#bradford reader

[newobsessionweekly]

Under the radar

Main masterlist | 9-1-1 masterlist

Evan "Buck" Buckley x Bradford!reader

Crossover 911 x The Rookie

Fandom: 911; The Rookie

Summary: You and Buck are happily together in a relationship kept away from your big brother, Tim. Little did you know he's going to find out in a not so pleasant way.

A/N: Crossover! I looove this. Tim would surely be an overprotective brother, looking out for his sister every step. I loved the chemistry between Tim and Angela and how they have that brother-sister kind of relationship and couldn't help myself. I love Buck too. Hope you like it and can't wait for your feedback. Thank you for your support! Lots of love, bubs! I really appreciate all of you.

Fluff | A bit of angst

Requested: no

Words: 5.4k

Warnings: Description of a pileup, unconsciousness, hurt, fire

You wake up to the sound of your alarm blaring, groaning as you roll over and squint at the bright light filtering through the curtains. Another day, another shift. You stretch, feeling the knots in your muscles protest from the previous day's exertion and made your way to the kitchen.

Tim groaned as he poured himself a cup of coffee, his expression as sour as the burnt toast sitting on the kitchen counter. "Morning," he muttered, barely sparing a glance in your direction.

You were lost in your own little world, your phone held tightly in your hand as you typed away furiously. A dreamy smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you texted Buck, your heart skipping a beat with each message exchanged.

You: Morning, sunshine

Buck: Good morning, beautiful. Did you dream of me last night?

Your feelings for Buck had blossomed gradually, like a delicate flower unfolding under the warmth of the sun. It had started innocently enough, with casual conversations and shared laughter during your shifts. But as you worked side by side, facing danger and disaster together, your bond had deepened into something more profound.

"Thank you for not ignoring me," your brother remarks sarcastically, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

You: Maybe... or maybe I dreamt of murdering Tim. Anyways I did had a good sleep.

Buck: Ouch, right in the heart! But seriously, can't wait to see you today.

Finally emerging from your daydream, you blink blearily, trying to focus on Tim's figure looming over you."Sorry," you mumbled, finally tuning into the conversation. "What were you saying?"

Tim eyed you suspiciously, his grumpiness giving way to mild annoyance. "You sleep well?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

You: Sameee. Just don't forget to bring coffee, or else I'll have to reconsider this whole relationship.

Buck: Yes, ma'am.

You nodded absentmindedly, a dopey smile spreading across your face as you relived your daydream. "Uh-huh," you replied, barely suppressing a yawn.

"What's with the smile, huh?" he eyes you suspiciously, his gaze lingering on your phone "Who are you texting?" he asks, his tone tinged with curiosity.

You feel a pang of guilt gnawing at your insides, knowing that if you tell Tim the truth, it could lead to a confrontation you're not ready for. But at the same time, you can't bring yourself to lie to him, not after everything you've been through together.

You found yourself drawn to Buck's magnetic charm, his unwavering dedication to his job, and his genuine kindness towards others. He had a way of making you feel safe and understood, of easing the burdens that weighed heavy on your shoulders. And as you spent more time together, you couldn't deny the growing affection that bloomed within your heart.

"Just picturing all the ways I'm gonna kill you some day," you quip, a mischievous glint in your eye.

All you can think about is Buck – his bright blue eyes that sparkled with mischief, his tousled blonde hair that fell effortlessly across his forehead, his strong, lean frame that radiated confidence and strength.

Tim rolls his eyes, but a hint of amusement flickers in his expression. "Very funny. You know, you're lucky I even let you live here rent-free."

"Yeah, yeah, remind me again why I agreed to be your roommate?" you retort, stretching lazily.

"Because you're too lazy to find your own place, that's why," Tim shoots back without missing a beat.

Your mind drifts back to Buck, his infectious laughter ringing in your ears. You can't help but smile at the thought of him, your heart fluttering at the mere mention of his name. But as Tim's voice pulls you back to reality, a pang of guilt washes over you. You know you should tell Tim about your relationship with Buck, but the fear of his disapproval holds you back.

"Lazy? Says the guy who leaves his dirty socks all over the living room," you tease, poking fun at his infamous habit.

"Hey, those socks are strategically placed as a warning to any potential intruders," Tim defends himself, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"Right, because nothing scares off burglars like the smell of your sweaty feet," you counter, unable to suppress a giggle.

"You're hilarious, you know that?" Tim chuckles, shaking his head.

"Just calling it like I see it, Timmy," you reply cheekily.

"Don't call me that," Tim grumbles, though there's a trace of fondness in his voice.

"Whatever you say, Timmy," you tease, unable to resist poking fun at him.

"Ugh, you're impossible," Tim declares with mock exasperation.

"You love me, though," you say with a grin, knowing full well how much your brother cares for you.

"Yeah, yeah, don't push it," Tim replies, though there's a softness to his tone. "Well, I was actually gonna ask if you wanted to grab breakfast before we head out. There's this new place that just opened up-" he continues, but you quickly interrupt.

"Sorry, Tim, I can't. Got to get to the station early today," you interject hastily, hoping he won't press further.

"Early? Since when do you voluntarily show up early?" Tim's brow furrows in confusion.

"Since today! Gotta, uh, organize some... stuff," you lie, willing him to drop the subject before he uncovers your secret.

Tim eyes you suspiciously, but eventually shrugs, deciding not to push further. "Alright, suit yourself. Just don't forget to lock up before you leave."

"Got it," you reply, already mentally preparing yourself for the day ahead.

As Tim heads out the door, you let out a sigh of relief, grateful for the brief reprieve. But as you gather your things and make your way to the station, the weight of your secret hangs heavy on your shoulders. You know you can't keep hiding forever, but the thought of confronting Tim fills you with dread.

For now, you push aside your fears and focus on the task at hand, burying yourself in your work and trying to ignore the nagging voice in the back of your mind. But deep down, you know that sooner or later, you'll have to face the truth and find the courage to tell Tim about the man who has stolen your heart.

As the morning sun streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room, you found yourself wrapped in Buck's arms, the two of you basking in the quiet intimacy of the moment. His touch was gentle against your skin, each caress igniting a spark of affection within you.

