXONE NASAL SPRAY.

Dylan’s heart sank.

“Tim…”

“It’s nothing,” he cut in, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “I’ll be two minutes. Stay in the car.”

“Seriously?” she said, her voice sharp. “You brought me here without telling me? You’re just going to march into a junkie den with a gift bag of Narcan?”

Tim paused, his hand on the door.

“It’s not a gift,” he snapped. “It’s life-saving.”

“And it’s enabling,” Dylan said, matching his tone. “You’re not helping her — you’re just keeping her alive long enough to do it again.”

He turned back toward her, the heat rising in his face. “You don’t get to stand there and judge me. You don’t know how it feels.”

“Don’t I?”

That silenced him.

Dylan opened her door and stepped out, letting it slam behind her. She faced him full-on now, her voice quieter but dead serious.

“You think you’re the only one who’s ever watched someone you love disappear into an addiction? My dad drank himself into a seizure when I was seventeen. I found him. I smelled the blood before I saw it. He didn’t want saving either. But I didn’t go bringing him whiskey just because I wanted to feel close to him.”

Tim’s shoulders rose and fell with shallow breaths. He looked away, jaw tight.

Dylan kept going. “I get it, Bradford. You love her. You feel responsible. And you think if you can just keep her alive a little longer, maybe one day she’ll pull herself out.”

“She might,” he muttered.

“Or she might die, and you’ll have spent the last six months slowly destroying yourself trying to stop it. She left, Tim. She left you. And I am not going to let you throw yourself into her fire and drag me in after you.”

His eyes flashed. “This is my choice. Not yours.”

“No, it’s not,” Dylan snapped. “You’re supposed to be training me. Showing me how American policing works. Not dragging me into some twisted vigilante-style Florence Nightingale routine because you’re too angry at yourself to let go.”

The silence between them was brutal. A slow-building static that hummed against their skin.

Tim looked down at the Narcan box in his hand like it was both a weapon and a lifeline.

Dylan stepped closer, her voice lowering. “You don’t want to see how she’s living. You don’t want to see what she’s let into her life. You’re holding on to a version of Isabel that doesn’t exist anymore.”

She held out her hand.

“Give it to me. I’ll take it up.”

Tim looked at her, torn — the internal battle playing out behind his eyes: love vs logic, grief vs duty, past vs present.

Then, reluctantly, he handed her the box.

Dylan nodded. “I’ll be back in five.”

She turned and walked toward the building, shoulders squared, eyes forward.

And Tim?

He stood frozen beside the cruiser, watching the woman who was supposed to be his trainee step into the kind of mess he’d tried so hard to clean up — and finally realized:

Maybe she was training him too.

The stairwell of the apartment block smelled like damp concrete and stale cigarette smoke. The kind of building where the light flickered overhead, and you kept one hand near your weapon, even when things seemed quiet.

Dylan Jenkins climbed slowly, the Narcan box tucked under one arm, her free hand brushing the railing. She didn’t like being here — not just because of the building or what she might find, but because it wasn’t her mess.

It was Tim’s.

But someone had to clean it up today.

She reached the third floor, found apartment 3B, and knocked.

It took a moment before the door cracked open, chain still attached. Behind it, Isabel peered through with glassy eyes and a hollowed-out face that seemed even thinner than it had a few hours ago.

She blinked. “Oh.”

Dylan held up the box. “Delivery.”

Isabel stared at it, then slowly unlatched the chain and opened the door.

Dylan stepped in — cautious, controlled — and took in the room.

It was… not what she expected.

There were no needles on the floor. No filth. No blaring music or strangers passed out on the couch. In fact, it was tidy. The curtains were drawn, the air stale but not rancid. Still, it had that quiet, sterile kind of sadness that Dylan recognized from her dad’s flat back in London, the way addicts sometimes lived in limbo between pretending to function and slowly dying.

She placed the Narcan box on the counter.

Isabel lingered in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her hoodie swallowed her, sleeves tugged over shaking hands.

“He send you to check on me?” she asked.

“No,” Dylan replied. “He told me to stay in the car. I decided not to.”

Isabel huffed a soft laugh. “Sounds like him.”

There was silence for a moment, thick and pulsing.

Then Dylan said, “You used to be a cop?”

Isabel’s head lifted, eyes narrowing. “He told you that?”

“No. You’ve got old certifications on your fridge. CPR expiry. Defensive tactics flyer. Something told me you didn’t just pick those up for fun.”

Isabel’s posture sagged slightly. “Yeah. I was LAPD. Before everything went to hell.”

“Is that how you met Tim?”

“Academy,” she said, voice dull. “He was the uptight one. I was the wild one. He said it balanced us.”

Dylan nodded slowly. “And now you’re here. Getting Narcan hand-delivered by the next woman stuck cleaning up your mess.” That hit. Isabel flinched. Dylan didn’t soften. “He got shot, you know.”

Isabel’s eyes widened.

“Saving someone. Because that’s what he does. He saves people. But today he almost got himself killed again, and I think part of him would’ve been okay with that if it meant not feeling this anymore.”

Isabel blinked fast, lips parting like she wanted to speak — but no words came.

Dylan stepped closer.

“You’re not just ruining your life. You’re ruining his. And the worst part is — he’ll keep letting you.”

There was a long pause, full of brittle tension.

Then Isabel whispered, barely audible: “Tell him not to come back.”

Dylan stared at her for a beat. Searching for something — maybe regret, maybe fight. But all she saw was emptiness. A hollow shape of someone who used to be something else.

She nodded once. “I will.”

Then she turned and left.

Back at the cruiser, Tim was waiting behind the wheel, one arm resting on the window. He didn’t look at her as she got in.

The silence stretched.

One minute. Two.

Then Dylan said, “She was a cop.”

Tim exhaled sharply, like someone had pulled the air from his lungs.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Met her at the Academy. Thought I was lucky. She was… smart. Sharp. Wild. I thought she was just tired all the time. Out late. I assumed she was having an affair. Never thought it was the drugs.”

He looked out the windshield, eyes distant.

“By the time I figured it out, the hook was already in deep.”

Dylan stared ahead too, resting her arm along the door. “Her place is alright. Clean. Tidy. Doesn’t look like a trap house.”

Tim mumbled, “Thanks.” They didn’t speak again for the rest of the drive.

But the air between them had changed. Less fire. More gravity.

Tim had let her in, even just a little.

And Dylan had seen the truth up close — the thing eating him alive.

And now?

Now, it belonged to both of them.

The sun had long dipped beneath the skyline when they finally returned to the precinct.

The bullpen had thinned out. Radios quieted. The sound of ringing phones had faded into an eerie hum of end-of-shift exhaustion. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed softly — too bright for a room this tired.

Dylan Jenkins slipped away toward the locker room first, her movements sharper than usual, jaw clenched just a little too tight.

It wasn’t until she tugged off her outer shirt — stained from dust, sweat, and the day’s chaos — that she saw it.

Blood.

Her white undershirt was soaked along her shoulder. A fresh bloom of deep red.

“Shit,” she hissed, digging into her locker and grabbing the nearest wad of paper towels she could find. She pressed them over the reopened wound, swearing under her breath, trying to slow her pulse — trying to stop the bleeding.

It had torn. Probably during the scuffle. She’d felt the pull, the ache, but ignored it.

Because of course she did.

She pressed harder, gritting her teeth.

The door creaked behind her.

She didn’t look up — didn’t need to.

Tim Bradford’s voice was quiet. “Dylan?”

She didn’t answer at first, too busy trying to mop up the blood, the tissues already turning crimson.

When she finally turned around, he was already halfway across the room, his expression falling instantly from its usual stoicism to pure concern.

His gaze flicked from her face to her shoulder, where blood was now sliding down her bicep in slow, stubborn rivulets.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“No shit, Detective.”

“You tore it.”

“Mm-hm.”

“You need to sit down.”

“I’m fine—”

“Sit down.”

His voice was firm, not angry — not yet — but threaded with something else.

Guilt.

Tim crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the first aid kit from the wall without waiting for her permission.

She sat on the bench, annoyed, breath shallow. “You don’t have to—”

“You shouldn’t have been in that fight.”

Dylan flinched — not from his touch, but from the truth in his tone. “I didn’t even fight. It must’ve just twinged during the heat of the moment. Maybe I got shoved… I don’t know. I was fine until I wasn’t,” she muttered.

Tim knelt in front of her, opening a sterile pad. “That’s not good enough. You should’ve said something earlier.”

She looked down at him. “And what? Have you tell me to take another week off while you fight your way through every emotionally-charged biker gang in the state?”

He looked up at her, eyes narrowed.

“Touché.”

She smirked, despite herself.

Then winced when he dabbed at the wound. “Ow. Gentle.”

“You’re the one who took the bullet for your T.O.”

“You’re the one who was so dramatic I had to focus on you.” She teased.

He sighed, shaking his head.

But the moment didn’t last long.

The door opened again.

Sergeant Grey walked in, arms crossed, brow raised, surveying the scene with all the practiced disappointment of a father finding his kids elbow-deep in trouble.

“Well,” he said. “Is this the part where I get to say ‘I told you so?’”

Dylan didn’t miss a beat. “If you must.”

Grey walked in slowly, eyes locking on the blood, then drifting to Tim’s face.

He didn’t need to say a word. He knew what kind of day it had been. Knew about Isabel, knew the pressure Tim was under, and now saw his officer bleeding again because neither of them could stop throwing themselves into things they weren’t ready to face.

Grey rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re both a pair of stubborn idiots, you know that?”

“Absolutely,” Dylan said, deadpan.

Tim was still focused on securing the bandage, but his hands slowed slightly.

Grey exhaled. “I was going to give you two separate lectures.”

Dylan arched a brow. “Still planning to?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Grey said. “But I’m thinking we do it over three pints instead of one. I have a feeling it’ll go down smoother.”

Tim looked up, a flicker of gratitude behind his worn-out expression.

“Your treat?” Dylan asked.

Grey smirked. “You wish.”

And for the first time that day, in the still of the locker room with bloodstained gauze and raw emotion still in the air, Tim and Dylan laughed — not because things were okay.

But because for once, it felt like maybe they weren’t carrying it alone.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

[realityjoey]

tim bradford & dylan jenkins

SEASON 1

episode one

episode two

episode three

episode four

episode five

episode six

episode seven

episode eight

[realityjoey]

SEASON 1, EPISODE 2: “CRASH COURSE”

Morning roll call was usually a mix of groggy faces, half-drunk coffee, and the soft buzz of officers murmuring about early calls or late-night paperwork. But today, the atmosphere carried a quiet anticipation—a hum of something brewing just under the surface.

The briefing room was full, rows of uniformed officers perched on the edge of plastic chairs, some leaning back with crossed arms, others hunched over paper cups of vending machine sludge. Tim Bradford stood in his usual position near the back, impassive. Talia Bishop and Angela Lopez flanked him, whispering something between smirks. The rookies—Nolan, Lucy, and Jackson—sat toward the front.

And then there was Dylan Jenkins.

In her uniform again, clean and sharp, hair pulled back into a sleek low ponytail, she stood off to the side with her arms crossed. She looked alert, ready. Detached—but not unaware.

Sergeant Grey stepped up to the podium, clearing his throat.

“Alright, people,” he said, voice echoing just slightly. “Before we get into assignments, I have something… enlightening to share.”

A murmur passed through the room.

Grey gestured toward the monitor that hung in the corner of the room—usually used for maps or departmental notices. Today, it glowed with a paused video frame and the LAPD watermark in the corner.

Grey turned back to the crowd, expression unreadable. “Now, I warn you. What you’re about to see is brutal. Possibly traumatic. If anyone here is emotionally fragile, consider looking away.”

Chuckles rippled through the room.

John Nolan frowned slightly, shifting in his seat.

Then Grey pressed play.

The footage started with a shaky shot of a narrow alleyway, the video jolting up and down as someone ran. Voices crackled over the radio.

The camera turned a sharp corner—and suddenly there was the suspect in the black hoodie, sprinting ahead.

Nolan’s voice could be heard, breathless. “Suspect heading eastbound on Temple!”

The body cam jolted again as Nolan tried to close the distance—then came the fence.

Everyone leaned forward.

On screen, Nolan made a heroic attempt to scale the chain-link fence… and failed. Spectacularly. His foot caught near the top, his body tipped sideways, and he landed awkwardly in a pile of cardboard boxes, arms flailing like a freshly landed fish.

The room erupted.

Laughter burst from nearly every corner. Officers slapped desks, shoulders shook, and a few people whistled. Even Tim cracked a rare smile. Lucy gasped between laughs. “Oh no, John! You didn’t tell us it looked like that!”

Jackson winced through a grin. “You good, bro?”

Nolan buried his face in his hand, groaning.

Dylan raised an eyebrow from her spot against the wall, her lips twitching into a half-smile. “Textbook form,” she said dryly. “If the textbook was written by a drunk giraffe.”

The laughter grew louder.

Grey let the room enjoy itself for a moment before raising a hand for silence. “Alright, alright. Let’s bring some balance to the universe.”

The footage on the screen cut forward—and then resumed from another angle.

This time, the camera was more stable. Tim’s perspective. The suspect appeared again, running hard—then, cutting in front of the screen, Dylan surged into frame.

A blur of motion—long strides, relentless pace—until she launched herself off the ground.

The room quieted.

The flying tackle was clean, powerful. Her body collided with the suspect mid-run, taking them both down in a spray of dust and gravel. The screen rattled slightly from the impact. Then: her voice, sharp and calm.

“LAPD. Stay down.”

The suspect was already on his stomach, groaning. Dylan sat up, brushed gravel from her elbow, and snapped the cuffs on like it was just another Tuesday.

Grey paused the footage.

“And that,” he said, gesturing at the screen with the remote like a conductor finishing a symphony, “is how you stop a runner.”

There was a beat—then applause.

Actual applause.

Not forced or sarcastic, but genuine. A few officers whooped. Someone at the back gave a slow clap. Even the veterans were nodding.

Dylan didn’t move. She just lifted her chin slightly, arms still crossed, expression unreadable—but her eyes? They burned with quiet pride.

For Nolan, it was a moment of humility. A harsh, funny lesson. His body still ached from the fall, and now it was immortalised in high-def for the entire department. But he took it in stride. Because this was the job—mistakes, learning curves, bruised egos and all.

And for Dylan, it was something else entirely.

She hadn’t come to the LAPD to impress anyone. She wasn’t trying to prove herself—not in the usual way. But in that moment, as she stood watching the room respond to her, something inside her shifted.

This wasn’t just her starting over. This was her planting a flag. Making it clear that she wasn’t just here to blend in. She was here to leave a mark.

Grey switched off the monitor and turned back to the room. “Now that we’ve learned what not to do and what to aim for, let’s get to work.”

As people started to rise, murmuring and laughing, Dylan stepped forward to meet the rest of her group.

Tim passed her, muttered, “Show-off.”

She didn’t look at him. “Jealous.”

And as they filed out of the briefing room, one thing was clear:

Dylan Jenkins was no longer just the Brit.

She was a detective the LAPD was starting to talk about—and not because of where she came from, but because of what she could do.

The sun sat low and mean in the sky, casting sharp shadows across the city as the LAPD scrambled into action.

Sergeant Grey’s voice still echoed in Dylan’s ears as she sat beside Tim in the patrol car, pulling on her gloves and adjusting her vest.

“Target is Eric Barlowe. Violated parole. Armed, dangerous, no hesitation with violence. I want him brought in today.”

Tim had said very little after roll call, only that they weren’t diving into the manhunt just yet. Dylan had sensed something in his tone—something measured, deliberate. Like he was setting the board before making his first move.

They turned down a back alley in Echo Park, the kind with graffiti tags, trash bins, and too many broken windows. Tim pulled the car to a stop near a crumbling brick building and cut the engine.

“Why are we here?” Dylan asked, eyes narrowing.

Tim didn’t answer right away. He just stepped out of the car, motioning for her to follow. She did, warily, keeping a hand near her holster.

They walked through a rusted gate and into the mouth of the alley. A tall, twitchy man in a ripped hoodie was waiting there, hands jammed into his pockets, a cigarette clinging to his lip.

“Jenkins,” Tim said casually, nodding toward the man. “Meet Travis. Small-time dealer. Caught him twice. Knows better than to run.”

Travis shifted on his feet. “Yo, Bradford. Long time.”

“Travis,” Tim said. “Got anything on you?”

“Maybe.”

Tim turned to Dylan. “Go ahead. Pat him down.”

Dylan blinked. “Are we arresting him?”

“Nope,” Tim said, stepping back. “Just checking him out. Think of it as… a test.”

Her expression darkened.

But she stepped forward anyway.

“Hands where I can see them,” she said to Travis, voice clipped.

Travis complied, raising his arms lazily, clearly amused. “Damn. English accent. Didn’t think I was gonna get flirted with today.”

Dylan ignored him, stepping in and beginning the pat down. She moved with the precision of someone who’d done this hundreds of times—quick, methodical, efficient.

But then his tone changed. Darker.

“You got hands like silk,” Travis murmured. “Bet you taste just as smooth.”

Dylan’s jaw tensed. “Say that again and you’ll be picking up your teeth with broken fingers.”

But Travis wasn’t done. His hand suddenly shot down, grabbing at her wrist.

In the same breath, he lunged.

They crashed against the alley wall, the fight sudden and vicious. Dylan twisted her body, slamming her elbow into his ribs, but he came back fast—faster than she’d expected. His fist clipped her jaw, then another swung at her ribs.

She staggered but didn’t fall.

Blood in her mouth. Familiar. Her vision tunneled—just for a second.

London. Brick hallway. That night she almost didn’t get back up.

But this wasn’t London.

She pivoted hard, dropped low, and drove her shoulder into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled, coughing, and she came up swinging—two fast jabs to the jaw, a knee to the thigh, and then she slammed his face into the alley wall.