"Morning, sunshine," Buck murmured, his voice soft and filled with warmth.

You playfully nuzzled closer to him, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Hey, handsome," you replied, your heart fluttering at the sight of his endearing smile.

As Buck gazed at you, his heart swelled with a mixture of love and adoration. To him, you were a vision of beauty, your features illuminated by the soft morning light. Your eyes sparkled with warmth, reflecting the depth of your soul. He could lose himself in the depths of your gaze for hours, finding solace and comfort in the silent connection you shared.

He grinned as he handed you a steaming cup of coffee. "Here's your coffee, as promised," he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Oh! You're my hero," you teased, taking a grateful sip of the warm brew.

"Speaking of heroes," Buck said, a playful glint in his eye, "How about I save you from Tim tonight? A little date at my place. I'll get some pizza, we can continue our show. How does that sound?"

Your smile was like sunshine, lighting up the room and chasing away the darkness. It was infectious, capable of lifting his spirits even on the darkest of days. And when you laughed, it was music to his ears, a melody that echoed in his heart and filled him with joy.

You raised an eyebrow, unable to suppress a teasing grin. "Sounds like you want to save Tim," you quipped, leaning in to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. "But its perfect."

As you settled back into his embrace, enjoying the peaceful moment, Buck's fingers traced gentle patterns on your skin, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. His touch was a soothing balm, a tangible reminder of the love and affection you shared.

It was the way you moved with grace and confidence, a silent strength that drew him to you like a moth to a flame. Your touch was gentle yet powerful, capable of soothing his soul with a single caress.

In your presence, Buck felt a sense of peace and contentment that he had never known before. You were his anchor in the storm, his rock in times of uncertainty. He cherished every moment spent with you, treasuring the memories you shared like precious gems.

But above all else, it was your love that meant the most to Buck. It was a love that transcended words, a bond that defied logic and reason. With you by his side, he felt invincible, ready to face whatever challenges life threw his way.

As he looked at you now, snuggled close in his arms, Buck couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude. And as he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, he silently vowed to cherish you, to love you with every fiber of his being, for you were the light of his life.

You cuddled together, enjoying each other's presence, while Buck took a sip of his coffee. "It's a quiet morning," he remarked, his voice laced with contentment.

"Hey there, big guy, don't jinx it," you teased, snuggling closer to him. "I won't survive another catastrophe today."

Buck chuckled, leaning in to steal another kiss. "Make me shut up, then," he murmured against your lips, his touch sending shivers of delight through your body.

Just then, Hen's voice broke through the tranquility of the moment. "Morning, love birds. You're here early."

You exchanged a sheepish glance with Buck before responding. "Just wanted some peace and quiet. Tim's been overly grumpy and asking a lot of questions lately."

Across the room, Hen busied herself with her morning routine, flashing you a knowing smile as she prepared for the day ahead. Eddie glanced up from his paperwork, curiosity evident in his expression as he listened to your conversation.

"You still didn't tell him yet?" Eddie asked, his tone gentle yet probing.

"It's none of his business," you replied firmly. "But ever since what happened to Lucy and the serial killer she met at the bar, he's been overly protective."

Hen nodded in understanding, her gaze filled with empathy. "Not surprised. That man has seen a lot of bad things. And people."

"You should tell him, it'll be easier for both of you," Eddie suggested gently, his eyes meeting yours with unwavering support.

Before you could respond, the shrill sound of the alarm shattered the silence, announcing multiple calls at once. Everyone turned their attention to Buck, who raised his arms playfully in surrender.

You leaned into Buck, stealing a quick kiss before jumping into action. "You're in trouble, and I don't think I can save you this time," you whispered teasingly, a playful glint in your eye as you prepared for the day ahead.

When you arrived at the scene, the full extent of the chaos became apparent. A pileup on the highway had caused a scene of utter devastation, with mangled cars strewn haphazardly across the road. Smoke billowed from the wreckage, obscuring the sky with a thick haze.

"My brother's here," you muttered, your voice tinged with resignation as you spotted Tim amidst the chaos.

Without hesitation, you and Hen rushed to assess the situation, your training kicking in as you surveyed the scene. Tim followed closely behind, his expression serious as he briefed you on the situation.

"Multiple vehicles involved, injuries reported," Tim explained, his voice tense with urgency. "We need to triage and assess the scene before you can begin extraction."

You couldn't help but feel a surge of frustration at the news. "What did you do until now?" you demanded, your tone gruff with irritation.

Tim sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping with weariness. "We tried to do some triage, but there are much more people trapped in cars than we thought," he admitted, his voice strained with exhaustion.

With a shared glance, you and Hen wasted no time in getting to work, your focus laser-sharp as you assessed the situation and began to formulate a plan of action. Despite the chaos surrounding you, you felt a sense of determination coursing through your veins, a fierce resolve to save as many lives as possible.

Eddie joined you, lending a helping hand as you worked together to triage the injured as Buck and Bobby prepared the necessary equipment, coordinating with the rest of the team.

Buck's eyes never strayed far from you, his gaze filled with concern and admiration as he watched you work. You spotted one victim in particular who needed immediate assistance. Their car showed signs of imminent danger, with smoke billowing from the engine and flames licking at the edges of the wreckage. The victim was unconscious, barely breathing, and time was of the essence.

"Buck! I need your help over here!" you called out urgently, your voice cutting through the chaos.

Without hesitation, Buck rushed to your side, his expression filled with determination as he assessed the situation. Tim couldn't help but notice the glances exchanged between you and Buck, couldn't deny the bond that existed between you and Buck, nor the unwavering support of Buck by your side.

"Bradford, take the conscious and slightly hurt victims out of the cars and away from this place," you instructed your brother, your voice firm with authority.

Tim nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze filled with pride as he followed your orders without question. With a shared glance, you and Buck continued to work tirelessly, your determination unwavering as you fought to save lives amidst the chaos of the scene.

The flames danced menacingly around the wrecked car as you and Buck exchanged a brief, determined glance before springing into action. With a sense of urgency, you assessed the situation, noting the victim's precarious position amidst the wreckage. Their breathing was shallow, and time was running out.

Working quickly but methodically, you and Buck coordinated your efforts, communicating silently as you devised a plan of action. Buck moved to one side of the car, while you positioned yourself on the other, your hearts pounding in unison as you prepared to extract the victim from the burning wreckage.

With practiced precision, you reached into the car, carefully maneuvering around the flames as you worked to stabilize the victim's condition. Buck mirrored your movements, his touch gentle yet firm as he assisted you in securing the victim's vital signs.

Tim's watchful gaze lingered on you and Buck as you worked together, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed the subtle exchange between you. He couldn't help but notice the way your hands lingered on each other's, the way Buck never left your side in face of danger, guarding you from the fire.

You synchronized your movements, lifting the victim free from the wreckage with practiced precision. The flames licked at the edges of the car, threatening to engulf you in their fiery embrace, but you refused to be deterred, your determination unwavering as you fought to save the victim's life.

With a collective effort, you and Buck carried the victim to safety, laying them gently on the ground as you assessed their condition. Their breathing was shallow, their pulse weak, but there was hope yet. With swift yet careful movements, you administered emergency medical treatment, your hands moving with practiced precision as you fought to stabilize the victim's condition.

And as the flames finally engulfed the wrecked car, sending plumes of smoke billowing into the sky, your hearts racing with adrenaline as you watched the scene unfold before you.

When the last of the victims were safely extricated and the flames were extinguished, the chaos of the scene began to dissipate, replaced by an eerie calm. You gathered around the ambulance, watching as police officers worked to ease the flow of traffic, their lights flashing in the fading light of day.

Buck's arm was wrapped around your waist, a comforting presence amidst the chaos. He pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, his voice filled with admiration as he spoke.

"You were incredible out there, Y/N," Buck murmured, his eyes shining with pride. "And so beautiful in action."

You couldn't help but smile at his words, the warmth of his praise filling you with a sense of accomplishment. With Buck by your side, you felt invincible, ready to face whatever challenges came your way.

But as the scene began to return to normalcy, Tim approached with Lucy by his side. You and Buck subtly distanced yourselves, exchanging a quick glance of understanding. Tim's eyes flickered back and forth between you and Buck as he spoke, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern.

It was killing you to keep your love a secret, especially from your brother. Eddie's words painfully echoed through your mind, knowing that telling Tim might ease the awkward tension. But it might as well make it worse, considering Tim's opinion regarding Buck.

There was this general misconception of police officers about the other branch of first responders. In Tim's mind, Buck was this reckless guy, putting himself in danger without hesitation, without considering the risks. He is way out of your league, he thought. Fearing that one day, Buck's action will put you in danger as well.

Buck was this ball of happiness and joy, leaving the impression of childishness. But he was more than that. Buck was selfless, putting everyone's life upon his. He was this ray of sunshine, warming everyone's day.

"Damn, Y/N, you were seriously badass out there," Tim exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "You did a great job."

You couldn't help but grin at your brother's praise, his approval meaning more to you than words could express. Despite the occasional clashes and disagreements, Tim's support was unwavering, a constant source of strength and encouragement.

"Thanks, Tim," you replied, your tone sincere as you exchanged a brief hug with your brother. "I appreciate it."

Lucy chimed in, her eyes shining with admiration. "Seriously, you guys were like superheroes out there," she said, her voice filled with awe. "I don't know how you do it."

Buck chuckled, a playful twinkle in his eye. "Just another day at the office," he quipped.

Tim's gaze lingered on you and Buck for a moment longer, his brow furrowed in silent contemplation. Lucy nudged him gently, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips.

Tim's expression softened, his gaze filled with concern,"Be safe out there, okay?"

You nodded in acknowledgment, the weight of Tim's words settling heavily on your shoulders. "I will, Tim," you assured him, your voice filled with determination. "You too."

Tim and Lucy patrolled the streets as the events of the chaotic scene replayed in his mind, his thoughts consumed by concern for his sister. He couldn't shake the image of you working alongside Buck, your undeniable chemistry and shared closeness impossible to ignore.

"Hey, Lucy," Tim began, his voice filled with uncertainty. "What do you think of Buck?"

Lucy glanced over at Tim, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips. She had sensed Tim's unease ever since you arrived at the scene, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive at the sight of you in danger, especially when Buck was the one who came to your rescue.

"Buck?" Lucy repeated, her tone thoughtful. "He seems like a good guy to me. Always ready to lend a helping hand, never backs down from a challenge."

Tim nodded, his brow furrowing in silent contemplation. "Yeah, but what about him and Y/N?" he pressed, his concern evident in his voice. "Do you think they're...you know..."

Lucy raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in her eye. "You mean, are they more than just friends?" she teased, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Tim's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but he pressed on, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Yeah, exactly," he admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Lucy considered Tim's question for a moment before responding, her tone gentle but firm. "I don't know. Tim, you know your sister better than anyone," she began, her voice filled with sincerity. "If Y/N cares about Buck, then maybe he's not as bad as you think."

Tim sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging with resignation. "I just want what's best for her," he confessed, his voice tinged with frustration. "I don't think Buck would be the best fit, but..."

Lucy smiled sympathetically, her eyes filled with understanding. "Sometimes, we have to trust that our loved ones know what's best for them. And if Y/N believes that Buck is the right guy for her, then maybe we should give him a chance."

Tim sighed heavily, knowing that Lucy was right. "Yeah, maybe you're right," he conceded, his tone resigned. "I just... I don't know what to do."

Lucy squeezed Tim's hand once more, her gaze filled with warmth and understanding. "Just be there for her, Tim," she said softly. "Support her, no matter what. And if Buck makes her happy, then that's all that matters."

Tim nodded in agreement, a sense of determination settling over him. "Yeah, you're right," he said, his voice filled with resolve. "And if Buck hurts her, I'll kill him."

Lucy couldn't help but chuckle at Tim's earnestness, her laughter ringing out in the quiet of the shop. "Yeah, sure tough guy." she teased, a playful twinkle in her eye.

After the chaos of the call had subsided and the shift had come to an end, you and Buck retreated to the comfort of his apartment for a well-deserved date night. The soft glow of string lights cast a warm ambiance over the room, creating an atmosphere of intimacy and comfort.