He groaned, dazed.

She didn’t hesitate. Spun him, yanked his arms back, and cuffed him, pressing her forearm into his shoulder blades.

“Anything else you want to say about my hands?” she hissed into his ear.

Travis just wheezed.

She stepped back, breathing hard, face cut and lip bleeding slightly. But her eyes—those were colder than ever.

Tim hadn’t moved.

He stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching it all. No interference. No help.

Just a test.

Dylan looked at Travis, now slumped and cuffed against the wall.

Then she looked at Bradford.

“You knew he’d push back,” she said, wiping her lip. “Didn’t you?”

Tim shrugged. “Didn’t know how far. Figured we’d find out.”

Her jaw clenched. “So this wasn’t about drugs. This was about me.”

He met her gaze, unreadable. “It was about knowing who I’m riding with.”

“I told you I’ve done this before.”

“And now I’ve seen it.”

Dylan stepped toward him, fists still clenched. “You wanted to know if I could handle myself? You risked me getting stabbed just to answer a question you were too insecure to ask outright?”

“If he’d pulled a weapon, I would’ve stepped in.”

“But you didn’t,” she snapped.

They stared at each other for a moment—hot, breathless, angry.

Tim didn’t flinch. “You’re not a rookie. I don’t get to hold your hand. You say you’ve been through worse? Then I needed to see it.”

Dylan let the words settle, her heart still thundering in her chest. He wasn’t apologising. He never would. But there was something behind his eyes—not cruelty, but calculation. Wariness. Trust issues wrapped in duty.

She turned away, chest heaving. “Next time you want to know if I can fight, ask. I’ll show you without the bloodshed.”

She walked back toward the cruiser, leaving him standing there.

Travis groaned behind him, still cuffed, still stunned.

Tim looked down at the dealer, then back at Dylan’s retreating figure.

She’d passed the test. Brutally.

But the cost?

He wasn’t sure yet.

The alley still buzzed with leftover adrenaline. Dylan Jenkins walked briskly alongside Tim Bradford, guiding the cuffed dealer toward their patrol car. The man was still muttering under his breath, but Dylan ignored him—her jaw was sore, her knuckles raw, and her patience worn thin. She was already halfway through mentally writing a very pointed speech to deliver to Tim about ambush “tests” when—

“Let him go!”

The voice cut through the air like a wire pulled taut.

Both Dylan and Tim stopped.

At the mouth of the alley stood a woman—thin, jittery, with dirty-blonde hair hanging in lank strands over her shoulders. Her clothes were layered and mismatched, as if she’d dressed in the dark. Her eyes were wide and wild, darting between Dylan and Tim, then locking onto the man in cuffs.

Beside her, Tim… froze.

His whole body changed—every rigid, commanding line softened at once. His shoulders dropped. His breathing shallowed. He looked like he’d been shot without a bullet being fired.

He took a step forward, voice cracking open like glass.

“Isabel?”

Dylan’s gaze snapped to him. The tone he used—it was like nothing she’d heard from him before. Not the cold command. Not the clipped control.

This was raw. Fragile.

The woman flinched at the name, her jaw tightening.

Tim kept walking—slow, hesitant. Like one wrong move would scare her away.

“Isabel,” he said again, softer this time. “It’s me. It’s Tim.”

And there it was—everything fell into place.

Dylan’s eyes widened slightly. This wasn’t just a ghost from his past. This was personal. Intimate.

“I’ve been looking all over the place for you,” Tim said. His voice was cracking now. Desperate and delicate. “I wanted to find you— just to see if you’re okay. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” she snapped, eyes wild.

Tim flinched. “I just want to help. Let me help you. We can get you into rehab.”

Isabel looked away. Her hands trembled as she ran them through her hair. “I don’t need goddamn rehab.”

Dylan stood frozen, watching the scene unfold like a spectator in a theatre that had suddenly turned real. She’d seen pain. She’d seen heartbreak. But this—this was grief. Living and breathing and walking.

“I begged you to let me help,” Tim whispered. “I begged you, Isabel. I begged you then, and I’m begging you now.”

Isabel turned back to him, her voice sharp, desperate. “You wanted to fix me. Not help me. There’s a difference.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Then let me help now.”

She laughed again, but this time it sounded like it hurt. “You got money?”

Tim blinked. “What?”

“That’s what I need, Tim. Not your guilt. Not your speeches. You want to help, so give me all your cash.”

There was a long pause. A horrible silence where everything that had ever been said between them hung in the air like smoke.

Then, slowly, Tim reached for his wallet. His hands were shaking as he muttered something incoherent.

He counted out a few twenties. Hesitated.

Isabel stepped forward, eyes locked on the bills.

He held them out. “Just… don’t disappear again. Please.”

She snatched the money from his hand like a starving animal. Then she turned and ran. Down the alley. Gone.

Just like that.

The dealer in cuffs started to snort, amused. “Damn, man. Was that your—?”

“Shut your mouth,” Dylan growled, her voice like ice.

But her focus was on Tim.

He stood there, unmoving, the empty air where she’d been still stretched between his hands. His eyes were glassy. Wet. He didn’t cry—not openly. But the tears fell anyway, silent and slow, trailing down his cheeks and catching in the stubble on his jaw.

Dylan stepped closer, but didn’t touch him. She just stood beside him.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said gently.

He didn’t answer. Just wiped his face with the back of his hand and nodded once, as if he was trying to pull himself back into shape. As if the last five minutes hadn’t shattered him in front of her.

“That was my wife,” he said finally. Quiet. Hollow. “I haven’t seen her in almost a year. She got deep into the drugs… deeper than I could follow.”

Dylan exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry.”

Tim laughed bitterly. “I told myself I’d never let her end up like this. That I could save her.”

Dylan looked down the alley, where Isabel had disappeared.

“You tried,” she said. “And you still would, if she let you.”

He nodded again. But it felt empty.

The kind of nod people give when they’re trying to convince themselves they can breathe through the pain.

They walked the rest of the way to the cruiser in silence. Tim’s hands didn’t stop shaking until they were halfway back to the precinct.

And Dylan didn’t say another word.

Because she knew this wasn’t something words could fix.

Only time.

And maybe, just maybe, someone who didn’t walk away.

The silence left behind in Isabel’s wake was deafening.

For a moment, Dylan Jenkins stood still, the cuffed drug dealer beside her still catching his breath, the only sound his quiet chuckle as if he’d just watched the finale of a tragic soap opera.

Then Tim Bradford turned to her, his voice hoarse.

“Let him go.”

Dylan blinked. “What?”

Tim’s jaw was set, eyes fixed on the alley wall like if he didn’t look at her, he wouldn’t break. “Just do it.”

She hesitated.

The man they’d fought to restrain—who’d taken swings at her, insulted her, earned those cuffs—stood smugly, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he couldn’t believe his luck.

Dylan opened her mouth to protest, to remind Tim that this man wasn’t just a throwaway side job, but a dealer contributing to the same streets that had chewed Isabel up and spat her out.

But something in Tim’s face stopped her.

It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t authority. It was the fragile, trembling grip of a man whose world had cracked open right in front of someone who wasn’t supposed to see it.

So, reluctantly, Dylan pulled the key from her belt and stepped toward the dealer.

“You get one break,” she warned coldly. “Use it wisely.”

The cuffs clicked open, and the dealer flexed his wrists with a smug grin. “Y’all are real generous today.”

Dylan stepped back, and the man took the opportunity, darting off down the alley without a second glance.

Tim had already turned and headed for the cruiser.

He got in, slammed the door behind him harder than he probably meant to, then slouched in the driver’s seat, his head falling back against the rest.

He took one breath. Then another.

Inhale. Exhale.

But each breath came out shakier than the last.

His eyes were shut tight. His jaw clenched. His lips parted like he was trying to hold in a scream—or a sob. His knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel, not in anger, but desperation. As if the leather might hold him together when everything else wanted to fall apart.

He couldn’t break down. Not here. Not now.

Not in front of her.

He was her training officer. Her anchor. The hard-ass, the example. If she saw this—really saw this—how could she ever respect him? Listen to him? Trust him to lead?

He tried to slow his breathing, but the effort made his throat tighten more. His lip trembled. He bit down on it, hard, trying to force the weakness back where it came from.

Outside, Dylan stood by the cruiser, taking her time.

She didn’t want to crowd him. Didn’t want to make him flinch, or speak when there was nothing she could say.

Because she knew that look.

She’d seen it before—in her own mirror.

When her dad had vanished into the bottle. Slowly at first. Then all at once.

She knew the way your chest tightened when you saw someone you loved become someone you couldn’t reach anymore. Knew the helplessness, the guilt, the way it made you question your own worth. The shame of still loving someone who kept choosing the thing that was destroying them.

Her father had been an alcoholic. Loud, cruel, impossible to please. But when he was sober? He was her hero. Which made it all the worse.

She’d spent years trying to fix him. Years learning she couldn’t.

So now, she waited.

Gave Tim time to put the pieces back together. Not to spare him embarrassment, but because she respected him more for breaking.

The fact that he cared—that he still tried to reach Isabel after everything—meant more to her than any badge, any takedown, any test he could throw at her.

After a long moment, she finally opened the passenger side door and slid in, her movements calm and quiet. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t mention the tears he’d blinked away. Didn’t call attention to the way his breathing was almost back to normal—but not quite.

She simply buckled her seatbelt.

Then, after a pause, said softly, “My dad was an alcoholic. Got sober once, stayed that way for about two years. Slipped again the day I graduated the Academy. Missed the whole ceremony.”

She didn’t say it to comfort. Just to let him know: I see you. You’re not alone in this.

Tim stared ahead, his hands still tight on the wheel.

After a moment, he finally spoke.

“What happened to him?”

“He drank himself into a seizure a few months later,” Dylan said, matter-of-fact. “He lived. But that was the last time I tried to save him.”

The silence between them stretched again—but this time, it wasn’t sharp.

It was steady. Shared.

Tim nodded once. And when he spoke again, his voice had steadied too.

“We’ve got a fugitive to catch.”

Dylan gave him a glance. “You ready?”

He looked at her. Just a moment. A flicker of something unspoken in his eyes.

Then he nodded again. “Yeah.”

And this time, she believed him.

The late afternoon sun baked the pavement in golden haze as the cruiser rolled to a stop at the mouth of a quiet side street in East Hollywood. The block looked abandoned—silent, eerie, the kind of stillness that put seasoned cops on edge.

Dylan Jenkins sat up straighter in the passenger seat, her eyes narrowing on a blacked-out Chevy Tahoe idling directly across from them.

Four figures sat inside.

One in the driver’s seat—wide-shouldered, profile unmistakable.

Eric Barlowe.

Dylan reached for the radio.

“This is 7-Adam-19,” she said, voice clipped but calm. “Visual on the suspect—Barlowe—parked in a black SUV at the corner of El Centro and Marathon. Four occupants. Appears armed. Requesting immediate backup.”

The radio crackled.

“Copy that, 7-Adam-19. Units en route. ETA four minutes.”

Tim’s voice was already tight as he threw the car into park, hand resting on the grip of his sidearm. “Four minutes is too long.”

They stepped out of the cruiser in unison, each moving behind their open doors for cover. Guns drawn. Eyes locked.

Tim’s voice boomed across the quiet street.

“Eric Barlowe! LAPD! Step out of the vehicle and show me your hands—now!”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then—Barlowe looked up. Just a flick of his eyes, a glance at Tim, then Dylan. Smirking.

And in one fluid, chilling motion—he reached down, yanked up a sleek black automatic weapon, and opened fire.

The sound was deafening.

Bullets shredded through the stillness like a buzz saw. Glass exploded, the cruiser windows shattering into a thousand glittering pieces. Dylan dropped immediately behind the door, weapon raised, heart pounding.

“Shots fired! Shots fired! Officer under fire!” she yelled into the radio, voice drowned under the sharp bark of gunfire.

Tim returned fire, but they were massively outgunned. Barlowe’s crew joined in, bullets pinging off the cruiser’s frame, tearing into metal, ricocheting off asphalt.

Then—a grunt.

Tim’s.

Dylan looked just in time to see him stumble backward, the side of his body twisting violently as a bullet slammed into his hip through the car door’s shattered window. He hit the ground hard, groaning, clutching his side.

Dylan didn’t think—she moved.

Still ducking, she sprinted through the hail of bullets, skidding to her knees at his side. Her hands were already on the radio clipped to her shoulder.

“Officer down! Officer down! Repeat, Officer Bradford has been shot. Requesting immediate medical and tactical support. We’re pinned!”

Tim was pale, teeth clenched, blood soaking rapidly through his uniform. His breathing was sharp, uneven.

“I’m fine,” he gasped. “Just—just focus on them—”

“Shut up,” Dylan snapped, returning fire over the top of the cruiser as she shielded his body with her own. Her gun barked three, four times—targeting flashes of movement in the Tahoe’s windows. She hit something; one of Barlowe’s crew shouted in pain.

But there were still too many of them.

She dropped low again and looped her arms under Tim’s armpits.

“Alright,” she whispered to him, voice ragged but controlled. “I’m dragging you. Stay awake. Scream at me later.”

With all the strength she could muster, Dylan began dragging him across the asphalt, inch by painful inch, toward the rear tire well of the cruiser, using it for maximum cover. Bullets whizzed past, splintering concrete, pinging off metal.

“Come on, come on—” she muttered under her breath, teeth gritted.

Tim groaned, his weight slumping more heavily into her arms.

Once they were tucked in behind the rear wheel, she dropped beside him, panting, sweat and blood streaking her face. She looked down at the wound—bleeding fast.

She made a split-second decision, yanked off her uniform shirt, leaving herself in a black tank beneath. Folding the fabric into a makeshift pad, she pressed it hard against the gunshot wound.

Tim flinched, hissing in pain.

“Keep pressure on it,” he whispered.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Dylan remarked.

Then—sirens.

A fleet of black-and-whites screamed around the corner, tires squealing. Barlowe’s gang reacted fast. The driver threw the Tahoe into gear and peeled off, two other vehicles speeding behind them, spraying one last barrage of bullets into the air as they fled.

Backup officers spilled out of their cruisers behind Dylan and Tim, weapons raised, taking defensive positions, shouts erupting across the block.

But Dylan didn’t move.

She stayed crouched beside Tim, still applying pressure, her arms slick with blood, chest heaving.

His eyes fluttered up to hers, blurry. But focused.

“You good?” she asked softly.

Tim gave her a faint, pained smirk. “You dragged me like a sack of potatoes.”

“You are a sack of potatoes,” she shot back, voice shaking. “A heavy, stubborn one.”

And then, finally, her hands eased just slightly as the paramedics rushed in.

But even as they took over, Dylan didn’t step away. She stayed beside him, hand still braced against his chest.

Because in that moment, there was no badge hierarchy, no rank, no tests.

Just two cops. And a bond forged not in trust—but in fire.

The flashing lights of black-and-white cruisers painted the street in stuttering red and blue as backup swarmed the scene. Officers spilled from their vehicles, weapons raised, eyes scanning for threats—but the immediate danger had already peeled away down a side street.

Barlowe was on the run.

Down on the asphalt behind the cruiser, Tim Bradford lay propped up slightly against the rear tire well, a paramedic trying to assess the gunshot wound to his hip. He winced as the pressure increased on the torn muscle, but when he caught movement from the corner of his eye, he turned his head.

Nolan and Bishop had arrived.

John jogged up, wide-eyed and already kneeling beside Tim. “Are you okay?”

Tim gave him a look. Equal parts pain and exasperation.

“No, I got shot!” he snapped, his voice laced with sarcasm and a wince.

Nolan raised his hands. “Right. Got it. Dumb question.”

Tim’s expression shifted quickly, urgency breaking through the pain. “Barlowe’s on foot. That alley to the east—he’s moving fast!”

Then he turned his head and shouted past them, toward where Dylan crouched, breath still ragged and skin slick with sweat and blood.

“Go get him, Jenkins. Go!”

She didn’t hesitate.

She rose fast, gun still in hand, and took off down the street—Bishop, Nolan, and Lopez right behind her.

Their boots pounded the pavement in rhythm, sirens still echoing in the distance. The scent of cordite and hot asphalt filled the air. They pushed hard, weaving around wrecked trash bins and ducking under hanging wires.

But after only a few strides, something shifted in Dylan.

Her vision tilted slightly.

Her footsteps—once solid and deliberate—grew clumsy.

Her breath hitched, shallow now, and she felt a strange cold spreading across her back and shoulder. Her gun wavered in her grip, but she kept pushing.

Until she couldn’t.

Her legs buckled beneath her mid-stride. She stumbled, then dropped to her knees. A second later, her body collapsed sideways onto the asphalt with a hard, jarring thud—not far from where Tim lay.

“Dylan!” Nolan cried out behind her, skidding to a halt.

“Officer down!” Bishop bellowed into her radio, already turning back.

Tim’s head whipped around at the sound. His entire body tensed as he caught sight of her motionless figure lying across the pavement, blood blooming in a dark red circle across her shoulder, seeping fast through the black fabric of her tank top.

His voice cracked as he called out, “Jenkins!”

Paramedics shouted in confusion as they shifted their attention from Tim to the second wounded officer.

Lopez dropped to Dylan’s side first, checking for a pulse, gently shaking her.

“She’s alive!” she shouted. “She’s—Jesus, she’s been shot! Left shoulder!”

Nolan was already helping roll Dylan gently onto her back. Her eyes fluttered, blinking in a daze.

She muttered something incoherent.

“Hey, hey, Jenkins—stay with me,” Nolan said, panic creeping into his voice. “You’re okay. We’ve got you. You’re gonna be alright.”

“She didn’t say anything,” Bishop muttered, pressing a hand down over the wound. “She didn’t even know.”