Buck's place was a reflection of his personality – eclectic and inviting, with an array of knick-knacks and mementos adorning the shelves. The scent of pizza hung in the air, tantalizing your senses as you settled onto his bed, the soft comforter enveloping you in its warmth.

With the pizza box balanced precariously on your laps, you and Buck leaned back against the pillows, your laughter filling the room as you reminisced about the events of the day. The TV flickered to life, casting a soft glow across the room as you settled in to watch an episode of your favorite crime drama.

As the characters onscreen navigated the twists and turns of the case, you found yourselves drawn into the storyline, eagerly discussing each plot twist and revelation as it unfolded. Buck's arm was wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close as you leaned against him, your head resting on his chest.

"This episode is intense," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as the drama unfolded on screen.

Buck nodded in agreement, his gaze never leaving the television. "Yeah, but it's nothing compared to the real-life drama." he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of seriousness.

You couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at his words, grateful for the sacrifices he made to keep others safe. "I know," you said softly, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair away from his face. "But I'm glad we can still find moments like this."

As the episode drew to a close, you and Buck found yourselves lost in conversation, discussing everything from your favorite moments in the show to your plans for the future. Despite the late hour, neither of you were ready to part ways, content to linger in each other's company for as long as possible.

"Do you think Tim would mind if you spent the night here?" Buck asked tentatively, his voice laced with concern.

You paused, considering his question carefully. "Maybe," you admitted, biting your lip nervously. "But what Tim doesn't know won't hurt him, right?"

Buck nodded in understanding, his fingers gently tracing circles on your back. "I just want to make sure you're comfortable," he said softly, his gaze filled with love and tenderness.

You leaned into his touch, feeling the weight of his words wash over you like a warm embrace. "I am," you replied, your voice filled with certainty. "With you, I always am."

You settled into Buck's embrace, the warmth of his body enveloping you, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment wash over you. His arms around you felt like home, a safe haven in the midst of life's chaos.

"So, about that call," Buck began, his voice breaking the comfortable silence as he shifted slightly to get more comfortable. "Your brother was practically breathing down our necks the whole time."

You chuckled softly, remembering Tim's overprotective nature all too well. "Yeah, he does that," you replied with a playful smirk. "He thinks he's the big tough cop, watching over his little sister and all."

Buck's laughter filled the room, the sound warm and genuine. "Well, he certainly made his presence known," he replied, his tone filled with amusement. "I think he sent me enough death glares to fill a whole season of crime dramas."

You snorted in amusement, burying your face in his chest to hide your grin. "You should count yourself lucky he didn't pull out his handcuffs," you teased, earning a playful swat on the arm from Buck.

Buck chuckled at your playful remark, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. "Oh, I don't know," he said, his voice tinged with mischief. "I wouldn't mind borrowing them for the night."

You lifted your head from his chest, a mischievous glint in your eye. "Oh, really now?" you replied, a teasing smile dancing on your lips. "And what exactly would you do with my brother's handcuffs, hmm?"

Buck grinned back at you, his gaze smoldering with desire. "Oh, I think you can use your imagination," he said, his voice low and husky.

You felt a shiver run down your spine at his suggestive tone, the air between you crackling with anticipation. Leaning in closer, you captured his lips in a heated kiss, your hands tangling in his hair.

Buck responded eagerly, his lips soft and sweet against yours as he deepened the kiss, his hands wandering teasingly over your body. The heat between you intensified, desire simmering just beneath the surface as you lost yourselves in each other's embrace.

And it was one of the most intense and beautiful nights you'd spent with Buck, wrapped in each other's arms, lost in a world of passion and desire. But the fairytale ended just as quickly as it began, the morning sun casting a soft glow across the room as the loud banging on the door shattered the peaceful atmosphere.

Groaning softly, you shifted in Buck's arms, the warmth of his embrace still lingering on your skin. Tangled in bed, naked and happier than usual, you didn't mind the sound at first. But when it grew louder with each passing second, you couldn't help but turn to Buck.

"Please make it stop," you pleaded, feigning a dramatic cry as you buried your face in his chest.

Buck chuckled at your reaction, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead before untangling himself from the sheets and reaching for his underwear. "I'll go check it out," he said with a smile, his voice filled with warmth and affection.

You watched Buck move gracefully across the room, his muscles flexing beneath his skin with every step. Despite the annoyance of the situation, you couldn't help but admire the sight of him, the way he exuded confidence and strength even in the most mundane of tasks.

As your boyfriend opened the door, his smile faltered at the sight of your brother standing on the other side. Tim's expression was a mix of concern and frustration, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for answers.

"Buckley," Tim greeted him, his voice tight with worry. "Have you seen my sister?"

Buck's mind raced as he tried to come up with a plausible explanation. "No," he lied, his heart sinking at the realization of the predicament you were both in. "Did something happened?"

Tim's brow furrowed in concern. "She didn't come home last night, and she's not answering her phone," he explained, his voice laced with worry.

Without waiting for permission, Tim urged his way into Buck's place, his eyes narrowing as he spotted you, covered only by the sheets, in Buck's bed.

"Thank you for letting me know you're not dead," Tim said sarcastically, disappointment evident in his voice as he addressed you.

You bristled at his tone, your patience wearing thin. "I don't need to report to you every hour, Tim," you snapped, your voice laced with frustration. "I'm an adult, and what I do is none of your business."

Tim snapped back, his voice sharp with anger. "I didn't asked you to do that, I just need to know you're safe," he insisted, his concern for your safety overriding any sense of courtesy. "I don't care what you're doing or who you're fucking."

You held your ground, meeting Tim's gaze with steely determination. "I'm safe with my boyfriend," you declared, your voice unwavering. "And you need to worry less about me and more about your own life."

Tim's expression softened slightly at your words, but he remained wary. "Your what?" he asked, his tone incredulous.

You sighed, knowing it was time to come clean. "Boy-friend. Lo-ver. Whatever you want to call him," you replied, spelling it out for him.

Tim's eyes widened in surprise, but he remained skeptical. "Does reckless child suit him?" he quipped, his attempt at humor falling flat in the tense atmosphere.

You bristled at his words, feeling a surge of protectiveness toward your boyfriend. "Buck is so much more than that," you began, your voice soft but firm. "He's selfless, caring, and always puts others before himself. He's seen things most people couldn't even imagine, and yet he still manages to find the good in every situation."

You paused, searching for the right words to convey the depth of your feelings for Buck. "He's my rock, Tim," you continued, your voice filled with emotion. "He's there for me when I need him, no matter what. And I love him."

Tim's expression softened as he listened to your words, the tension in the room easing slightly. "I just want you to be safe, Y/N," he said quietly.

Buck stepped in, his presence a comforting reassurance by your side. "I care about Y/N," he interjected, his voice filled with sincerity. "And I wouldn't allow anything to happen to her. I love Y/N."

Tim's gaze remained cautious. "If she gets even slightly hurt for whatever reason, you're the first I'll be hunting down," he warned, his tone serious.

Buck met Tim's gaze head-on, his own resolve unwavering. "Yes, sir," he replied, his voice filled with sarcasm and amusement.

As Tim shook his head in disbelief, still trying to come to terms with the idea of his little sister being in a relationship with a firefighter, he couldn't help but see both you and Buck as two reckless kids in his eyes.

"Kids these days," he muttered under his breath, a mix of exasperation and resignation in his tone.

You and Buck exchanged a knowing glance, unable to suppress a shared smile at Tim's reaction. Once he left Buck's place, the tension in the room dissipated, replaced by a sense of lightness and relief. You and Buck shared a laugh about the absurdity of the situation, finding humor in the unexpected turn of events.

"That's not exactly how I imagined you introducing me to your brother," Buck quipped, his laughter echoing through the room.

You chuckled softly, leaning into Buck's side. "Hey, at least he didn't pull out his handcuffs," you teased, a playful glint in your eye. "I think he likes you."

Buck grinned back at you, his playful air returning in full force. "It's not too late to ask him for the handcuffs," he joked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

You rolled your eyes, swatting playfully at his arm. "Oh, shut up," you laughed, the tension of earlier completely forgotten. "We're gonna be late for work."

[cherryxbooo]

Lost without you

Summary: What happens when Tim Bradford’s secret girlfriend, Y/N, shows up at the station with his forgotten lunch, leaving his coworkers stunned by the reveal?

Note: I’m happy I’m back to being active, but this time I decided to switch it up a bit. I decided to add the one and only Tim Bradford to my list and here is my first ever story I wrote about him. Enjoy! 😊

Tim Bradford x reader

Genre: fluff

Tim Bradford was a man of precision, discipline, and control. His reputation as the gruff, no-nonsense sergeant at the LAPD was well-earned, and his coworkers knew better than to mess with him unnecessarily.

He lived by structure, with everything in its place, including his private life.

What nobody at the station knew, however, was that he had been in a relationship for the past three years, a relationship that softened him in ways no one would believe if they saw him at work.

You were the polar opposite of Tim in every way.

Shy, soft-spoken, and a bit introverted, you’d never imagined yourself dating someone as commanding and straightforward as him.

But Tim had an unshakable way of making you feel safe, cherished, and seen.

Your differences didn’t drive you apart; they were what made your relationship thrive.

Sure, there was an age gap, but neither of you cared. What mattered was how deeply you loved one another.

Tim loved teasing you to get a reaction. Whether it was a quick quip to make you blush or a small gesture in public that only you two would understand.

He thrived on the little moments when he could make you flustered.

And you? You adored his steady, unwavering presence, the man behind the uniform who was patient, gentle, and surprisingly affectionate.

The morning started off as usual. Tim had woken up early, slipping out of bed quietly to avoid disturbing you.

But today, you stirred, blinking up at him groggily as he adjusted his shirt in front of the mirror.

“You’re leaving already?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

He turned, his gaze softening as he saw you stretching under the covers. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, walking over to the bed.

He leaned down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand brushing over your hair. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

You yawned and shook your head. “You always say that, but I like seeing you before you go.”

You sat up, rubbing your eyes. “Did you grab your lunch?”

Tim gave you a sheepish smile, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Not yet.”

“Of course,” you teased, rolling your eyes. “What would you do without me?”

He smirked, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. “Starve, probably.”

Your cheeks heated at the proximity, and you pushed at his chest lightly.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, though your smile betrayed your words.

He kissed you again this time on the lips, before standing.

“Thanks for putting up with me,” he said softly. “See you tonight?”

“Be safe,” you said, watching him leave.

But as the door clicked shut, you glanced at the counter and saw the neatly packed lunch you’d prepared for him.

Classic Tim, you thought with a fond smile.

Hours later, you found yourself at the station, Tim’s lunch in hand. As much as you loved Tim, the idea of walking into his workplace made your stomach twist nervously.

You’d never been to his station before. Tim had always been adamant about keeping his personal life separate from work.

But you knew he’d appreciate the gesture, and it was an excuse to see him again.

As you approached the front desk, the officer there gave you a curious look. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, hi,” you said, holding up the brown paper bag.

“I’m here to see Sergeant Bradford. He…uh, forgot his lunch.”

The officer raised an eyebrow but paged Tim down. You waited, feeling out of place amid the bustling officers.

When Tim finally appeared, his stern expression softened immediately upon seeing you.

“Y/N?” he said, his voice tinged with surprise.

“You forgot this,” you said, handing him the bag.

Your voice came out quieter than you’d intended, and you felt your cheeks flush under his gaze.

Tim stepped closer, taking the bag from you. “What would I do without you?” he murmured, his fingers brushing yours briefly.

His touch lingered for a moment before he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Probably starve,” you said with a small smile, using his own words against him.

His lips quirked up into a smirk. “You’re too good to me, sweetheart. I would be in fact so lost without you.”

Behind him, his coworkers: Lucy, Nolan, Angela, and Jackson had stopped in their tracks, watching the exchange with wide eyes.

Tim wasn’t exactly known for being…well, affectionate. Yet here he was, smiling at you like you were the only person in the world.

“Thanks, baby,” he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “I’ll see you at home later, okay?”

You nodded, your cheeks burning as he pressed a quick kiss to your forehead.