“She was too focused on Tim,” Lucy’s voice added from behind, wide-eyed as she caught up to the scene.

Tim’s eyes locked on Dylan, who now lay just yards away from him. His breathing picked up, a furious ache blooming in his chest that had nothing to do with the bullet in his hip.

“You idiot,” he whispered hoarsely. “You should’ve said something. You were bleeding the whole damn time.”

But even as he said it, he knew.

He knew what it meant to put someone else first. To ignore your own pain because the person beside you was worse off. Because they mattered.

He’d done it a hundred times.

Now she had, too.

Paramedics dropped beside her, working fast—cutting away her shirt, checking for an exit wound. “Clean shot,” one of them said. “But she’s lost a lot of blood.”

They worked to stabilize her, oxygen mask over her face, bandages pressed tightly to her shoulder.

Tim watched helplessly, the taste of iron in his mouth from clenching his jaw so hard.

This wasn’t just about a chase gone wrong.

This was the moment that shattered the wall he’d built around himself.

Because now he wasn’t looking at a rival. Or a rookie. Or a smartass detective who gave him just as much grief as he gave her.

He was looking at his partner.

And she had bled for him.

The intensive care unit was unnervingly quiet.

Harsh, sterile light hummed overhead while the faint beep of monitors echoed down the polished corridor. The air smelled like antiseptic and fatigue.

Inside room 403, Dylan Jenkins lay motionless in the hospital bed. An IV line snaked into her arm, and a thick bandage wrapped tightly around her shoulder, stark against the paleness of her skin. A sling cradled her left arm against her chest. Her breathing was steady, but the rise and fall of her chest looked laboured—like even that much effort had a price.

She was doped up, drifting somewhere between lucidity and morphine fog.

But her eyes opened slowly as the door creaked open.

“Alright, sleeping beauty,” came a familiar voice, hushed but teasing, “you look like crap.”

Lucy Chen stepped in first, followed by Jackson West, with John Nolan bringing up the rear. All three still wore remnants of their uniforms, weary from the shift but unable to go home until they saw her.

Dylan blinked at them, eyelids heavy. “You lot lose a bet or something?”

Lucy laughed. “Oh good, you’re still sarcastic. I was worried the bullet might’ve done something to your personality.”

“Only shot my shoulder, not my charm.”

Jackson stepped forward, placing a small, slightly-wilted bouquet on the table beside her. “We brought you flowers. Nolan picked them.”

“I panicked and went with daisies,” John added.

Dylan arched a brow. “Touching. I’ll treasure them forever—unless they attract bees, in which case, one of you is getting punched.”

They talked for a while longer—Lucy filling her in on precinct gossip, Jackson reenacting Barlowe’s capture with dramatic flair, Nolan trying to subtly check on how she was really doing. Dylan played along, grateful for the company, even as her limbs felt heavy and her eyes kept wanting to drift shut.

Eventually, Lucy glanced at her phone and winced. “We’ve gotta go, or Sergeant Grey’s going to hunt us down for skipping paperwork.”

They lingered at the door a moment longer.

Nolan spoke last. “You did good, Jenkins. You saved him.”

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded.

And then the door closed, and the silence returned.

Ten minutes later, there was a soft rattle just outside her room—wheels squeaking faintly against the tile.

Tim Bradford was a sight.

Still pale, hospital gown hanging awkwardly off his tall frame, a fresh dressing peeking out from the hem near his hip. He wheeled himself slowly into the room, one hand bracing the armrest, jaw clenched in concentration. He looked like he hated every second of needing help. But he was here.

Dylan cracked open one eye. “Well, well,” she croaked. “Didn’t think they let grumpy patients wander the halls unsupervised.”

Tim gave a long exhale through his nose as he parked himself beside her bed. “There was a nurse. I ditched her.”

Dylan grinned faintly. “You’re such a rebel.”

Tim didn’t look at her right away. He sat in silence, hands on his lap, staring at the monitor beside her bed like it might explain something he couldn’t say out loud.

Eventually, he spoke. Rough. Quiet.

“I saw the footage.”

Dylan blinked slowly.

“The moment I hit the ground… you ran for me. In the middle of all that—bullets flying—you chose me. Dragged me out. Took a round yourself and still kept going.” His eyes flicked up, finally meeting hers. “You didn’t even flinch.”

Dylan’s voice was hoarse. “Wasn’t gonna let you bleed out in front of me. Would’ve ruined the whole shift.”

Tim huffed. A whisper of a laugh, more breath than sound.

He looked down again. Fidgeted.

Then, finally, he muttered, “…Don’t do that again.”

Dylan frowned. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t put yourself between me and a bullet. Not like that.” His voice was low, gravelly. “You could’ve died.”

Dylan was quiet for a beat, then lifted her good arm with great effort and gestured vaguely around the sterile room.

“Well,” she said, voice thick with sarcasm, “cheers for the appreciation. I’ll just go ahead and cancel my medal ceremony, yeah?”

Tim smirked faintly, even as his jaw clenched. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Dylan replied, voice softer now. “I do.”

They sat in silence for a long moment.

Outside, a nurse passed by, oblivious. Machines beeped steadily. The world kept spinning.

Inside that room, two people who had spent days pushing each other, testing each other, watching each other with suspicion—sat still.

Something had changed— slightly.

Tim finally leaned his head back against the chair and muttered, “Next time, we both duck.”

Dylan smiled faintly, eyelids fluttering.

“Next time,” she whispered, already drifting again, “you can carry me.”

And for once, Tim didn’t argue.

He just stayed by her side.

Because whether they were ready to admit it or not—this was what partnership looked like.

And they had it.

A couple days later, the sterile buzz of the intensive care unit gave way to the subdued chaos of a discharge day.

Tim Bradford sat on the edge of his hospital bed, fully dressed but clearly unimpressed, arms crossed over his chest like a man being forced into an unspeakable humiliation.

Across the room, a nurse stood holding a wheelchair, expression firm.

“You’re not leaving without it,” she said. “Policy.”

“I’m fine,” Tim muttered, scowling.

“You were shot.”

“Grazed.”

“Through the hip.”

“I’ve walked off worse.”

She raised a brow. “Then consider this a break for your bruised ego.”

Before Tim could respond, Dylan Jenkins walked herself into the doorway, smug as anything, her right arm still cradled in a black sling and her hair pulled messily back. She looked equally wrecked and radiant, somehow pulling off hospital exhaustion with effortless British sarcasm.

“Well, well,” she said, eyes twinkling as she took in the scene. “Look at this. Officer Bradford being rolled out like a royal.”

Tim glared at her. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I’m going to.”

With a slow grin, Dylan limped into the room, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair with her good arm.

The nurse looked mildly concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay to—?”

“Yup,” Dylan cut in brightly. “Doctor said I’m fit for wheeling disgruntled men out of buildings. Just said to avoid brawls and breakdancing.”

Tim sighed. Loudly.

“I can walk.”

Dylan leaned over his shoulder, voice low and wickedly amused. “Come on. Let me have this.”

And so, begrudgingly, Tim allowed himself to be wheeled out of the ICU, arms folded like a sulking child, as Dylan Jenkins—clearly enjoying herself far too much—maneuvered the chair through the corridors one-handed, her sling shifting as she navigated around corners like she was on a scenic tour.

“I could be dying, you know,” she said conversationally.

“You’re not.”

“Still. Think of this as me milking what’s left of my near-death experience. Let me have my moment.”

As they reached the hospital lobby, Angela Lopez and Talia Bishop walked in through the sliding doors, both in jeans and off-duty hoodies, grinning like cats who’d just found cream.

“Oh my god,” Lopez said, whipping out her phone. “Is this a Bradford in a wheelchair sighting? Rare footage?”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Lopez—no.”

Click.

Too late.

“You blinked,” Bishop said dryly, peering at the screen. “We’ll have to take another one.”

Tim groaned, but Dylan just grinned over his shoulder, triumphant.

“He’s going straight to the LAPD retirement pamphlet,” she said.

Lopez and Bishop laughed as they helped both patients into the car—Tim slowly, with a stiffness he refused to acknowledge, and Dylan with a limp and a stubborn tilt to her chin.

They dropped Tim off first, at his clean-cut apartment complex in Silver Lake. Lopez helped him out while Dylan stayed in the back seat, watching silently as Tim paused before shutting the door.

He looked at her for a beat.

“Take it easy.”

She smirked. “You too. Or your nurse will hunt you down.”

The door closed.

Then it was her turn.

The car slowed in front of a squat, two-story apartment block on the edge of Koreatown—run-down, old, but intact. The kind of place where the walls were too thin and the paint peeled a little at the corners. But it had a roof. And privacy. And most importantly, it was hers.

Lopez frowned as she took in the building. “This where you’re staying?”

Dylan nodded. “Yep.”

“Not exactly luxury.”

“No,” Dylan said, already getting out, “but the rats keep to their side of the hallway, and the water’s only occasionally brown. I call that a win.”

Bishop opened her mouth, then closed it again. Dylan wasn’t embarrassed—she wore the truth like armor. She didn’t need their pity.

She just needed to get inside and get horizontal.

As she reached the entrance, Dylan turned back slightly, half-smiling.

“Thanks for the lift. I owe you one.”

“Just one?” Lopez teased.

“Alright, two. But if you don’t show enough people that photo of Tim, I’ll take them back.”

Bishop saluted with two fingers. “Noted.”

Then the car pulled away, and Dylan was alone.

She limped up the stairs, fumbled with her keys, and stepped into her apartment.

It was small. Sparse. A beat-up couch, a mattress on the floor, a few personal touches—a photo in a cracked frame, an old scarf on the coat hook, a mug shaped like a grenade.

She dropped her bag, sank onto the bed, and exhaled.

Pain pulsed through her shoulder, but beneath it was something quieter.

Something like pride.

She’d survived. She’d fought. She’d saved someone.

And Tim Bradford, of all people, had said thank you.

Even if it came dressed as a grumble in a wheelchair.

Day eleven.

That’s how long it had been since Dylan Jenkins had been discharged from the hospital, stitched up, bandaged, and sent home with a bottle of painkillers and a warning not to overdo it.

For ten and a half of those days, she’d done exactly that: stayed in bed, watched reruns of Frasier, and lived off cereal bars, black coffee, and self-pity. Her shoulder throbbed less now. The bruises were turning yellow. The stitches were still ugly, but healing. And the worst of the pain had dulled into an ache that reminded her she was alive.

But now her fridge was empty.

And she was starving.

And if she didn’t eat something greasy and utterly void of nutritional value in the next ten minutes, she was going to scream.

So, she dragged herself into jeans, a crumpled hoodie she hadn’t washed since the shooting, and laced up her boots with one hand. The sling still held her left arm tight to her side. Her keys jingled as she snatched them up, and she mumbled curses as she clumsily unlocked her car, slid behind the wheel, and pulled out into traffic—driving one-handed, with the general mood of a bear that had just woken up from hibernation.

Ten minutes later, she pulled into a battered strip mall with a glowing red sign that read:

“UNCLE RAY’S FRIED DELIGHTS — Open ‘Til You Regret It.”

Perfect.

She shuffled inside, the bell above the door chiming obnoxiously loud, and blinked in the harsh fluorescent light.

The smell hit first—fried chicken, grease, old oil, and something vaguely resembling cheese.

She was halfway through muttering to herself about artery-clogging America when a voice rang out from a booth near the back.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally left her cave.”

Tim Bradford.

Slouched slightly in a booth, cradling a styrofoam cup of what was probably black coffee, looking way too smug for someone who clearly hadn’t slept properly in days. His hoodie was dark, his hair slightly tousled, and the bandage peeking out from under his shirt told her he wasn’t doing that much better than her.

Dylan sighed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Tim took a slow sip. “Didn’t think you were the ‘Fried Delights’ type. I had you pegged for kale and tea that tastes like regret.”

She approached the counter, ignoring him completely as she squinted at the laminated menu. Her stomach growled.

Behind her, Tim kept going. “Let me guess—grilled cheese, fries, extra salt to match your attitude?”

She turned slowly, fixing him with a look. “You must be really bored if you’re heckling women in takeaways.”

Tim raised a brow. “Just the ones who’ve dragged me through gunfire.”

She finally ordered—chicken tenders, fries, extra hot sauce—then slid into the booth opposite him without asking. Her legs were tired, and the room was spinning just slightly. She didn’t trust herself to stay upright any longer.

They sat in silence for a moment, just long enough for the tension to curl between them like cigarette smoke.

Tim tapped his fingers on his cup. “You look like hell.”

“You don’t look much better,” she replied.

“Still got one working arm,” he said, lifting it dramatically.

She raised her brows. “So do I. I’m just not flaunting it like an idiot.”

He smirked. “Tell me, Jenkins—was it the hunger or the loneliness that finally drove you out of hiding?”

She rolled her eyes. “If I’d known you were here, I’d have eaten a tube of toothpaste and called it a meal.”

But behind her dry wit and sharp words, there was a faint flicker of warmth. Of familiarity.

Tim leaned back slightly. “You keeping up with your meds?”

Her eyes flicked to his. “What, you stalking me now?”

He shrugged. “Just asking. You look like the type to skip the painkillers and try to muscle through it.”

She didn’t answer.

That told him everything.

He exhaled slowly. “You need to rest properly. Let it heal.”

She looked at him. Really looked. He was trying to sound casual, still playing the sarcastic card, still keeping everything wrapped in layers of gruffness and jabs. But she saw through it.

She saw it in the way he kept glancing at her sling when he thought she wasn’t looking. In the way he shifted like he was still sore. In the way his voice softened—just slightly—when he said her name.

There was concern in him.

The kind neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

And it lived between every sarcastic jab.

Dylan’s food was called from the counter. She got up slowly, retrieved the brown paper bag, and returned to the booth. She opened it and took one greasy fry with her good hand, popping it into her mouth before leaning back and eyeing him.

“You always this annoying?”

“Only when I’m worried.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

There it was.

She paused, blinking slowly, then tilted her head, amused. “Aw. Was that an emotion, Bradford? Want me to alert the media?”

He groaned and sipped his coffee again. “Forget it.”

“No, no,” she said, picking up another fry. “You care. I’m touched. Truly.”

They lapsed into silence again—comfortable, this time.

And then Dylan grinned, wide and smug. “Still not sharing my fries with you.”

Tim smirked. “Didn’t ask. They smell like regret.”

“But they taste like survival,” she said, holding one up like a trophy.

And across the greasy table, in the most unlikely place, two wounded cops—one sarcastic Brit, one brooding American—shared a moment of genuine, unspoken understanding.

They weren’t friends.

Not quite.

But maybe, they were becoming something that mattered more.

It was just after 9 p.m. on a Sunday night, and Dylan Jenkins was slumped sideways on her battered couch, one blanket draped over her legs and an unfinished bottle of Coke balanced precariously on the armrest. A late-night documentary flickered on her TV, the narrator speaking in a soft British accent that made her homesick for all of two seconds before she tuned it out again.

Her shoulder still ached in dull pulses beneath the sling, but the worst of the pain had faded. Her stitches were healing. The bruises were fading from purple to yellow. Her appetite had returned with a vengeance, and her stubborn streak was itching to move again.

She hadn’t left the apartment all day.

Hadn’t planned to.

Until her phone buzzed.

She squinted at the screen as it lit up.

Unknown Number:

Back on duty tomorrow. 0700. Hope you’ve been sleeping in, because that ends tonight.

Her stomach dropped with the kind of dread reserved for dental appointments and interrogation rooms. There was only one person who’d text her like that.

She tapped back slowly.

You got my number how, exactly?

The response came almost immediately.

Bradford:

Department contact list. Welcome to the age of modern surveillance.

Dylan snorted, fingers already moving over the screen.

Jenkins:

You are such a pain in my ass.

There was a pause. Three dots. Then—

Bradford:

That’s my job.

She stared at the screen, jaw twitching slightly, somewhere between amused and annoyed. It was such a Tim Bradford response—dry, self-assured, mildly infuriating. And it landed exactly how he meant it to: reminding her, in the subtlest way, that they were back to reality tomorrow. No more takeaway food and naps. No more hospital walls and half-baked excuses.

Just the streets. The badge. The uniform.

And the Tests. She knew they were coming.

If he’d sent “get a good night’s sleep,” what he really meant was,

I’m going to make you run five scenarios before your second coffee, drag you into some morally grey standoff, and throw at least one philosophical speech at your head before noon.

She sighed, tossing her phone onto the blanket beside her and grabbing the Coke instead. One sip. Then another.

The phone buzzed again.

Bradford:

Seriously. Rest. You’re good. But I’m going to need you sharp.

She stared at that one a bit longer.

There wasn’t a joke in it. No smug jab.

Just something honest. Quiet. Almost respectful.

She didn’t reply.

But she smiled.

Just slightly.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

[realityjoey]

SEASON 1, EPISODE 1: “PILOT”

The sound of boots hitting linoleum echoed through the halls of the LAPD precinct like the warning thump of an approaching storm. Officer Tim Bradford moved with deliberate intensity, shoulders squared, chin up, eyes already scanning for prey. Two younger officers trailed behind him, trying to keep up, practically tripping over themselves in their eagerness not to annoy him.

Tim, however, was in his element.

“Rookie Day,” he said, grinning like a wolf on the hunt. “Best damn day of the year.”

The younger officers exchanged wary glances, unsure whether to laugh or stay silent.

He continued without missing a beat. “They come in bright-eyed, fresh out the Academy, full of dreams and idealism—and I get to crush it all before lunch. It’s a public service, really.”

It wasn’t malice—at least not entirely. Tim Bradford didn’t hate rookies. He just believed that the real world didn’t have time for coddling. His job was to break them down and see what was left. Some would survive. Most wouldn’t. He was okay with that.

As they stepped into the locker room, Tim’s eyes scanned for his first target. It didn’t take long. Down the row, Jackson West stood at his locker, carefully unpacking his gear like he was setting up a display in a museum. Everything about him screamed new: the freshly pressed uniform, the shiny boots, the nervous little glances at his surroundings.

Tim zeroed in.

“West,” he barked.

Jackson turned, startled but composed. “Yes, sir?”

“You even know how to load your weapon, or should I prep some coloring books for you?”

Jackson straightened, his posture flawless. “Top of my class, sir. Certified and field-ready.”

Tim squinted, waiting for the flinch, the nervous smile, the over-eager stammer. But Jackson met his gaze with surprising confidence.

Tim’s jaw tensed. “Right.”

He gave a slight, dismissive wave and turned away, muttering under his breath. “Goddamn overachievers…”

He barely took two steps before he spotted someone else. A figure crouched further down the locker row, back turned, organizing her gear with quiet efficiency. Long legs in fitted black jeans, hair tied up, a casual shoulder holster slung across her body. She was humming to herself—something British, upbeat, and completely out of place in the grimy LAPD locker room.

Tim didn’t recognize her. That meant she was new. Another rookie.

Perfect.

He strode over, voice loaded with sarcasm.

“You lost, Rookie? Locker room’s not a damn concert.”

The woman stood slowly, not flinching, not rushing. She turned, and Tim’s words caught somewhere in his throat.

She was… unexpected.

Sharp green eyes met his without a hint of hesitation. A faint scar arched near one brow, and her expression was calm, almost amused. She looked him over once—cool and measured—and then spoke in a clipped, clearly British accent that managed to sound both tired and vaguely threatening.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said dryly. “Though if this is how you welcome new officers, I’m starting to understand the dropout rate.”

Tim frowned. “You’re not a rookie?”

“Nope.”

“Then who the hell are you?”

She reached into her locker and slapped her badge onto the shelf. He glanced down. Detective Dylan Jenkins.

“Transferred in last week,” she said, like she was reading his mind. “Ten years in the Met. Homicide. And if you’re planning on trying to scare me off, you’ll have to get in line behind a few armed robbers, five ex-boyfriends, and my mother.”

Tim blinked.

She smirked.

“Nice try, though, tough guy. I’d give it a six out of ten. Maybe you’ll scare someone next time.”

He straightened instinctively, trying to regain ground, but her grin widened slightly—confident, unbothered.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, one brow raised.

“I think you’re funny.”

She slammed her locker shut with one hand and brushed past him without another glance, pausing only to nod politely at the two stunned officers still lingering nearby.

“Morning, lads,” she said smoothly, walking away like she owned the place.

Tim stared after her, momentarily speechless. The two officers exchanged looks behind him, clearly trying not to smile.

“Think you just met your match,” one of them muttered.

Tim didn’t look back. “She’s not gonna last.”

But even as he said it, he knew he was lying. She was going to last—and more than that, she was going to make his life a hell of a lot more complicated.

Ten minutes later, the bullpen was filled with the low buzz of conversation and the occasional scrape of chairs as officers gathered for morning roll call. The precinct’s large briefing room smelled of stale coffee, leather, and ink—familiar and grounding. Officers lined up loosely in rows, some standing with arms folded, others slouched in their chairs, tapping pens or scrolling idly on their phones.

At the front of the room, Sergeant Wade Grey stepped up to the podium with the quiet authority of a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be respected.

“All right,” he began, voice cutting clean through the chatter. “Settle down.”

The room quieted almost instantly.

Grey scanned the room. “Got some fresh blood today, so let’s play nice. Or at least pretend.”

A few dry chuckles rippled across the room.

He gestured to the side, where three fresh-faced rookies stood against the wall like kids on the first day of school.

“First up: Officer John Nolan. Former construction business owner. Late bloomer, some might say. But don’t underestimate him.”

Nolan gave a polite nod, shifting a little awkwardly under the weight of so many stares. Older than the other two by at least fifteen years, he looked calm but out of place.

“Next: Jackson West. Top marks at the Academy. You may recognize the name—yes, he’s the son of Commander West. But no, he didn’t ask for special treatment. Let’s keep it that way.”

Jackson stood straighter, clearly proud but trying not to show it.

“And finally, Lucy Chen. Smart. Sharp. She’ll be learning fast—because she’ll have to.”

Lucy smiled faintly, the kind of smile that said she wasn’t here to be underestimated.

The room gave a mild smattering of interest—respectful enough, but unsurprised. Rookie intros were routine.

Then Grey turned back toward the wall. “And lastly, we have Detective Dylan Jenkins.”

Every head turned.

She stepped forward, hands casually in the pockets of her fitted jacket, chin tilted up just slightly. Calm, poised, completely unbothered by the full attention of a room filled with seasoned LAPD officers.

“Detective Jenkins joins us from the Metropolitan Police in London,” Grey continued. “Ten years on the job. Homicide. Multiple commendations. She’s not a rookie—but she is new to the way we do things here. Keep that in mind.”

Someone in the back let out a low whistle. Someone else muttered, “Damn,” under their breath.

Tim Bradford, arms crossed, leaned back slightly where he stood in the far corner, jaw tight. She didn’t even glance at him.

Grey’s voice cut back in. “Pairings for today: Chen, you’re with Officer Yates. West, you’re riding with Lopez. Nolan—Bishop’s got you.”

Each of the rookies stepped forward to meet their assigned Training Officers.

Then Grey paused.

“And Jenkins,” he said, “you’ll be partnered with Officer Bradford.”

There was a beat of silence.

Tim’s head snapped toward Grey like he hadn’t heard right. “Excuse me?”

Dylan turned her head, arching a brow at him like it was Christmas morning.

Grey didn’t blink. “You heard me. You’ll be responsible for giving her a crash course in LAPD procedures and American policing. She’s got the experience, but she needs to learn our way of doing things.”

Tim didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just stared at Grey like he might be able to stare him into changing his mind.

It didn’t work.

“Dismissed,” Grey said.

The room burst into motion—officers peeling off, meeting partners, heading to squad cars and desks. Dylan didn’t move straight away. Instead, she waited until they were nearly alone in the room.

Bradford still hadn’t said anything. His arms were crossed tightly now, jaw clenched, like he was holding back a hundred different arguments.

“Something wrong, Officer?” Dylan asked, ever-so-innocent.

He narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t funny.”

She smiled. “Didn’t say it was. But it is poetic.”

Before he could respond, Grey stepped down from the podium and approached the pair.

“Before you throw a tantrum, Bradford, let me be clear,” he said. “This isn’t a punishment. It’s a challenge. Jenkins isn’t some green rookie you can scare into submission. She’s here to learn the system, not the job. She already knows how to handle herself.”

Tim didn’t reply, but the tension in his shoulders said plenty.

Grey turned to Dylan. “You’ll report to Captain Andersen eventually, but for the next few weeks, you’ll shadow Bradford. He knows our protocols better than anyone. Consider this your American immersion course.”

Dylan nodded. “Understood.”

Grey gave Tim a final look—something between a warning and a dare—then walked away.

Tim let out a breath, turning to face her fully.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he said.

She smirked, already walking past him. “I rarely do.”

And just like that, Dylan Jenkins became the first person in a long time to truly throw Tim Bradford off his game.

And she knew it.

The patrol car rumbled steadily through the streets of downtown L.A., sun creeping higher above the skyline, casting long shadows against the cracked pavement. Inside the shop, the silence between Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Tim drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, his eyes scanning the streets like a hawk. He hadn’t said much since they pulled out of the precinct. Neither had she. The only sounds were the low static of the police radio and the occasional blare of traffic outside.

Dylan sat in the passenger seat, back straight, one arm draped over the door. She watched the passing storefronts and unfamiliar intersections with quiet interest, but her expression was unreadable. Stoic, detached. The silence didn’t bother her. She’d worked cases in the Met where whole days went by with only the sound of rain and crime scene tape flapping in the wind.

But she could feel him looking at her now and then. Weighing her.

Eventually, his voice broke the quiet.

“So,” Tim said, eyes still on the road, “why America?”

Dylan didn’t turn her head. “Weather’s nice.”

He glanced at her. “You don’t strike me as the palm trees and beach yoga type.”

She smiled faintly. “Well, I was deciding between here and Arizona, but I thought my accent would be wasted in the desert.”

He huffed a short breath. A noncommittal sound. He didn’t push. Not yet.

The silence returned—for about thirty seconds.

Then Tim suddenly slammed on the brakes.

The tires screeched slightly, the car jolting to a halt. Dylan’s hand instinctively grabbed the dash, her other already reaching for her holster.

“What the—” she started, but Tim cut her off.

“I’ve been shot,” he said, voice strained and loud. “Bleeding out. You need to call for help. Where are we?”

Dylan blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Where are we?” he snapped. “I’m losing blood, Jenkins. Tick tock.”

She stared at him, jaw tightening. It took her half a second too long to orient herself. The street signs were small and high, a layout nothing like the numbered, gridded roads she’d grown up with in London.

She looked left, right, spotted a cross street and muttered it aloud.

Tim leaned back in his seat, dropping the act like it was a coat he was done wearing. “Too slow. Now I’m dead, and it’s your fault.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He checked the mirror and pulled back into traffic without another word.

“You did that fake act just to test me?”

“It’s not fake when it happens for real,” he said coolly. “I’m not here to hold your hand, Jenkins. You need to know the city like the back of your hand. If I go down, or you do, or someone else does, every second counts. You freeze like that on the job, someone ends up in a body bag.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond immediately. He could feel the tension radiating off her now. Controlled. Contained. But real.

“I’ve done ten years of this job,” she said finally, voice low. “And I didn’t survive it by freezing.”

Tim didn’t look at her. “This isn’t London.”

“No,” she agreed coldly. “It’s a circus where apparently training means getting sucker-punched with imaginary trauma at a red light.”

Tim allowed himself a small smirk. “You’ll thank me later.”

She turned her head to look out the window, biting down the thousand things she wanted to say. She wasn’t rattled. She was pissed. But more than that, she understood what he was doing. He was setting the tone. Drawing a line. Making it clear that she wasn’t above the tests—not in his car.

But if he thought she’d fold under pressure, he had no idea who the hell he was dealing with.

Unbeknownst to Dylan, this was only the beginning. The first of many “Tim Tests” that would come at her hard and fast—each one carefully designed not just to teach, but to challenge. Push. Provoke.

And if Tim Bradford was looking for someone to break, he’d picked the wrong woman.

The tension in the car simmered like a pot on the edge of boiling.

After Dylan’s failure to name their exact location fast enough for Tim’s liking, the silence between them had turned icy, sharp-edged. He drove without speaking. She sat rigid in the passenger seat, jaw clenched, staring dead ahead at the road unspooling in front of them.

Then, without warning, Tim pulled over.

Not a smooth coast to the curb. A firm, deliberate stop. The car idled.

Dylan turned to him, annoyed. “Now what?”

“Out,” Tim said simply.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get out.”

She scoffed, arms folding across her chest. “You’re taking the piss.”

He turned in his seat to face her, eyes cool and unmoved. “You want to learn this city? Walk it. You don’t get to rely on GPS when someone’s bleeding out in your arms and you’ve got ten seconds to call in help. You don’t know where you are? Then get out and start learning.”

She stared at him like she was trying to decide whether to punch him or laugh. Probably both.

“That’s your solution? Kick me out like a bad date?”

Tim didn’t blink. “Walk until you know where you are. Then you can get back in.”

Dylan stared at him for another beat, jaw working. Then, with a sharp exhale, she threw open the door and stepped out. The door slammed behind her like a gunshot.

The moment the door shut, Tim shifted the car into drive and rolled forward. Not far. Just enough to stay next to her. His pace was excruciatingly slow, the cruiser crawling beside her like an overbearing chaperone.

She walked with purpose—long strides, fists clenched, eyes scanning street signs and landmarks. She knew what this was. A test. Another one. She was sick of the games, but damn if she’d let him win.

After about a minute of the awkward, silent crawl, Tim finally spoke again.

“Why did you really move to L.A.?”

She didn’t look at him. “I told you. The weather.”

“No, you didn’t. That was sarcasm.”

A beat passed.

She kept walking, boots hitting the pavement hard.

“I’m not here to play twenty questions,” she muttered.

“Good,” he said, still watching her. “Because I don’t care about the small talk. I care about who I’m riding with. Who’s got my back. And right now, I don’t know a damn thing about you—except that you don’t know where the hell you are.”

She stopped walking. Finally. Turned to face him. Her green eyes were narrowed, fierce.

“You want the truth?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’d be a start.”

She walked over to the passenger door but didn’t get in. She leaned down slightly so they were eye to eye through the open window.

“I moved because I needed a fresh start. Because staying in London meant suffocating in a job that broke my family apart, living on minimum wage, and hoping for the day that some screwed up junkie stabbed me in just the right place to put an end to it all.” Her voice was low now. Controlled, but edged with something darker. Something that had weight behind it.

“Or maybe,” she added, “because I was running from something. Or someone. You don’t need to know the details— and you never will.”

Tim studied her for a moment. He didn’t ask anything else. Didn’t push. Just nodded once.

“Get in.” He said.

She opened the door and slid back into the passenger seat without a word.

For a while, the car was quiet again.

But this time, it wasn’t silence loaded with resentment. It was silence thick with understanding. Not a truce, exactly—but something close.

The engine hummed as they pulled back into traffic.

Tim didn’t look at her when he spoke next, eyes still focused on the road.

“You ever pull that sarcasm crap when someone’s bleeding out next to you again, I’ll make you walk the whole damn district.”

Dylan scoffed, “You know you weren’t actually bleeding out, right? Or are you so caught up in your little tests that—“

Tim glared at her, raising his eyebrows sternly.

Dylan smirked faintly, eyes on the window.

“Noted.” She nodded, dramatically.

The afternoon sun bore down on the city, making the asphalt shimmer and the air inside the patrol car thick with heat. Tim and Dylan had fallen into a more tolerable silence now, the earlier tension dulled but not quite gone. The day had been quiet—too quiet, as Tim would put it.

Then the radio crackled to life, sharp and urgent.

“7-Adam-15, requesting backup! Suspect on foot, heading eastbound on Temple. Male, Hispanic, black hoodie—repeat, on foot. Bishop’s in pursuit. We need units!”

It was Nolan’s voice. Breathless, strained, panicked in a way that made Tim’s eyes sharpen.

Tim flicked the lights on and slammed the car into motion. “7-Adam-19, responding. We’re two blocks out.”

Dylan was already shifting in her seat, focused. The streets blurred past in a rush, sirens slicing through traffic as they closed in.

Moments later, Tim screeched the cruiser to a halt near the edge of a narrow alleyway. Dylan was out of the passenger seat before he’d fully stopped, feet hitting the ground hard.

They heard the shouting before they saw them—Bishop’s sharp commands echoing through the maze of buildings. A dark figure darted across the alley ahead of them, sweat-slick and fast.

“There!” Tim shouted, breaking into a sprint.

But Dylan was already moving.

She surged ahead like a bullet, legs pounding against the pavement, sleek and focused. Her breath was steady. Controlled. She passed Nolan, who was huffing heavily, a few steps behind Bishop, already starting to lag.

Nolan blinked in surprise as she tore past him. “She’s fast,” he muttered—mostly to himself.

Tim was close behind, but even he had to admit: she was impressive.

The suspect cut hard through an alley and bolted into a construction site. Dylan didn’t hesitate. She ducked under scaffolding, vaulted a low barrier, and stayed on him, eyes locked on his back like a predator on prey.

The suspect glanced back—once. A mistake.

He turned to cut left toward a side fence.

Dylan saw the opening.

She didn’t stop to think. She launched.

Her feet left the ground, body horizontal mid-air as she slammed into the suspect’s back with a perfect flying tackle that sent them both crashing to the gravel. Dust exploded around them, the suspect groaning as Dylan pinned him hard to the ground, one arm twisted behind his back before he even knew what hit him.

“LAPD! Stay down!” she barked, already reaching for the cuffs.

Tim skidded to a stop just as she snapped the bracelets around the guy’s wrists and yanked him to his knees.

Behind them, Nolan let out a frustrated grunt.

Tim glanced back and stifled a smirk.

John Nolan was dangling halfway up a chain-link fence, his shirt caught on the metal, one leg awkwardly stuck mid-climb. He looked like a cat who’d second-guessed jumping a wall but couldn’t find the way down.

“Welcome to the arrest.” Tim called out, dry amusement in his voice.

“I… yeah,” Nolan muttered, trying to pry himself loose.

Dylan pulled the suspect to his feet, dusted herself off, and shot Tim a look.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

Tim exhaled, shrugging. “Not bad.”

Dylan raised a brow. “Not bad? That was textbook.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim muttered. “We’ll get you a medal later.”

She grinned, flushed from the chase, hair sticking to her forehead, knuckles scraped—but victorious.

As they led the suspect back toward the cruiser, Nolan finally managed to untangle himself and drop to the ground with a huff, looking sheepish. Bishop arrived moments later, eyeing the cuffed perp and raising a brow at Dylan.

“Remind me to request her next time I’m chasing someone,” she said.

Dylan just shrugged, casual. “Love a good chase. Thrilling.”

Tim tried to act unaffected, but he could feel it: the slow shift in his perception. She wasn’t just surviving the Tim Bradford Trials—she was passing them. With grit, skill, and a smirk that said she wasn’t afraid of him or the job.

Midday sun hung high, casting long shadows over the cracked parking lot where the smell of sizzling onions and chargrilled meat wafted through the warm breeze. The unmistakable buzz of a food truck lunch break had taken over, and for once, the LAPD officers had a moment to breathe.

The burger van—“Benny’s Burgers: Home of the Widowmaker”—was an unassuming, slightly greasy legend among the precinct. A busted neon sign flickered above the window, and the owner, a wiry man with more tattoos than teeth, barked out orders with a cheerful lack of hygiene.