As you turned to leave, you felt several pairs of eyes on you. You glanced back once, catching Tim’s gaze.

He gave you a small, reassuring smile, and you felt your nerves settle.

As soon as you were out of earshot, the questions started.

“Who was that?” Lucy asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“Yeah,” Nolan chimed in, his eyebrows raised. “Since when do you smile like that?”

Tim sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Drop it.”

“Oh, no way,” Angela said, grinning. “She’s cute. Is she your friend? A cousin? A-”

“Not your concern,” Tim interrupted sharply, his tone brooking no argument.

The group exchanged incredulous looks but didn’t back down.

“Come on, Tim,” Lucy pressed. “You’ve been holding out on us. Who is she?”

Tim crossed his arms, fixing them with a pointed glare. “It’s personal.”

Lucy scoffed. “Oh, that’s not going to cut it. You can’t just act all sweet and lovey-dovey and expect us not to ask questions.”

“Ask all you want,” Tim said flatly. “I’m not answering.”

Angela tilted her head, smirking. “You’re really not going to tell us?”

“Nope,” Tim replied, his lips twitching as if daring them to keep trying.

The group groaned in unison, clearly frustrated.

“You’re impossible,” Lucy muttered, throwing her hands up.

Tim just shrugged. “And you’re nosy.”

Despite their protests, he refused to give in, leaving them buzzing with unanswered questions.

That evening, Tim came home to find you in the kitchen, humming softly as you stirred a pot of pasta.

He leaned against the doorway, a small smile tugging at his lips. After a moment, he walked over and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Tim!” you yelped, startled. “You scared me!”

He chuckled, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Sorry. I couldn’t help myself. You looked too cute.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, turning in his arms to face him. “Long day?”

He let out a low sigh, his hands settling on your waist. “Better now,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You? Everything okay?”

You smiled, resting your hands against his chest. “Yeah, just the usual. I missed you, though.”

His lips curled into a soft smile, and he kissed you tenderly. “Missed you too.”

As you sat down to eat dinner together, Tim began telling you about his coworkers’ reaction to your visit earlier.

“They wouldn’t stop asking questions,” he said, shaking his head. “Who you were, why you were there, if we were related. I shut them down, but they were relentless.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, setting your fork down.

“They must think I’m some random girl who wandered into the station. Or worse, someone putting up with your grumpy self.”

Tim smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, they definitely think you’re crazy for that. But I didn’t give them anything. Figured it wasn’t their business.”

You tilted your head, considering.

“I mean… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they knew. They’re your friends too, right? They might tease you, but it’s not like they’ll judge us.”

His expression softened as he studied you. “You’d be okay with that? Them knowing about us?”

You reached across the table, taking his hand.

“Yeah, I think so. I mean, it’s not like we’re doing anything wrong. And it might make things easier for you at work if they aren’t constantly guessing.”

Tim laced his fingers with yours, squeezing gently. “If you’re sure. I didn’t want to say anything unless you were ready.”

You gave him a reassuring smile. “I am. Besides, i would rather have them know the truth than think I’m your secret cousin or something weird.”

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Fair enough.”

After a moment, his gaze turned serious. “You know, I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’m not hiding how much I love you, Y/N. Never have, never will.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you squeezed his hand tighter. “I know, Tim. And I love you too. So, let’s do it. Let’s stop hiding.”

Tim nodded, his smirk returning. “Alright. But don’t blame me when they start interrogating you instead.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’ll take my chances.”

He leaned across the table, brushing his lips against yours. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

“And you’re biased,” you teased, grinning.

“Damn right,” he said, his voice full of affection.

The next day, you found yourself back at the station. This time, it wasn’t because Tim forgot his lunch by accident, it was very much on purpose.

You knew this because when you asked him about it that morning, he had shrugged and said, “Maybe I’ll forget again,” with a mischievous smirk that made you narrow your eyes.

Now, standing outside the station with his lunch in hand, you felt the same nervous flutter in your stomach as the day before.

You weren’t used to being in Tim’s world, surrounded by his colleagues and the constant hum of police activity.

Still, you were here for him, and that was enough to push you through your shyness.

As you walked inside, the same officer at the front desk spotted you. He raised an eyebrow but smirked knowingly. “Back again?”

You nodded, offering a polite smile. “He forgot his lunch. Again.”

The officer chuckled and picked up the phone. “Sergeant Bradford, your…lunch delivery is here.”

A few moments later, Tim appeared. He didn’t look surprised to see you, of course, he wasn’t.

His face softened immediately as he spotted you, and he walked over with his usual confident stride.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted, his voice low and warm as he reached for the bag. “You didn’t have to come all the way here again.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Someone has to make sure you eat, Tim.”

He smirked, his fingers brushing yours as he took the bag. He held your gaze for a moment longer, and you felt your cheeks heat under his intense stare.

“Thanks, baby,” he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

The small gesture made your heart flutter, but you became acutely aware of the stares from across the room.

Tim’s coworkers Lucy, Angela, Nolan, Jackson, and Harper were watching the scene unfold with varying degrees of shock and curiosity.

You tried to ignore them, but their presence only made you more self-conscious.

“I should get going,” you said softly, glancing down at your hands.

Tim frowned slightly. “You sure? You can stay for a bit if you want.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to get in the way.”

“You’re never in the way,” he said firmly, his hand brushing against your arm. The touch was gentle, reassuring.

Before you could respond, Lucy Chen’s voice cut through the air.

“Okay, who is she? Is she the girl from yesterday?”

You froze, your eyes widening as Lucy and the others approached. Tim sighed, running a hand through his hair.

You wanted to answer and tell them the truth. You had gotten the confidence from the conversation you had with Tim last night, but unfortunately, your shyness won again.

“Not now, Chen,” he muttered, but it was too late.

Lucy crossed her arms, a sly grin on her face. “Come on, Tim. You can’t expect us to just ignore this.”

Angela joined her, smirking. “Yeah, you’ve been keeping enough secrets, Bradford. Spill.”

Nolan, ever the curious one, chimed in, “She brought you lunch again. That’s not just a random act of kindness.”

You felt your face heat, and you instinctively took a small step closer to Tim.

Sensing your discomfort, Tim placed a protective hand on the small of your back.