The training officers and their rookies had spilled out around a few weather-worn picnic tables scattered nearby. Drinks sweated in the heat, fries were fought over, and the tension of the morning’s chases and patrols had relaxed into laughter and easy conversation.

At one of the tables, Jackson West, John Nolan, Lucy Chen, and Dylan Jenkins sat together, trays in front of them, legs stretched out under the table.

“So, is it true,” Jackson asked, leaning forward conspiratorially, “that your sirens back home sound like a dying goose?”

Dylan, mid-bite of her burger, chewed thoughtfully before answering with a smirk. “More like a goose having a panic attack. It’s less intimidating, more… confusing. Great way to clear traffic, though—people pull over just to make it stop.”

Lucy laughed, nearly choking on her soda. “God, I love your accent. It makes even horrifying sirens sound interesting.”

“Tell that to the blokes I’ve arrested mid-chase,” Dylan said, raising her brows. “Nothing interesting about getting tackled by someone yelling at you in full Cockney rage.”

“You tackled someone earlier today,” Nolan pointed out, pointing at her with a fry. “That was—honestly? Epic.”

Jackson nodded. “Straight up NFL highlight reel.”

Dylan shrugged, modestly brushing a fry through some ketchup. “He was running. I don’t like runners.”

Lucy grinned. “You and Bradford are kind of perfect for each other, you know.”

Dylan gave her a sharp look. “Don’t say that. I’ll lose my appetite.”

They all laughed. Even Nolan, who was clearly still recovering from getting caught on a fence, chuckled with mock humility. “Okay, but real talk—what’s it actually like working in London?”

Dylan leaned back a bit, tilting her head toward the sky, as if summoning ten years of stories.

“Rainy,” she said at last. “Political. Fast-paced. And rougher than most people think. A lot more paperwork. A lot less guns. You don’t realize how much adrenaline you get from being armed until suddenly you’re not.”

Lucy nodded slowly, fascinated. “Did you always want to be a detective?”

“No,” Dylan replied honestly. “I wanted to be a writer. Or a vet. But then my brother got arrested when I was sixteen, and I realized the only people making a difference were the ones on the inside.”

There was a pause. Not somber, exactly—but heavier.

Lucy reached out and touched her arm lightly. “Well… I’m glad you chose this path. You’re kinda badass.”

Dylan smiled, genuinely. “Thanks, Luce. You’re not so bad yourself.”

At a nearby bench, just far enough away to hear the laughter without being part of it, Tim Bradford, Angela Lopez, and Talia Bishop sat with their own burgers and drinks.

Angela, sipping her iced tea, glanced over at the rookies’ table, eyes landing squarely on Dylan. “So. Your Brit is settling in.”

Tim didn’t look up. “She’s not my Brit.”

Talia smirked. “But she is in your shop. And from what I saw earlier, she’s putting your pride to the test.”

Bradford ripped a bite out of his burger like it had personally offended him. “She’s fast. I’ll give her that.”

Angela raised a brow. “Fast? Tim, she tackled a suspect like she was some kind of athlete.”

“And cuffed him clean,” Talia added. “No hesitation.”

Tim grunted, chewing slower now. He hated admitting it, but the woman was competent. More than competent. She moved like someone who’d been in high-stakes situations for years. Controlled, precise. Even when she was pissed off—which, to be fair, seemed to be a constant state around him—she never lost her focus.

“She’s got instincts,” he muttered, finally conceding. “But she’s also had ten years on the job, so all of this is the bare minimum.”

Angela leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “She’s also bonded with the rookies. Chen’s practically got hearts in her eyes.”

“She’s sharp,” Talia agreed. “A little raw, but sharp. There’s something under all that sarcasm and leather.”

“Trauma,” Tim said flatly. “I can tell.”

Angela looked at him. “You’d know.” She muttered.

He gave her a look. “Funny.”

The three of them sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, watching as Dylan tossed a fry at Lucy and Lucy mock-gasped in betrayal.

Talia leaned back and said, “You’re not gonna break her, Bradford. Not like the others.”

Tim didn’t answer right away. He just kept watching.

“You never know.” he said finally.

“Oh, we know she won’t break.” Angela smirked. “But maybe… she’ll break you.”

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it.

The fluorescent lights in the locker room buzzed softly overhead, casting a sterile glow on the cold metal lockers and tiled floor. Most of the day shift officers had already cleared out, leaving the room still and quiet—an odd contrast to the chaos of the shift that had just ended.

Dylan Jenkins stood in front of her locker, the door open wide, the contents nearly cleared out. She’d changed out of her LAPD uniform and into a fitted black leather jacket, faded jeans, and ankle boots—her usual armor of civvy clothes. Her badge and gun were already locked away, and she was stuffing the last of her belongings into a worn canvas shoulder bag.

Her hair was down now, loose waves tumbling over her shoulders. Without the rigid silhouette of her uniform, she looked less like the no-nonsense detective who’d tackled a suspect to the ground that morning, and more like someone you might mistake for a musician or a freelance journalist. She liked that—kept people guessing.

The locker room door creaked open behind her.

She didn’t turn.

“Either say something or stop hovering,” she said flatly.

There was a pause. Then a familiar voice—Jackson West—chuckled nervously.

“You know, for someone with such a charming accent, you’re kind of scary sometimes.”

Dylan turned slightly, arching a brow as Jackson and Lucy Chen approached. Lucy had changed into a casual hoodie and jeans, hair up in a ponytail, but her expression was bright and familiar. Jackson, still in his Academy-issued sweatshirt, looked a little more subdued.

Dylan tilted her head. “You two stalking me now, or is this some LAPD hazing ritual?”

“Neither,” Lucy said, smiling. “We just wanted to see if you were free tonight.”

Dylan zipped up her bag. “Define ‘free.’”

“We’re all heading out for drinks,” Jackson said. “It’s not your first day, obviously, but it’s ours. Thought we’d celebrate surviving it—and, you know, buy Nolan a beer before he completely spirals.”

Dylan frowned slightly. “Nolan?”

Lucy’s expression softened. “He saw his first death on the job today. Some guy got stabbed to death. He didn’t say much, but… it hit him.”

Dylan let out a quiet breath. She remembered that moment. Everyone did. That first time death wasn’t just a photo on a file, but a body on the floor—still warm, eyes open, no longer human.

She closed her locker door and leaned against it.

“First one’s always the hardest,” she said quietly. “He okay?”

“He’s pretending he is,” Jackson said. “But he’s not. So we figured drinks. Something light. Laugh a little. Remind ourselves we made it through.”

Lucy looked at Dylan, hopeful. “You should come.”

Dylan studied them both for a moment. There was no pity in their expressions—just the openness of people still soft around the edges, still new enough to believe that sharing the weight might make it easier to carry.

She wasn’t used to being invited. Or included.

In London, it had been coffee at her desk. A bottle of something bitter at home. Silence.

But here—this wasn’t about her. It was about Nolan. About the fact that this job didn’t just break you in—it shaped you, with or without your permission.

“Alright,” she said, pushing off the locker. “But I’m not dancing, and I’m not doing karaoke.”

Lucy grinned. “No promises.”

Jackson smiled. “I’m just impressed you said yes.”

Dylan slung her bag over her shoulder. “Don’t make me regret it.”

As they walked out of the locker room together, the laughter between the three of them echoed off the walls—soft, genuine, and new.

And behind them, in the now-empty room, the silence lingered a little less heavily.

The bar wasn’t fancy—half the neon lights outside were broken, and the air inside was thick with cheap beer, over-loud music, and the low murmur of conversations that ranged from laughter to heated pool-table debates.

But it was familiar. Comfortable.

One of those off-duty cop haunts tucked just far enough from the precinct that it didn’t feel like an extension of the job, but close enough that you could still show up in uniform and no one would bat an eye.

Dylan Jenkins sat on a weathered leather booth seat near the back, one arm draped casually along the backrest, a half-empty whiskey sour in her hand. Her jacket was slung over the chair beside her, boots crossed at the ankles under the table. She looked relaxed—but she was always watching.

Across the table, John Nolan nursed a beer quietly, eyes a little distant, his expression thoughtful even when he smiled. Lucy Chen sat beside him, leaning into his space like a sister might, and Jackson West was halfway through telling a story, hands animated and voice rising and falling with dramatic flair.

“And then,” Jackson said, eyes wide, “my FTO walks into the locker room, sees me in full gear, and goes, ‘You look like you’re playing dress-up in your daddy’s clothes.’ In front of everyone!”

Dylan let out a low laugh. “Ouch.”

“I almost turned around and quit on the spot,” Jackson said. “But I’d already paid the dry cleaning bill.”

Even Nolan chuckled at that, shaking his head. “They really don’t hold back.”

Lucy grinned. “The Academy was just… chaos. Remember that time they made us do the obstacle course in full gear during a heatwave?”

“Someone passed out,” Jackson added.

“Two someones,” Lucy corrected. “One of them fell into the tire pit.”

They all laughed again, and even Nolan’s face seemed to lift a little.

Dylan took another sip of her drink, her smirk faint but present. “You lot are soft.”

Lucy leaned in. “Oh yeah? What was it like in London, then? Come on. Tell us a story.”

Jackson nodded eagerly. “A real one. Like, something wild.”

Dylan raised a brow, thoughtful for a moment. Then her eyes gleamed.

“Alright,” she said, voice smooth with that unshakable accent. “You want dark? I’ll give you dark. But don’t blame me if you never look at kebab shops the same way again.”

That got their attention.

“So,” she began, “this one time, I was working surveillance on a guy suspected of trafficking arms through fake food deliveries. Sounds stupid, but it worked—he had a kebab van, right? Parked it all over South London. Every time someone ordered a double lamb with chili sauce, he’d drop off a silenced Glock instead.”

Jackson’s eyes widened.

“Anyway, one night, I’m parked outside in this freezing car, sipping the worst coffee you’ve ever tasted, and I see our guy dragging something heavy out of the van.”

“Drugs?” Lucy guessed.

“Body,” Dylan corrected flatly, like she was discussing the weather. “Wrapped in cling film. Tosses it into a wheelie bin like it’s Tuesday’s leftovers.”

Jackson made a face.

Lucy leaned in, fascinated. “What did you do?”

“I radioed it in. My backup, of course, was ‘stuck in traffic’—which in London means they were three blocks away, couldn’t be arsed to run, and we were understaffed. So I went in alone.”

Nolan blinked. “Alone?”

“Yeah,” Dylan said with a shrug. “Pulled my baton, because guess what? I wasn’t armed back then. He swung a carving knife at me, screamed something about MI6 trying to poison his kebab meat. I took a lamb spit to the face and still cuffed him.”

There was a stunned silence.

Then Lucy burst out laughing. “Oh my god. You’re insane.”

“I was hungry,” Dylan said, completely deadpan. “The real tragedy? The kebab van got impounded before I got my dinner.”

Even Nolan laughed now, his expression lighter than it had been all night.

The tension he’d been carrying all shift—the haunted look in his eyes from the guy who’d been stabbed—seemed to soften around the edges, not gone, but less sharp. Lucy gave him a soft, sideways smile and touched his arm briefly. He returned the gesture, grateful.

At the bar, people noticed Dylan—of course they did.

Men stole second glances. Women raised eyebrows. The way she carried herself was hard to ignore: the sharp jawline, the casual elegance, the effortless cool of someone who didn’t need attention but always got it. With her whiskey glass in hand and that impossibly smooth accent, she looked like a walking contradiction—tough as hell, but disarmingly charming.

And yet—her gaze never wandered. Her attention never left the table. Not for the guy by the bar trying to make eye contact. Not for the waitress who “accidentally” brushed against her.

Her focus was here, with them.

With Lucy, who kept telling stories about rookie training mishaps and snorted when she laughed too hard.

With Jackson, who asked too many questions but meant well.

With Nolan, who had seen something today that changed him—and needed to be around people who understood that.

Dylan sat back slightly in the booth, letting the hum of the bar drift around her. The laughter, the dim lighting, the comfort of shared experience. It had been a long time since she’d felt this—not just included, but accepted.

She’d walked into the LAPD expecting to feel like an outsider. And maybe she still was. But tonight?

Tonight felt like a start.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

[realityjoey]

“DRUNK IDIOTS” (RILEY ANDERSON MC x EVAN BUCKLEY)

It had been one of those weeks where everything seemed to go wrong. The kind of week where every call was grueling, every rescue more challenging than the last, and every ounce of energy drained. Buck and Riley were exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. When Friday finally rolled around, Buck shot Riley a look across the firehouse, one eyebrow raised as if to ask, Should we? She returned his smirk with a mischievous grin. A night out felt like the perfect escape.

They ditched their uniforms and responsibility for the night, swapping in for jeans, leather jackets, and a carefree attitude. The bar was loud, packed, and pulsing with music, and for a few hours, it was easy to forget about the world outside. They leaned into the thrill of the night, letting the drinks flow and the music carry them. Buck kept Riley close, his arm wrapped around her waist as they laughed at jokes that only made sense in their haze, swaying to the beat. Riley’s head buzzed with warmth, feeling lighter than she had in days.

But as the night went on, the laughter turned into louder, sloppier exchanges, and the drinks kept coming, long past the point where either of them should have stopped. At some point, they stumbled out of the bar, clinging to each other for balance, their playful banter tipping into frustration.

“I told you not to order that last round,” Riley slurred, trying to jab a finger into Buck’s chest but missing slightly. “You always have to push it!”

Buck snorted, swaying on his feet. “Yeah? Well, you didn’t have to drink it, did you?”

They bickered under the neon glow of the bar’s sign, their words losing any real edge as they tried to make their way to the side of the parking lot. They were too far gone to remember how to get home, or even where Buck’s truck was parked. That’s when Riley, fumbling with her phone, accidentally called Athena.

Athena Grant-Nash was in the middle of a quiet evening at home when her phone buzzed. Seeing Riley’s name on the screen, she answered immediately, but all she could make out were muddled voices and Riley saying something about being “stuck in a parking lot.” Athena’s eyes narrowed as she pieced together the situation, glancing at Bobby, who sighed knowingly.

“They need a lift,” she said, her voice tinged with exasperation. Bobby got up, already grabbing his jacket, and the two set out to find their wayward firefighters.

When they arrived, Athena and Bobby were greeted by the sight of Buck and Riley leaning against each other, giggling in a way that would’ve been sweet if it weren’t for the obvious fact that they were beyond drunk. Riley had her arm looped around Buck’s neck, playfully ruffling his hair, while Buck tried (and failed) to regain his balance.

Athena folded her arms, her face stern as she called out, “Do you two have any idea what time it is?”

Both Buck and Riley straightened up as much as they could, looking like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Riley tried to muster a smile, but it faltered under Athena’s unimpressed gaze.

“Uh, hey, Athena. Bobby,” Buck said, attempting to sound casual, but the slur in his voice gave him away. “We were just—”

“—Making fools of yourselves in a parking lot?” Athena cut him off sharply. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? You’re lucky you’re not out here with strangers looking to take advantage of two drunk idiots.”

Bobby, while quieter, stepped closer, looking at them with a mixture of concern and disappointment. “I know it’s been a rough week. But drinking yourselves into oblivion doesn’t make it any better,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of understanding but also the sternness of a father figure. “You face enough danger on the job. You don’t need to add to it on your nights off.”

Riley, cheeks flushed from both the alcohol and the embarrassment, ducked her head. Buck rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. They knew he was right. They hadn’t meant to spiral; it just… happened.

Athena shook her head, her expression softening slightly. “You’ve got to take better care of yourselves. You can’t keep pushing until you break. And if you ever need a ride, or just a place to talk, you know you can call us without waiting until you’re this far gone.”

With a sigh, Bobby helped Riley into the backseat of their car while Athena guided Buck around to the other side. The ride home was filled with the low rumble of the engine and the gentle wisdom of Bobby’s words. He reminded them that it was okay to be overwhelmed, that they could lean on their friends—on their family—when things got tough. Athena’s interjections were sharp but caring, reminding them that recklessness didn’t suit them, that they were too important to be so careless.

By the time they reached Buck’s apartment, Riley’s head was resting on Buck’s shoulder, eyes half-closed. Buck mumbled a thank-you as he helped Riley out of the car, his tone full of sincerity.

“Don’t mention it,” Bobby said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just be smarter next time, alright?”

“We will,” Riley promised, her voice small but genuine, and Athena offered a small, approving nod before they drove away.

The next morning, the sun was far too bright, and both Buck and Riley woke with matching groans. The hangovers were brutal, but as they sat together at the kitchen counter, sharing a glass of water and some painkillers, there was a warmth in their hearts that went beyond their misery.

Buck nudged Riley’s shoulder, giving her a lopsided smile. “Guess we really messed up, huh?”

Riley leaned into him, closing her eyes against the pounding in her head. “Yeah. But it was kinda nice to hear that they care, even when we’re idiots.”

Buck wrapped an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’re lucky. Not everyone gets that kind of support.”

Riley nodded, sinking into his embrace as they sat there in the quiet, grateful for the people who had their backs—even when they needed a push in the right direction. And though the week had been rough, and the hangover a reminder of their poor choices, they couldn’t help but feel a little more grounded, knowing that no matter how tough things got, they weren’t facing it alone.

The next morning was a harsh reality check. The sun crept through the blinds of Buck’s apartment, slicing through the darkened room and hitting both Riley and Buck right in their aching heads. They groaned almost in unison, clinging to their pillows like it might shield them from the consequences of their night out.

Riley buried her face deeper into the pillow, muttering something under her breath, while Buck slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed, squinting against the intrusive light. He winced as he moved, every slight shift sending a dull throb through his skull. Riley peeked out from under the pillow, bleary-eyed and groaning, her voice hoarse from the night before.