“Guys, this is Y/N,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “And that’s all you need to know.”

“Oh, come on,” Lucy said, her grin widening. “Y/N…what? Girlfriend? Sister? Cousin? Who is she?”

Tim’s jaw clenched, and you could tell he was seconds away from shutting them down completely.

But before he could, Angela spoke up again, her tone teasing.

“She’s too cute to be your sister. So, girlfriend it is?”

Tim let out an exasperated sigh, but he didn’t deny it. That was all the confirmation they needed.

“Oh my god,” Lucy said, her eyes wide. “You’ve been dating someone this whole time, and we’re just now finding out? For how long has this been going on?”

“Three years,” Tim said simply, his tone clipped.

The group gaped at him in disbelief.

“Three years?!” Angela exclaimed. “How and why did you keep that a secret?”

“Because it’s none of your business,” Tim replied, his hand still resting on your back.

Angela laughed. “I can’t believe this. Tim Bradford, the grumpiest guy in the station, has a girlfriend, and she’s adorable. How does that work?”

Tim gave her a pointed look. “Angela…”

She held up her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop.”

But Lucy wasn’t done. She turned to you, her expression curious but friendly.

“So, Y/N, what’s your secret? How do you put up with him?”

You hesitated, unsure of how to respond but still laughed at her question.

Tim chuckled softly, his hand moving to squeeze your shoulder.

“She’s unbelievably patient,” he said, his tone light.

You looked up at him, surprised by the teasing warmth in his voice. It wasn’t often that Tim let his guard down like this, especially not in front of his coworkers.

“I think you’re worth it,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

His expression softened, and for a moment, it was just the two of you.

Lucy let out a dramatic sigh. “Okay, that’s actually kind of sweet.”

Angela nudged her. “Kind of? It’s downright shocking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tim look at anyone like that.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “All right, that’s enough. Don’t you all have work to do?”

“Not until we get more details,” Harper said, grinning.

“You’re not getting anything,” Tim said firmly.

Before the group could protest, you turned to Tim. “I really should get going.”

He nodded, his hand dropping to your waist. “I’ll walk you out.”

The group watched as Tim escorted you to the door, their expressions a mix of disbelief and amusement.

Once you were gone, the interrogation continued.

“Okay, seriously,” Lucy said, turning to Tim. “How did you pull that off?”

“Pull what off?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Her,” Angela said. “She’s way too sweet for you.”

Tim smirked. “Maybe I’m not as bad as you all think.”

The group laughed, clearly unconvinced. But beneath their teasing, there was a genuine warmth.

It was clear they were happy for him, even if they couldn’t resist poking fun.

“She should come around more often,” Lucy said. “It’s nice seeing you act like a human being for once.”

“Yeah,” Angela added, grinning. “She makes you tolerable.”

Tim shook his head, but there was a small smile on his face.

When Tim arrived home, he found you curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your lap.

You looked up as he walked in, your face lighting up with a smile.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He walked over, leaning down to kiss you. “Hey, sweetheart.”

“How was the rest of your day?” you asked, moving over so he could sit beside you.

“Exhausting,” he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “But worth it.”

You tilted your head, giving him a curious look. “Worth it? Why?”

He smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Because I got to show off my amazing girlfriend.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you buried your face in his chest. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he teased, pressing a kiss to your hair.

You couldn’t argue with that.

The end

[roseandxanderfics]

“Stay With Me” — Tim Bradford x Single Mom Reader

Summary: A routine call turns personal when Tim responds to a terrified 4-year-old reporting their mom collapsed. He finds you barely conscious—and realizes you’ve been fighting alone far too long.

————————

The 911 call came in just after seven. Late enough that most emergencies were winding down, but not so late that anyone relaxed. Tim Bradford had been running paperwork, thinking about grabbing dinner, when the dispatcher’s voice clipped through the radio.

“Child caller. Four years old. Mother unresponsive. Possible medical.”

That was all it took. One word—“four”—and Tim’s blood turned cold. He barely heard the rest before snatching up his radio.

“1-Adam-07, patch me through. I’m on it.”

⸻

The kid’s voice was barely a whisper when it crackled through.

“H-hello?”

Tim inhaled sharply. “Hey, buddy… This is Officer Tim. Can you hear me?”

“Uh-huh.”

That tiny sound hit him harder than it should’ve. “Good job, Eli. I’m coming to help you and your mom right now, okay? Real fast. Can you tell me… is she breathing?”

“I dunno… I scared.”

Tim forced his voice steady. “It’s okay to be scared, kid. You’re really brave. Can you touch her? Tell me if she feels warm or cold?”

Rustling. Sniffles. Then a small, broken sound. “Cold… Tim, s’cold.”

Tim’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he flipped the sirens on. God, please…

“I’m almost there, Eli. Can you unlock the door for me?”

“I try.”

⸻

By the time he screeched to the curb, his heart was hammering. The neighborhood was quiet—too quiet. Dim porch lights. Empty driveways.

The front door creaked open a sliver. A tiny face peeked out—tears streaked, cheeks blotchy.

“There you are, buddy,” Tim murmured, crouching low. “You did so good. Where’s Mom?”

Eli didn’t answer. Just… pointed.

Tim pushed the door wide and stepped inside—one hand instinctively hovering over his holster, the other reaching back for the kid. “Stay close, okay?”

The house was small. Lived-in. Crayon drawings taped to the fridge, a stuffed bunny abandoned on the couch. And there—on the kitchen tile—was you.

You were pale. Too still.

“Shit,” Tim breathed, rushing forward. He pressed two fingers to your neck, searching—there—a faint, thready pulse.

He grabbed his radio. “Dispatch, I’ve got the subject. Female, early thirties. Pulse is weak. Roll EMS, now.”

“Copy, 1-Adam-07. EMS en route.”

Eli whimpered behind him. “Mommy?”

Tim glanced back, softening. “Hey, buddy. She’s okay. She’s breathing. I need you to be my big helper now, alright?”

The kid nodded, lip trembling.

“Can you grab me that blanket?” Tim pointed. Eli scrambled, dragging it over with tiny hands. Tim tucked it around you, jaw tight.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmured—half to you, half to the kid. “Just stay with me.”