“Buck, remind me never to drink that much again,” she muttered, clutching the pillow tighter.

Buck chuckled, though it quickly turned into a wince. “Yeah, yeah, right back at you. Think we’ll actually keep that promise this time?”

Before she could answer, there was a knock at the door. Buck dragged himself up, pulling on a shirt, and shuffled over, half expecting it to be a concerned neighbor. But when he opened the door, Bobby and Athena stood there, looking far too awake and far too prepared for the mess inside. Bobby carried a small bag, while Athena held a thermos that steamed with the promise of something warm.

“Thought you two might need some help recovering,” Bobby said, his tone a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you’re awake,” Athena added, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her sharp eyes scanned the scene, taking in the empty glasses and discarded jackets strewn across the floor. Riley gave her a sheepish wave from her spot on the couch, face still buried in the pillow.

“Uh, thanks?” Buck managed, looking between them as Bobby set the bag down on the kitchen counter. The familiar smell of Bobby’s famous hangover cure—homemade broth and fresh rolls—wafted through the space, making both Buck’s and Riley’s stomachs rumble in anticipation.

“You kids need a proper meal in you,” Bobby said, not unkindly. “And maybe a reminder that there are better ways to cope than drinking yourselves under the table.”

Athena smirked slightly, crossing her arms. “We figured it’d be better to bring breakfast than leave you to suffer alone.”

Bobby moved around the kitchen with the ease of someone who had done this many times before, heating the broth and cutting up fruit. He poured water and handed out small, gentle reminders to take it slow, to sip the fluids rather than chug them down. Buck tried to help, but every time he lifted a dish or reached for something, Athena would give him a look that sent him right back to his seat.

“You sit down before you break something,” she instructed, guiding him back to the couch beside Riley. “The last thing you need is to trip over your own feet and end up with a concussion.”

Buck rolled his eyes playfully but followed orders, collapsing back down next to Riley, who reached out to grab his hand. He squeezed it back, offering her a small smile as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

Bobby soon brought over two steaming bowls of broth, setting them down on the coffee table. “Eat up, both of you. It’s got everything you need to feel human again.”

Riley forced herself up, taking the bowl gratefully. “Thanks, Bobby. Really. And… sorry about last night.”

Bobby’s expression softened, but he didn’t let her off the hook completely. “I understand why you wanted to blow off some steam, but you two have to remember that there are better ways to handle stress. You’ve got people who care about you—use us before it gets to this point, alright?”

Riley nodded, a little more subdued, and Buck echoed her sentiment. They sipped at the broth, the warmth helping to ease the ache in their heads and the lingering queasiness in their stomachs. Athena handed them each a glass of water, standing over them like a hawk until they finished every last drop.

“You both scared us last night, you know that?” Athena said after a while, her voice softer than usual. “Seeing you out there, not even able to walk straight—it reminded me how much you go through on the job. But you can’t let those pressures take you down like this. We want you around for the long haul, got it?”

Buck looked up at her, his expression sincere. “We got it, Athena. We’ll do better.”

Riley nodded along, swallowing a bit more of the broth. “We’re lucky to have you both, even when we don’t deserve it.”

Athena’s expression softened, and she ruffled Riley’s hair gently, a rare show of affection. “It’s not about deserving it. It’s about family looking out for each other. Now, finish up that broth, and try to rest. We’ll keep the place quiet.”

For the next couple of hours, Bobby and Athena stayed, cleaning up the apartment, chatting quietly while Buck and Riley dozed off on the couch. The couple clung to each other as they slept, comforted by the presence of their pseudo-parents bustling around, taking care of the mess they’d made—literally and figuratively.

When they woke again in the early afternoon, the apartment was tidied, and a note from Bobby sat on the counter, reminding them to drink more water and call if they needed anything. Riley read it aloud, her voice cracking with emotion, and Buck pulled her close, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

They still felt like a mess, but it was a little easier to manage with Bobby and Athena’s reminders echoing in their minds. As they sat together, sipping yet another glass of water, they both felt a deep gratitude—knowing that even in their lowest moments, they had a family willing to pick them up.

And as the headache finally began to fade, they made a silent vow to take better care of themselves, not just for their own sake but for the people who cared enough to show up, even when they didn’t ask.

[realityjoey]

SNOW DAY (RILEY ANDERSON MC x EVAN BUCKLEY)

The morning began with an unusual sight for Los Angeles—a light blanket of snow covering the ground. The city, more accustomed to sunny days, had transformed into a winter wonderland, and Buck’s excitement was through the roof. He burst into the living room where Riley and her younger siblings—Ollie, Miles, and Lily—were gathered, their eyes wide with disbelief at the snow outside the window.

“Look at this! It’s actually snowing! We’ve got to make the most of it,” Buck announced, grinning from ear to ear.

Riley raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing in her eyes as she pulled her sweater tighter around herself. “You’re acting like a kid yourself, Buck. They’ve never even seen snow properly, remember?”

“That’s exactly why we’re doing this,” Buck shot back, already pulling on his jacket. “Let’s give them the best snow day ever.”

Riley couldn’t resist his enthusiasm, especially when she saw her siblings’ faces light up. Ollie, at 15, tried to act uninterested but couldn’t hide the excitement gleaming in his eyes. Miles, always curious, was already asking a million questions about snowflakes, while Lily, the youngest, kept bouncing on her toes, her nose pressed against the window.

“All right, all right,” Riley relented with a laugh, “let’s do it.”

After bundling everyone up in mismatched scarves, gloves, and hats that Buck had scrounged up, they all tumbled outside into the crisp, cold air. The yard, usually green and sun-drenched, was now a blank canvas of white. Miles scooped up a handful of snow, marveling at its softness, while Lily shrieked with delight as she attempted to catch snowflakes on her tongue.

Buck quickly set to work, teaching them the art of snowman-making. “You gotta start small and then roll it until it’s huge,” he instructed, his breath fogging in the air. Riley watched from a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest, a smile playing on her lips as she took in the scene.

Together, they built a lopsided snowman, complete with sticks for arms and a crooked grin made of rocks that Lily meticulously arranged. Ollie, pretending to be too cool to join in, eventually got into the spirit, helping to balance a floppy hat on the snowman’s head.

“Not bad, not bad,” Buck declared, stepping back to admire their creation. “But there’s one more thing we’ve got to do…”

He leaned down, scooping up a handful of snow and expertly shaping it into a snowball. Before Riley could react, he lobbed it gently at her shoulder, sending a soft puff of snow scattering.

“Oh, it’s on,” Riley replied, her tone playful. She immediately retaliated, aiming a snowball at Buck, which caught him squarely on the chest. That was all the encouragement the kids needed—soon, the air was filled with flying snowballs, everyone ducking and weaving behind trees and snow-covered bushes.

Buck was the most competitive, dodging and throwing snowballs with precision. Lily and Miles teamed up against him, while Riley and Ollie found themselves in a fierce battle. But amidst the chaos, Riley spotted her chance. She snuck up behind Buck, launching herself at him with a triumphant shout. They both tumbled into a snowdrift, sending a flurry of snow into the air as they landed.

Buck looked up at Riley, who was grinning down at him, snowflakes clinging to her hair. “Not fair, Anderson,” he teased, though his voice was filled with affection.

“Who said anything about playing fair?” she shot back, her breath coming out in little puffs.

For a moment, the world felt quiet around them, the laughter of the kids and the gentle hush of the snow creating a bubble of peace. Riley helped Buck to his feet, and they both took a moment to watch as Ollie, Miles, and Lily continued their snowball fight, their joyful shouts echoing through the chilly air.

Eventually, with numb fingers and red noses, everyone trudged back inside, kicking off their snow-covered boots at the door. Buck got to work making hot chocolate, stirring in extra marshmallows for the kids while Riley handed out warm blankets. The living room soon filled with the rich scent of cocoa, mingling with the laughter of the siblings as they recounted their snowball fight.

Buck joined Riley on the couch, handing her a mug before pulling her into his side, his arm draped over her shoulders. They watched as Lily and Miles tried to outdo each other with stories of who threw the best snowball, while Ollie listened with an indulgent smile.

“Thanks for this,” Riley murmured softly, leaning into Buck’s warmth. Her voice was quiet, almost shy, as she watched the easy way he interacted with her siblings.

Buck turned to look at her, his expression gentle. “You don’t have to thank me, Riley. I love seeing them like this… and you too. It’s like—like we’re making new memories, you know?”

She looked up at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his eyes. For a moment, she struggled with the words, but Buck’s gaze was steady, encouraging her to continue. “Yeah,” she admitted finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “It feels like… like we’re building something. A family.”

He squeezed her shoulder, his smile widening. “I like that. A family. It’s got a nice ring to it.”

Riley’s eyes softened, and she rested her head against his shoulder, letting out a content sigh. “Yeah, it really does.”

As the evening continued, the warmth of the fire and the laughter of her siblings filled the room, mingling with the comfort of Buck’s presence beside her. Riley realized that maybe, despite all the chaos, they were finding their way together. And with Buck by her side, she felt like she could handle anything—snow days, siblings, and the new memories they’d build, one moment at a time.

As the evening wound down and the warmth from the fire seeped into the room, Riley’s siblings began to feel the drowsiness that comes with a day full of excitement and cold. Lily, clutching her now-empty mug of hot chocolate, glanced up at Buck, her eyes big and sleepy. She shuffled over to where he sat on the couch, pulling on his sleeve.

“Thank you for today, Buck,” she said softly, her voice small but sincere. “It was… the best day ever.”

Miles nodded enthusiastically, standing beside his sister. “Yeah, thanks, Buck. I never thought we’d ever have a snow day like this. It was… really fun.”

Even Ollie, who had tried to play it cool all day, gave a genuine smile and added, “Seriously, man, it meant a lot. Thanks for making it special.”

Buck’s expression softened as he looked at the three of them. His usual playful demeanor faded into something deeper, something vulnerable. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Instead, he let out a shaky breath and pulled all three of them into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around their small frames.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he managed, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m just—just glad you all had a good time.”

The kids squeezed him back, their little arms wrapped around him. Lily pressed her cheek against his shoulder, while Miles patted him on the back awkwardly, and Ollie clapped him on the shoulder with a quiet but heartfelt, “You’re the best, Buck.”

After a long moment, they pulled away, their eyes drooping with sleep. Riley smiled softly at the scene, her heart swelling with affection for all of them. She gave each of them a quick hug goodnight, her fingers lingering on their cheeks as she made sure they weren’t too cold from their time in the snow.

“Go on up, get changed into something warm,” she said gently, guiding them toward the stairs. “I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

The kids trooped upstairs, their footsteps growing softer as they disappeared down the hallway. Riley turned back to Buck, who was still sitting on the couch, staring down at his hands. She noticed the way he swiped at his eyes, trying to be discreet, but the sheen of tears was unmistakable.

“Hey,” she said softly, moving to sit beside him. She placed a hand on his knee, her thumb rubbing soothing circles through the fabric of his jeans. “Are you okay?”

Buck swallowed hard and nodded, but when he looked up at her, his eyes were wet, a tear slipping down his cheek before he could catch it. He let out a shaky laugh, brushing at his face with the back of his hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Just… I don’t know. That meant a lot to me. Them thanking me like that.”

Riley’s expression softened, and she shifted closer, pressing her shoulder against his. “I think you’ve made a bigger impact on them than you realize, Buck.”

He turned to her, his voice barely above a whisper, raw with emotion. “I never really had a lot of good memories like that growing up, you know? It’s just… It makes me so happy to know I could give them something like this. Something they’ll look back on and smile about.”

She reached up, cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing away a stray tear. “You’re doing more than just giving them memories, Buck. You’re showing them what it’s like to have someone who really cares, someone who makes them feel safe and loved.”

Buck leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a moment as if trying to absorb her words. When he opened them again, there was a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze, but also a warmth that mirrored the firelight flickering nearby. “I just want them to feel… I don’t know, like they matter. Like they’re not alone.”

Riley’s heart ached at the sincerity in his voice. She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple, lingering there as she whispered, “They’re lucky to have you. We’re all lucky to have you.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer, and they sat like that for a while, listening to the crackle of the fire and the muffled laughter of the kids drifting down the stairs as they settled in for the night. The snow outside continued to fall softly, turning the world beyond their window into a peaceful, frozen landscape.

And in that quiet, shared moment, Buck realized that maybe, just maybe, he was finally finding the kind of happiness he had always searched for—a life filled with love, laughter, and the kind of warmth that lingered long after the snow melted away.

The next morning, the firehouse was buzzing with its usual energy—crews getting gear in order, the scent of coffee wafting through the station, and the steady hum of morning chatter. But today, there was an extra spark in Buck’s step as he strode into the common area, a wide grin plastered on his face and his phone clutched in his hand.

Hen, standing by the coffee machine, noticed the spring in his step immediately and raised an eyebrow. “What’s got you so chipper, Buck? Win the lottery?”

“Oh, better than that,” Buck replied, his excitement almost spilling over as he pulled up a photo on his phone. He quickly joined Hen, Eddie, Chimney, and Bobby at the table, practically thrusting his phone into their hands. “Look! We had a snow day yesterday with Riley’s siblings. They’d never seen snow before, so I took a ton of pictures.”

The first photo showed Riley laughing, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold as she helped Miles place a hat on their snowman. Her smile was wide and genuine, and even through the screen, the warmth in her eyes was palpable. The next was a candid shot of Ollie, caught mid-snowball throw, his expression a mixture of concentration and glee. And then there was a photo of Lily, beaming as she clung to Buck’s leg, both of them covered in a fine dusting of snow after their tumble into the snowdrift.

Chimney let out a low whistle as he swiped through the photos. “Man, look at you, playing dad out there. They look like they’re having the time of their lives.”

Hen nudged Buck playfully with her elbow. “And you’re beaming like a proud papa, Buck. I mean, you look totally smitten.”

Buck’s grin grew even wider, if that was possible, as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, yeah, I love those kids. It’s just… it felt good, you know? Seeing them that happy. I wanted them to have a memory like that.”

Eddie, who had been studying the photos with a soft smile, gave Buck a knowing look. “And I bet Riley was pretty happy too, seeing you make her siblings feel like that.”

“She was,” Buck admitted, his voice softer, a hint of something deeper in his tone. “It was nice, just… feeling like we’re all in this together. Like, we’re not just… I don’t know, dating or whatever. It’s like we’re building a life, you know?”

Bobby, who had been listening quietly from the side, placed a hand on Buck’s shoulder, his expression warm. “Sounds like you’re finding something real, Buck. It’s good to see you so happy.”

The sincerity in Bobby’s words made Buck pause for a moment, his throat tightening with emotion he wasn’t quite prepared for. He looked down at the photos again, at the little moments of joy and love they captured, and he felt that familiar warmth spread through his chest. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Hen smiled at him fondly. “I’ve got to say, Buck, it’s adorable seeing you like this. You’ve always had a big heart, but now… you’re like a big, sappy teddy bear.”

Chimney couldn’t resist adding with a teasing grin, “Just don’t go calling yourself ‘Uncle Buck’ yet. We don’t need your head getting any bigger.”

Buck let out a laugh, nudging Chimney back. “Hey, it’s not my fault if I’m just good at this whole ‘family’ thing.”

But the truth was, Buck knew it was more than that. It wasn’t just about being good at looking after Riley’s siblings—it was about how natural it felt to him, like he was finally in a place where he truly belonged. He thought back to the quiet conversation he’d shared with Riley by the fire, the way she had looked at him like he was exactly where he was meant to be, and it filled him with a sense of peace he hadn’t known he was searching for.

As the team continued to tease him, the photos being passed around like a prized possession, Buck realized he didn’t mind one bit. He didn’t mind the ribbing, the jokes, or the way they all seemed to see right through him, because at the heart of it, he was just happy. Happy to have Riley, her siblings, and the little moments that were slowly building into something that felt like a real, messy, beautiful family.

And when Riley walked into the firehouse a few minutes later, catching sight of Buck laughing with their friends, his cheeks still pink from the compliments and the teasing, she couldn’t help but smile to herself. It was a smile that spoke of quiet understanding, of a love that ran deeper than either of them could put into words.

As she approached, Buck turned toward her, his eyes lighting up in a way that made her heart skip. He slipped an arm around her waist without missing a beat, pulling her into the warmth of the group. She glanced at the photos on Hen’s phone, recognizing the snow-filled memories they’d made just a day before, and her smile softened.

“Showing off our snow day, are we?” she teased, glancing up at Buck.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, not caring that the whole team was watching. “What can I say? I’m proud of my family.”

And for once, neither of them needed to say more. They knew, without a doubt, that they had built something special, something that would keep them warm long after the snow had melted away.

[realityjoey]

WEDDING SEASON (RILEY ANDERSON MC x EVAN BUCKLEY)

Riley Anderson received a beautifully embossed invitation in the mail, addressed with elegant script. “Steve Allenby requests the honor of your presence at his wedding.” A smile spread across her face as she read it. Steve had always been there for her—a found uncle who had supported her through tough times, even after she moved to America. She felt a surge of excitement at the thought of going back to England, but then, her eyes landed on the line allowing a plus-one, and she knew immediately who she wanted to bring.

When she told Buck, he was thrilled at the chance to accompany her. He dove into researching British wedding traditions, eager to make a good impression on Riley’s friends and Steve. He wanted to prove himself to Riley’s found family, aware of how important they were to her. Riley found his enthusiasm endearing, even if a bit over the top.

On the day of the wedding, they arrived at a picturesque countryside estate, with lush green lawns and a historic manor house serving as the backdrop. The ceremony was held under a floral arch, with a soft drizzle in true British style. Buck, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, held Riley’s hand as they navigated the pre-wedding mingling. She looked stunning in a flowy dress, and he couldn’t help but admire her, feeling lucky just to be by her side.

Steve, his fiancé, and many of Riley’s friends greeted them warmly. The reception buzzed with excitement, with laughter echoing in the air as everyone shared stories from the past. Buck tried to keep up, nodding and offering enthusiastic responses when Riley’s friends ribbed him with British jokes or brought up regional references. He even attempted to use a few British phrases he’d picked up, but his American accent made them sound comical, and Riley’s friends laughed good-naturedly.

As the reception progressed, it came time for the speeches. Riley gave a heartfelt toast to Steve, her voice brimming with emotion as she spoke of how much he meant to her. Buck, not one to shy away from the spotlight, decided to add his own speech. He spoke sincerely about how grateful he was to be welcomed into Riley’s life and how honored he was to be at the wedding of someone she loved so dearly. But halfway through, he stumbled over a British idiom, turning it into a rather awkward phrase that drew chuckles from the guests. Buck laughed at himself, running a hand through his hair, and quickly wrapped up with a wink toward Riley.

After the speeches, they moved on to the dance floor, which had been set up in the garden beneath a canopy of twinkling lights. Buck tried to follow along with the traditional English dances, stepping on his own feet more than once and muttering playful apologies to Riley, who couldn’t help but laugh. She found his determination charming, even when he was clearly out of his depth.

As the evening went on, Riley and Buck slipped away from the crowd, finding a quieter spot near the edge of the garden, under a trellis wrapped in fairy lights. The music from the dance floor was still audible but softened by the distance. Buck wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Riley leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder as they swayed together under the stars.

“You did great, you know,” she whispered, looking up at him with a smile.

“Great? I tripped over my own words and butchered half the jokes,” he replied with a sheepish grin, but he held her tighter, his thumb tracing small circles on her back.

“Yeah, but you showed up, Buck. And you tried. That means everything to me,” Riley said softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He kissed her in return, lingering in the quiet intimacy of the moment. They stood like that for a while, just holding each other, swaying to their own rhythm. Despite all the nerves and the little hiccups throughout the day, Buck realized that being there with Riley, feeling the warmth of her touch and the soft murmur of her laughter, made every awkward moment worth it.

When they eventually returned to the party, Riley’s friends and Steve’s guests couldn’t help but notice how natural they seemed together. Their chemistry was palpable, from the way Buck’s eyes followed Riley as she moved through the crowd to the gentle touches they exchanged when they thought no one was looking. By the end of the night, it wasn’t just Riley’s friends who were impressed by Buck; Steve himself pulled him aside, giving him an approving clap on the back and welcoming him to their unconventional little family.

As the evening wound down, Riley and Buck left the wedding feeling closer than ever. Buck might have stumbled his way through British customs and traditions, but he had won over the people closest to Riley, and that was all that mattered. And as they walked hand in hand under the moonlit sky, Riley knew she’d found the perfect partner to navigate life’s unpredictable dance with—no matter how many toes might get stepped on along the way.

Later in the evening, after the last song had played and the crowd began to thin, Steve found Buck by the bar, nursing a drink while keeping an eye on Riley, who was laughing with a few old friends. Steve, dressed in a bold, floral-patterned suit with a touch of glitter on his cheeks, sidled up beside Buck. There was a warmth in his smile, the kind that carried both mischief and wisdom.

“You’ve done well, you know,” Steve began, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia as he leaned against the bar. “But I think it’s time you hear a bit more about our Riley, the one before America. The one you might not know.”

Buck turned to face Steve, curiosity piqued. “I’d love that,” he admitted, his expression earnest. It was clear that he wanted to understand every layer of Riley—what had made her into the woman he’d fallen in love with.

Steve took a deep breath, swirling the last of his drink in his glass. “Riley, back then, was a right mix of responsibility and rebellion. Her parents, bless them, weren’t the most… attentive. So, she took it upon herself to look after her siblings. She was barely a teenager, and she was already cooking dinners, helping with homework, and putting the little ones to bed.”

Buck’s face softened at the image, his heart squeezing at the thought of a young Riley shouldering so much. He could imagine her, trying to keep her brothers and sisters in line, doing her best to keep them safe and fed when she should’ve been a kid herself.

“But she wasn’t all ‘little mother,’” Steve continued, a wry smile creeping onto his face. “Oh no. Riley had a streak in her, that one. Sneaking out at night, meeting friends by the river, pulling off these little pranks on the town gossips. She’d dye her hair wild colors one week and then chop it all off the next, just to keep everyone guessing. But every time she got caught—well, she’d flash that smile of hers, and you couldn’t stay mad for long.”

Buck chuckled, imagining Riley with her trademark fire, even as a teenager. “That sounds like her,” he said, his voice filled with affection. “Always trying to take care of everyone else, but still with a bit of a wild side.”

Steve’s expression grew more serious, his gaze lingering on Riley as she talked animatedly with her friends across the room. “You know, Buck, she never really got to have a childhood. She was always worrying about someone else, always thinking of what needed to be done next. Even when she was off pulling her little stunts, you could see it—this weight on her shoulders that no kid should have to carry.”

Buck listened quietly, feeling a lump form in his throat. He’d seen glimpses of that weight in Riley even now—those moments when she went quiet, retreating into herself. He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck, as he turned to Steve with a rare vulnerability in his voice. “Do you think I’m… good for her, Steve? I mean, really good enough? She’s been through so much, and sometimes I feel like I don’t quite measure up to what she deserves.”

Steve turned fully to face Buck, his expression softening. He put a hand on Buck’s shoulder, the gesture carrying the weight of years of wisdom and understanding. “Let me tell you something, Buck,” he said, his tone gentle yet firm. “Riley, she’s always been the strong one, right? But she doesn’t have to be that with you. And that’s not a small thing.”

Buck frowned slightly, still unsure, but Steve continued before he could interrupt. “I’ve seen her with you, the way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching. She trusts you, Buck. She trusts you with the parts of herself she’s never shown to anyone. The parts she’s always kept hidden because she thought she had to be strong for everyone else. And that’s because you make her feel safe—safe enough to let down her guard.”

Steve’s smile turned wistful, his eyes glimmering in the dim light. “She needs someone who doesn’t just love her strength, but also sees the parts of her that are fragile and scared and uncertain. And you, Buck, you see all that, and you love her even more for it. You let her be… free.”

Buck swallowed hard, Steve’s words hitting him deep. He glanced back at Riley, who caught his eye from across the room and shot him a beaming smile, a hint of warmth and love in her gaze that made his heart flutter. When he turned back to Steve, his voice was thick with emotion. “You really think I’m the right one for her?”

Steve’s expression softened even more, and he patted Buck’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. “More than that, mate—I think you’re exactly what she’s always needed. You make her laugh, you make her feel seen, and most importantly, you don’t try to change who she is. She can be stubborn, she can be impulsive, and she can be so damn hard on herself, but you—” he pointed a finger playfully at Buck’s chest, “—you love her for every bit of that. And trust me, that’s rare.”

Buck nodded slowly, his chest swelling with a mix of pride and relief. He didn’t need to say anything more; the gratitude and understanding in his eyes said it all. Steve gave him one last pat on the back before sauntering off, leaving Buck to absorb the words that felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Later that night, as they made their way back to their room in the manor, Riley squeezed Buck’s hand, looking up at him with a curious smile. “What did Steve say to you?”

Buck looked down at her, his heart feeling fuller than it had in a long time. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “He told me I’m good enough for you. That I’m exactly what you need.”

Riley chuckled softly, but there was a tenderness in her gaze as she reached up to cup his cheek. “You know, I could’ve told you that ages ago.”

“Yeah,” Buck murmured, pulling her closer, his voice low and sincere. “But it’s nice to hear it from someone who knows you like he does.”

As they walked through the quiet hallways, their hands entwined, Buck felt a sense of peace settle over him. He might have stumbled through some of the British customs that day, but he’d never felt more certain that, despite the challenges, he and Riley were exactly where they were meant to be—together.

As the wedding came to a close, Buck and Riley said their goodbyes to Steve and the other guests, stepping out into the cool, crisp air of the English countryside. The clock had already ticked past 3 a.m., and a soft mist clung to the cobblestone streets. They had decided to walk back to the place they were staying—an old inn.

They walked arm-in-arm, slightly tipsy from the champagne and the celebratory toasts, their laughter echoing softly in the quiet night. Riley’s heels clicked against the cobblestones, but she’d long since slipped them off, dangling them from her free hand. Buck kept her close, his jacket draped over her shoulders to fend off the chill, their steps slow as they strolled through the sleepy town.

As they rounded a corner, Riley pointed to a small, weathered pub with ivy creeping up its brick walls. “That’s where I had my first pint,” she said, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. “Rio and his friends sneaked me in when I was fifteen. Thought we were so clever, convincing the old barkeep that I was eighteen. He probably knew but didn’t care.”

Buck laughed, the image of a teenage Riley trying to act older than her years bringing a smile to his face. “Bet you thought you were such a rebel.”

“Oh, I was,” Riley replied with a grin, but her smile faded as they passed a small, dilapidated playground, its swings creaking softly in the breeze. Her pace slowed, and she gestured toward the rusted metal frames. “That’s where I used to take the kids when Mum and Dad were too out of it to care. I’d try to make it feel like an adventure for them—like we were explorers or something. But it was hard when all I could think about was how much I wished I could be anywhere else.”

Buck followed her gaze, the weight of her words settling in the quiet between them. He squeezed her hand gently, but he didn’t interrupt. He knew this was her story to tell, and he wanted to listen.

They walked a bit further, coming to a small corner shop with a faded sign that had seen better days. “We’d save up our pocket money to buy sweets here,” Riley said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Kyra and Millie, they’d always argue over what to get—one wanted chocolate, the other wanted sour gummies. I’d have to play peacemaker, as usual.”

Her smile wavered, her voice dropping to a whisper as she added, “I never got to be the one who wanted things. I always had to be… the one who kept everything together.”

Buck’s heart ached for her. He turned to face her fully, cupping her cheek with his free hand, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to do that anymore, Riles,” he murmured, his voice steady and sincere. “You’ve got me now. We’re a team. You don’t have to hold it all on your own.”

She leaned into his touch, her eyes glistening under the glow of the streetlights. “I know,” she whispered back, a small, grateful smile breaking through her lingering sadness. “I’m still getting used to that.”

They continued walking, passing by a small park with benches lining a duck pond. Riley pointed out a bench that was half-hidden beneath a weeping willow. “That’s where I used to go when I just needed a break, you know? When it all got too much. I’d sit there for hours, just watching the water and pretending I was anywhere but here.”

Buck glanced over at the bench, then back at Riley, imagining a younger version of her, shoulders hunched against the world, fighting a battle no one else could see. He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture tender and careful. “I wish I could’ve been there for you then,” he said softly. “To tell you it’d be okay, that you didn’t have to do it all alone.”

Riley looked at him, her expression softening with a mix of affection and gratitude. She closed the gap between them, pressing a kiss to his lips that tasted of salt and unshed tears, lingering just long enough to convey all the words she couldn’t quite say.

They finally reached the inn. The front door creaked as Riley unlocked it, and they tiptoed through the narrow hallway, careful not to disturb the old floorboards too much. Once inside their room, they collapsed onto the bed together, tangled up in each other’s arms. Buck held her close, running a soothing hand up and down her back as she nestled into his chest.

Riley took a deep breath, “It’s weird being back in town,”she murmured against his chest. “I never thought I’d be here again, not with all these memories. But it’s easier with you, Buck. It’s easier to face it.”

He kissed the top of her head, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “And I’ll be right here, every step of the way.”

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other and the stories of her past, the ghosts of old pains mingling with the warmth of new love. As the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, Riley felt a sense of peace settle over her, knowing that with Buck by her side, she could finally start to make peace with the pieces of her past she had left behind.

[realityjoey]

GEORGIE DRAMA (RILEY ANDERSON OC x EVAN BUCKLEY)

The evening was meant to be a casual dinner, a rare opportunity for Riley and her younger siblings to come together without the usual chaos of daily life. Riley had decided to host it at her and Buck’s place, hoping the homey environment might soften the tension that sometimes lingered between her and her siblings. Buck had been more than willing to help out, preparing his famous pasta and setting the table while Riley buzzed around the kitchen, nervously adjusting plates and glasses.

Georgie, who had always been more outspoken, arrived with a blunt attitude that clashed with Riley’s attempts to maintain a light atmosphere. As the night went on, small talk gave way to deeper conversations, and the air grew heavier. Buck tried to keep the conversation on light topics, throwing in a few jokes to ease the tension, but it became clear that Georgie had something weighing on her mind.

Eventually, Georgie leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed. “You know, sometimes I think you’ve forgotten, Riley. How Mum and Dad just left us there like we didn’t matter,” she said, her voice sharp and direct.

Riley stiffened, her jaw tightening. The rest of the siblings, aware of the sensitive territory being treaded, fell silent. Buck’s expression turned serious as he glanced between the sisters, sensing the shift. He reached out under the table to give Riley’s hand a gentle squeeze, but she pulled away, folding her arms across her chest defensively.

“You think I’ve forgotten, Georgie?” Riley’s voice cracked slightly, anger simmering just beneath the surface. “You think I don’t remember the nights I stayed up because Ollie had nightmares? Or how I worked two jobs just to keep the lights on? I remember it all.”

Georgie rolled her eyes, her frustration palpable. “That’s not what I meant, Riley. I’m saying you act like we’re fine, like you’ve moved on, but—”

“Because I had to, Georgie!” Riley’s voice rose, a tremor running through it. “I didn’t have the luxury of holding onto the anger. I had to keep going. For you. For all of us.”

Buck watched the exchange with concern, recognizing the emotional wounds reopening between them. He reached for Riley’s arm again, trying to ground her, but she shook him off, too lost in her rising frustration.

“That’s not fair,” Georgie shot back, her tone laced with bitterness. “You act like you were the only one who had it hard. We all suffered, Riley. But you’re so busy trying to hold everything together that you can’t even see that you’re still stuck in the past.”

The words hit Riley like a slap, and for a moment, she just stared at her sister, her face pale. The silence that followed was thick, the kind that wrapped around each breath and made the air feel suffocating. Riley’s chest heaved with the effort to keep her emotions in check, but it was too much. She pushed back her chair abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor.

“I’m done with this,” she muttered, her voice barely holding back the hurt and anger. She grabbed her jacket from the back of a chair and stormed out of the house, the door slamming behind her.

Buck’s gaze followed her retreating figure, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He took a breath, casting a look at Georgie, who seemed to realize too late the impact of her words. “I’ll talk to her,” he said quietly, offering Georgie a look that was both understanding and reproachful before heading outside.

He found Riley standing by the edge of their backyard, her back to him as she stared out into the night. The cool air bit at their skin, but she didn’t seem to notice, too wrapped up in the turmoil of her thoughts. Buck approached her slowly, knowing better than to crowd her in moments like these.

“Hey,” he began gently, stopping a few feet away. “You okay?”

Riley didn’t turn around, but her shoulders tensed at the sound of his voice. “No, Buck. I’m not okay,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “It’s like she doesn’t get it. I had to be the one to step up. I had to take care of them. And no matter what I do, it’s like it’s never enough.”

Buck took another step closer, hesitating before placing a hand on her shoulder. “I think Georgie just… she doesn’t know how to handle the pain, Riley. None of you got a chance to grieve properly. You’ve been carrying all of that weight alone.”

Riley finally turned to face him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Do you know what it’s like, Buck? To be the one who has to pretend everything’s fine when it’s not? To push down all the anger, the sadness, because if I let myself feel it, I’ll break? And I can’t break. Not when they still need me.”

Her words came out in a rush, years of bottled-up emotions spilling over. Buck’s heart ached for her as he reached out, gently cupping her face in his hands. “You’re allowed to break, Riley. You’re allowed to be angry and hurt. You don’t have to be strong all the time, not with me.”

Riley let out a bitter laugh, her tears spilling over despite her efforts to hold them back. “I don’t know how to, Buck. I don’t know how to let go of it. It’s like… it’s all I’ve ever known.”

He pulled her into a tight embrace, holding her against his chest as she finally let herself cry, the sobs wracking through her body. Buck rested his chin on top of her head, his arms a solid, comforting presence around her. He didn’t speak, just let her release the pain she’d been holding onto for so long.

After a while, her sobs quieted, and she pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice raw. “I know you didn’t sign up for this.”

Buck’s expression softened as he gently brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Riley, I love you. And I’ll keep saying it until you believe it—all of you, not just the parts you think I want to see. I want to be there for you, in the good and the bad. You don’t have to face this alone anymore.”

Riley looked up at him, the weight of his words sinking in. For the first time, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to carry the burden by herself. That she could lean on Buck, and it wouldn’t make her weak.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. She wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him tightly as if afraid he might disappear. But Buck held on just as fiercely, refusing to let go.

They stood there together in the dark, the cool night air wrapping around them like a blanket. Inside, the siblings continued to talk in hushed tones, but for now, it was just the two of them—sharing a moment of vulnerability, of understanding, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way through the pain together.

The next morning at the firehouse, the usual bustle and noise seemed slightly muted, at least where Riley was concerned. She moved through her routine with an air of detachment, her thoughts a thousand miles away. She’d busied herself with cleaning the firetruck, dragging the soapy sponge across its sides with a mechanical rhythm, her gaze distant. Each sweep of her arm seemed to reflect the heaviness she still carried from the night before.

Hen, always attuned to the emotional shifts of those around her, noticed the change in Riley almost immediately. Riley wasn’t normally the life of the party, but she had a certain energy—one that was noticeably absent today. Hen caught Bobby’s eye as they stood outside the station, both of them watching Riley go through the motions.

“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Hen asked quietly, nodding toward Riley.

Bobby frowned, concern etching deeper lines into his face. He studied Riley’s movements—methodical, but lacking her usual focus. “Yeah, I see it. She’s off today.”

At that moment, Buck joined them outside, carrying a stack of paperwork Bobby had asked him to grab. He noticed the direction of their gazes and sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Buck,” Hen started, her voice gentle but direct, “is Riley okay? She’s been quiet all morning. It’s not like her.”

Bobby’s expression softened as well. “Yeah, she’s not herself today. Did something happen?”

Buck hesitated, glancing over to where Riley worked, the slight slump in her shoulders a stark contrast to her usual confident stance. He knew this was her story to tell, but he also trusted Hen and Bobby to handle it with care.

“Georgie brought up some things last night at dinner,” he explained, keeping his voice low. “About their parents leaving, how Riley took on everything when they were kids. It turned into a pretty heavy argument. Riley… she’s been carrying a lot of that pain around for a long time, and I think it all just came to a head.”

Hen’s expression softened with sympathy, and Bobby let out a quiet sigh, glancing back toward Riley with a deeper understanding. “That girl has taken on so much more than she should’ve ever had to,” he said quietly. “No wonder she’s struggling today.”

Hen nodded, her brows knitted together in concern. “She’s always been the one looking out for everyone else. It’s hard to let yourself be vulnerable when you’ve been the rock for so long. I know how that is.”

Buck crossed his arms, feeling the weight of his own worry settle more heavily on his shoulders. “Yeah, I just… I don’t think she’s ever really let herself process it, you know? All those years of keeping it together for her siblings, pushing down how she felt. It’s finally catching up to her, and it’s hitting her hard.”

Bobby’s gaze softened further as he watched Riley. “She’s got a good heart, but she doesn’t always know how to let people in when she’s hurting. We’ll keep an eye on her today. Make sure she knows we’re here.”

Hen placed a comforting hand on Buck’s shoulder, offering a small, reassuring smile. “And you’re doing good, Buck. Just keep being there for her. Sometimes that’s all someone needs—to know they’re not alone, even if they don’t have all the words for what they’re feeling.”

Buck nodded, grateful for their understanding. “Thanks, Hen. Thanks, Bobby. I just… I wish I could do more. I hate seeing her like this.”

“You’re doing plenty,” Bobby reassured him. “She’ll come around in her own time. But don’t be afraid to let her know it’s okay to lean on you, and on us. She doesn’t have to carry this by herself anymore.”

As the three of them fell into a companionable silence, Riley glanced up from the firetruck, catching their concerned expressions. She gave them a small, tight-lipped smile—one that didn’t quite reach her eyes—before turning back to her task. It wasn’t much, but it was an acknowledgment, a reminder that she knew they were watching out for her, even when she wasn’t quite ready to accept their help.

Buck watched her for a moment longer, then took a breath and approached Riley, leaving Hen and Bobby to exchange a knowing look behind him. He reached her side, picking up a spare sponge, and began scrubbing alongside her. He didn’t say anything, just worked in silence, offering his presence as a steadying force beside her.

Riley glanced sideways at him, her expression softening just a fraction. She didn’t have the words for the gratitude she felt, but she knew Buck understood. And as they worked side by side, the quiet companionship slowly began to chip away at the heaviness that lingered between them. It would take time—time for Riley to process, to find her way through the pain she’d kept buried for so long—but for now, she knew she wasn’t alone in facing it.

Later that afternoon, the firehouse settled into a rare moment of quiet. Most of the team took advantage of the lull, retreating into their own corners to rest and recharge. Hen and Riley ended up in the common area, each with a book in hand, sitting on opposite ends of the worn but comfortable sofa.

Hen had chosen a mystery novel, something to occupy her mind, while Riley had one of her favorites—a comfort read she’d turned to countless times during difficult days. The pages felt familiar beneath her fingertips, but her mind wandered, replaying the events of the night before, the heavy conversation with Georgie, and the weight of emotions that still lingered.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was the kind that came from years of shared experiences, from knowing when words weren’t needed. Hen had sensed Riley’s need for space but also understood that she didn’t want to be alone. So, they simply sat together, their presence a quiet, unspoken reassurance.

Across the room, Buck leaned against the doorway, glancing over every few minutes to check on Riley, but he didn’t approach. He knew that sometimes, just knowing he was there was enough. Bobby sat at the dining table, flipping through reports, but his attention frequently drifted toward Riley, offering her a supportive nod whenever she glanced up. Chimney and Eddie were nearby, sharing a quiet conversation about their latest call but keeping their voices low, giving Riley the space she needed.

Riley turned a page, but the words blurred as she realized just how much the small gestures meant to her. She had always tried so hard to be the strong one, the one who held everyone together. Yet here, in this place that had become her second home, she saw that strength could take different forms—that sometimes, it was okay to let others carry the weight for a while.

She stole a glance at Hen, who was pretending to be absorbed in her book, but Riley knew Hen could sense every shift in her mood. Hen had always been that way—observant, perceptive, knowing when to push and when to stay silent.

Riley cleared her throat softly, catching Hen’s attention. “Hey, Hen… thanks for, you know, just… being here.”

Hen looked up from her book, offering a small, understanding smile. “Anytime, Riley. That’s what family does, right?”

The word “family” made Riley’s chest tighten with emotion, but this time, it was the warm, comforting kind. She thought about the team—their quiet support, their willingness to sit with her through the silence, through her pain, without pressuring her to speak before she was ready.

Bobby caught her eye from across the room and gave her a small, encouraging nod, as if to say, Take your time. Eddie and Chimney threw in casual jokes every so often, little attempts to lighten the mood without being intrusive. Buck’s presence felt like a steady anchor, his blue eyes always finding hers when she felt like she might drift away too far into her thoughts.

Riley set her book down, letting out a slow breath. “I’m… I’m really grateful for you guys,” she said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper, but in the silence of the room, it carried. “I know I don’t always say it, but… it means a lot.”

Hen reached over, squeezing Riley’s hand gently, her grip warm and reassuring. “We know, Riley. And we’re not going anywhere.”

Riley swallowed hard, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. But for the first time in a long while, the emotion didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like a reminder—that she was allowed to feel, to struggle, and to lean on the people who cared about her.

She picked up her book again, settling back into the cushions, and Hen did the same. The silence resumed, but this time, it was filled with the comfort of shared understanding, of knowing she didn’t have to carry everything on her own.

And as Riley’s gaze swept the room, taking in her team—her family—she felt a flicker of hope take root in her chest. Maybe, just maybe, she could begin to let go of some of the weight she’d carried for so long. And with Buck, Hen, and everyone else by her side, she knew she wouldn’t have to face the journey alone.

As the end of their shift approached, Bobby found Riley sitting alone in the locker room, her gaze distant as she changed out of her uniform. The firehouse had been a safe place for her throughout the day, offering a sense of routine and quiet support, but Bobby knew that heading home to the echoes of the argument with Georgie might be too much for her right now.

He took a breath, stepping inside and leaning casually against the row of lockers beside her. “Hey, Riley,” he began, keeping his tone light and easy. “Athena and I were planning to have a quiet dinner tonight. Thought it might be nice if you and Buck joined us. What do you think?”

Riley paused, glancing up at him, surprised by the offer. “Bobby, you don’t have to do that. I don’t want to impose.”

Bobby shook his head, giving her a gentle smile. “You wouldn’t be imposing, Riley. Besides, I think a good meal and some company might be exactly what you need. No pressure, just… think about it.”

Riley hesitated for a moment, but the thought of going home to the silence that would greet her there felt daunting. A quiet dinner with Bobby and Athena, with Buck by her side, sounded like a much-needed distraction. Finally, she nodded. “Okay, yeah. That… that sounds nice.”

Bobby gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before heading out to find Buck, who was just finishing up some paperwork. Buck agreed without hesitation, eager to do anything that might make things a little easier for Riley. And so, after the shift ended, the four of them made their way to Bobby and Athena’s house, the drive filled with soft music and Buck’s occasional, gentle attempts at conversation.

When they arrived, Athena greeted them at the door, a warm smile lighting up her face. She embraced Riley tightly, the gesture more than just a welcome—it was a quiet, steady reassurance that she and Bobby were there for her, always. Riley returned the hug, feeling some of the tension in her shoulders ease just a little.

“Come on in, dinner’s almost ready,” Athena said, leading them inside. The house felt cozy and inviting, the scent of a home-cooked meal filling the air. Riley felt a pang of homesickness for the kind of warmth she’d never really known growing up, but she pushed it aside, focusing instead on the kindness that surrounded her now.

Bobby and Buck busied themselves in the kitchen, helping Athena put the final touches on dinner, while Riley wandered into the living room, letting herself take in the hominess of the space. She could hear the clinking of dishes and the soft hum of conversation drifting from the kitchen, the sounds mingling together into something that felt safe. She wrapped her arms around herself, taking a slow breath as the knots in her chest loosened a fraction.

Soon, they were gathered around the dining table, plates piled high with roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and Athena’s famous cornbread. The conversation started off easy—Bobby and Athena shared stories from their recent calls, while Buck made a few attempts to lighten the mood with stories about his and Eddie’s latest mishaps. Riley mostly listened, her responses quiet but genuine, the corners of her mouth twitching upward at Buck’s efforts to get a smile out of her.

Athena noticed Riley’s silence but didn’t push her to speak. Instead, she included her in the conversation with gentle questions about work, about the new book she was reading, offering Riley the space to join in if she wanted. Riley found herself slowly relaxing, the warmth of the meal and the gentle banter around her easing the ache that had been pressing on her heart all day.

As dinner wound down, Athena disappeared into the kitchen to bring out dessert—a rich chocolate cake she knew was Riley’s favorite. Riley’s eyes lit up at the sight of it, and for the first time that day, a genuine smile tugged at her lips.

“Bobby told me you’ve had a rough day,” Athena said softly as she set a slice in front of Riley. “I figured chocolate might help.”

Riley blinked, taken aback by the thoughtfulness behind the gesture, and she felt her throat tighten with emotion. She looked down at the cake, a small laugh escaping her despite herself. “You really didn’t have to do all this,” she said, her voice a little unsteady. “But… thank you. Really.”

Bobby, sitting across from her, offered her a kind smile. “You know we’re here for you, Riley. No matter what.”

Riley glanced over at Buck, who was watching her with that familiar, unwavering concern, and then at Bobby and Athena, who had become something like surrogate parents to her. She felt the weight of their care and support wrap around her like a blanket, and for the first time since the argument with Georgie, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

They lingered over dessert, talking and laughing softly, the warmth of the evening settling in like a balm. Riley still felt the edges of her pain, but they weren’t as sharp anymore—not with Buck’s hand resting lightly on her knee under the table, Bobby’s steady presence across from her, and Athena’s gentle reassurances easing the tension.

As the night drew to a close and they prepared to leave, Riley found herself pausing at the door, turning back to face Bobby and Athena. She searched for the right words, her hands twisting together nervously, but when she spoke, her voice was thick with sincerity.

“Thank you, Bobby. Thank you, Athena. For… everything. I know I’m not always good at saying it, but it means more than you know.”

Bobby stepped forward, pulling her into a fatherly hug. “You don’t have to thank us, Riley. You’re family. And we’ll always be here for you—no matter what.”

Athena joined in, wrapping her arms around both of them, and Riley let herself be held, soaking in the warmth of their embrace. When they finally pulled back, Riley’s eyes were brighter, a small but genuine smile on her face.

As she and Buck walked to the car, the cool night air wrapping around them, Riley reached out to take his hand, giving it a squeeze. “You know… today was hard, but I think it’s going to be okay,” she said quietly. “Because of you, and them. I don’t know what I’d do without you all.”

Buck turned to her, his smile soft and filled with affection. “You’ll never have to find out, Riley. We’re all in this together, no matter what comes next.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked, feeling lighter than she had in days. And as they drove back home, the argument with Georgie still lingered in her mind, but it no longer felt as overwhelming. She had Buck, Bobby, Athena, and the rest of her team to help her find her way through the dark moments.

And for the first time in a long while, she felt like she might just be strong enough to let herself lean on them.

The following week arrived quietly, with the tension between Riley and Georgie still lingering like a shadow. Riley tried to focus on her shifts, throwing herself into the routine of the firehouse and the steady presence of her team. Buck kept a close eye on her, offering quiet support without crowding her, and Bobby and Athena continued to extend their warmth whenever they crossed paths. It helped, more than Riley could say, but the weight of the unresolved argument with Georgie still pressed on her mind, heavy and uncomfortable.

One evening, after a long shift, Riley was at home, sitting on the balcony with a cup of tea cradled between her hands. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of orange and pink. She was lost in thought, replaying fragments of that painful dinner conversation, when her phone buzzed on the table beside her.

She glanced at the screen, her breath catching when she saw Georgie’s name. For a moment, Riley hesitated, uncertainty prickling in her chest. But then she took a steadying breath and picked up the phone, pressing it to her ear.

“Georgie?” she said, trying to keep her voice even, though her heart pounded a little harder in her chest.

There was a pause on the other end, followed by a deep sigh. “Hey, Riley,” Georgie’s voice came through, quieter than usual. “I… I was wondering if we could talk. Face to face.”

Riley felt a twinge of hope, mixed with a pinch of anxiety. “Yeah, okay. When?”

“I’m actually outside your place right now,” Georgie admitted, a touch of nervousness in her tone. “I know I should’ve called first, but… I didn’t want to keep putting it off.”

Riley glanced down at the street below, her breath catching when she saw her sister’s familiar figure standing next to a parked car. For a moment, she froze, caught between the urge to retreat back inside and the longing to fix what had broken between them. But then she thought of Buck’s steady encouragement, of Bobby’s fatherly reassurances, and she found the courage to stand up.

“I’ll be right down,” she said, and with that, she ended the call, heading downstairs.

When Riley stepped out of the building, Georgie turned to face her, looking smaller and more vulnerable than Riley remembered. The two sisters stood there for a moment, neither quite sure how to begin, until Riley finally broke the silence.

“Hey,” she said softly, offering a tentative smile. “Want to come up for a cup of tea?”

Georgie nodded, relief flickering across her face. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

They made their way back up to the apartment in silence, but the tension wasn’t as sharp this time. Riley led Georgie into the small living room, where she quickly set about making tea, grateful for the distraction. When she returned with two steaming mugs, Georgie had settled on the couch, her posture tense.

Riley handed her a cup and sat down beside her, leaving a careful distance between them. They sipped their tea in silence for a moment, the air thick with unspoken words. Finally, Georgie set her mug down, taking a deep breath.

“Riley, I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “I shouldn’t have said what I did at dinner. It wasn’t fair to you. I was just… I don’t know, I guess I was hurting, and I took it out on you. But I know you didn’t deserve that.”

Riley’s grip tightened around her mug, the heat seeping into her hands. She swallowed hard, her own emotions threatening to spill over. “You weren’t wrong, though,” she admitted quietly, staring down at the swirling tea in her cup. “I… I never dealt with what happened. With Mum and Dad leaving, with having to pick up all the pieces. I just… pushed it down because I had to keep going, for you and the others.”

Georgie reached out, hesitating before gently placing a hand on Riley’s arm. “But you didn’t have to do it alone, Riley. I know you felt like you did, but we were there too. We just… we didn’t know how to help you back then. And maybe I should have tried harder to understand that.”

Riley’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back, her throat tightening with emotion. “I’ve been so angry for so long, Georgie. At Mum and Dad, at everything. But I think I was angry at myself too. For not being able to fix everything, for not being… enough.”

Georgie’s expression crumpled, and she shifted closer, wrapping her arms around Riley in a tight hug. Riley stiffened for a moment, the unexpected closeness catching her off guard, but then she melted into the embrace, resting her head on Georgie’s shoulder as the tears finally began to spill over.

“You were more than enough, Riley,” Georgie whispered fiercely, her own voice breaking. “You did everything you could, more than anyone could have asked. I’m sorry I didn’t see that before. I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to do it all alone.”

Riley clung to her sister, the sobs shaking her shoulders as years of buried grief and pain finally surfaced. But beneath the ache, there was a flicker of relief, a sense of release that she hadn’t realized she needed until now. Georgie held her tightly, her own tears mingling with Riley’s, and for the first time in a long while, they let themselves be vulnerable with each other.

Eventually, the tears slowed, and they pulled back slightly, wiping their faces with watery smiles. Georgie took Riley’s hand, squeezing it gently. “You’ve got me now, Riley. And the rest of the family too. We’re not kids anymore—we can share the load, okay?”

Riley nodded, sniffling as she managed a small, shaky laugh. “Okay. And… I’m sorry too, for shutting you out all these years. I just… I didn’t know how to ask for help.”

“You don’t have to ask anymore,” Georgie replied softly. “We’ll figure it out together.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, letting the weight of their emotions settle. The pain hadn’t vanished, but it felt lighter now, more manageable. Riley felt a sense of hope unfurling in her chest—a tentative belief that things could be different, that she didn’t have to carry the burden alone anymore.

Later, when Buck returned home from running errands, he found Riley and Georgie laughing together on the couch, their faces still blotchy from crying but their smiles genuine. He paused in the doorway, a warm smile spreading across his face as he took in the sight. Riley looked up, meeting his eyes, and the gratitude in her gaze spoke volumes.

Buck joined them, sliding onto the couch beside Riley and slipping an arm around her shoulders. Riley leaned into him, resting her head against his chest, while Georgie settled against her other side, creating a little circle of warmth and support.

For the first time in a long time, Riley felt like she could breathe a little easier. It wouldn’t be perfect, and it wouldn’t be easy, but with Georgie, Buck, and her family by her side, she felt like she was finally starting to find her way forward. And that, she realized, was enough.

[realityjoey]

MASTERLIST

9-1-1 ABC

evan buckley x oc (riley anderson) stories

LUCIFER

lucifer x oc (joey anderson) seasons

THE ROOKIE

tim bradford x oc (dylan jenkins) seasons