⸻

Minutes felt like hours. Tim didn’t leave your side, one hand checking your pulse over and over, the other resting protectively over Eli’s shoulder.

EMS burst through the door—young, efficient. They worked fast, lifting you onto the stretcher. Tim stayed kneeling until they moved past.

Eli’s eyes filled again. “I come?”

Tim didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, kid. You’re with me.”

⸻

The ride to the hospital was quiet. Eli sat curled in Tim’s lap, face buried in his chest, fists gripping the dark fabric of his uniform.

“She okay?” the little voice finally asked.

Tim swallowed hard. “She’s gonna be. You did good, Eli. You saved your mom.”

⸻

The ER was bright. Too bright. Tim hated hospitals. Hated the smell, the noise. But he stayed. Watched as nurses buzzed around you, checked monitors, whispered words like “dehydration” and “exhaustion” like they were medical diagnoses and not just proof that life had beaten you down.

⸻

You woke slowly. Blinking against the light, brow furrowing.

“Easy,” a deep voice murmured. “You’re okay.”

You turned your head—and saw him.

The cop. Tall. Broad. Blue eyes way too gentle for a man who probably carried a gun for a living.

“Your son’s right here,” he added, voice soft. “He’s… he’s been really brave.”

Eli popped his head up, face blotchy. “Mommy!”

Your eyes welled instantly. “Eli… oh god…”

Tim helped him onto the bed, watching as tiny arms wrapped around your neck.

“I… I’m sorry,” you rasped. “I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Tim cut in. “You’ve been running on empty. Doc says exhaustion, dehydration… You’ve been doing too much on your own.”

You blinked at him. “I don’t… even know your name.”

“Tim.” He smiled faintly. “Tim Bradford.”

A beat of silence.

“You stayed.”

“Yeah,” he exhaled. “Didn’t feel right to leave.”

⸻

They discharged you hours later. Tim was still there—Eli wouldn’t let go of him.

“I’ll drive you,” he said gruffly, like it wasn’t a question. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

⸻

Your house felt colder when you returned. Tim helped you in, set Eli on the couch, and knelt in front of you one last time.

“I meant what I said. You’ve been doing too much alone.”

You stared at him, exhausted tears threatening. “That’s… just how it is.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” he muttered. “I’ll… check in tomorrow. Groceries. Whatever you need.”

You tried to argue—but Eli’s head flopped onto Tim’s shoulder mid-yawn.

Tim smiled, slow and soft. “You good if I hang around until he’s out?”

You nodded, too tired to fight it.

⸻

And just like that… Tim Bradford became the first safe thing you’d known in a long, long time

[dearlenore]

hiiiii

Tim Bradford x reader where she's pregnant. and nesting. Tim would be all over that I feel.

This has gotta be my favorite thing ever I’m obsesseddd🥹💋 this one might be the fluffiest I’ve written too❤️

HELLO BABY • T.BRADFORD

SUMMARY: Tim comes home to an unexpectedly motivated reader, cleaning, building and painting the nursery for their little girl

PAIRING: SAHM!reader x Tim Bradford

tags: PURE FLUFF, reader wears ‘feminine’ clothes, mentions of pregnancy , nesting mentions, Tim is very confused

a/n: first time writing Tim so be nice to me please…

w/c: 1.1K

Tim Bradford was exhausted. Thirteen hours on shift, three foot pursuits, and one particularly annoying rookie later, all he wanted was to come home, take a shower, and collapse into bed with you. He’d been looking forward to it all day—the feeling of your body curled against his, the scent of your shampoo, the sound of your voice reminding him he was more than just a cop with a badge.

But the second he stepped into the house, he knew something was off.

The scent of fresh paint hit him first, sharp and unmistakable. Then came the sound—faint music Sabrina Carpenter from your phone, the occasional shuffle of movement, and the distinct thunk of something being assembled. Tim frowned, toeing off his boots as he followed the noise down the hall.

And there you were.

Eight months pregnant in overalls, standing on your tiptoes, rolling paint onto the nursery wall. A half-assembled crib lay in pieces beside you along with your nightgown, instructions crumpled but ignored. A screwdriver sat on top of a pile of screws that definitely should have been in the furniture instead of scattered across the floor.

Tim stared. Blinked. Rubbed a hand down his face before speaking.

“What. The hell. Are you doing?”

You startled at his voice, turning to look at him over your shoulder. A streak of light pink paint ran across your cheek, your hair was a mess, and yet you had the nerve to smile at him like you hadn’t just been caught red-handed.

“Preparations.”

Tim exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can see that. But you’re supposed to be resting, not turning the nursery into a DIY disaster zone.”

You huffed, placing the paint roller down. “I was waiting for you to get home, but you were working late, and I had all this energy, so I figured I might as well—”

“No.” Tim stepped forward, hands settling on your waist as he guided you away from the paint tray. “Babe, you’re carrying our kid, not a whole-ass toolbox. You should be lying down, not climbing on step stools and putting together cribs.”

“I wasn’t climbing,” you defended, avoiding his knowing stare.

Tim arched a brow. “You sure about that?”

You pursed your lips. “Okay, maybe a little.”

He sighed, shaking his head as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You need to slow down or you’ll be the death of us both.”

You grinned. “But you love me.”

“I do,” he admitted, voice soft. “Which is exactly why you need to let me handle this stuff, okay?”

Your hands came up to rest on his chest, fingers tracing absent patterns over his vest. “I just wanted everything to be perfect before she gets here.”

Tim’s expression softened. He knew how much this meant to you. He’d seen the baby books on your nightstand, the way you planned every little detail down to the crib sheets and wall decals. But you didn’t have to do this alone—not when he was here.

“She’s already got the most perfect mom in the world,” he murmured, brushing his lips against yours. “So how about you let me take over, and you sit down before I have to arrest you for reckless endangerment of my pregnant wife?”

You snorted, rolling your eyes but relenting. “Fine. But I’m supervising.”

Tim chuckled. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

As he helped you settle onto the nursery rocking chair, he grabbed the screwdriver and eyed the crib parts with determination. He might’ve spent the last thirteen hours chasing bad guys, but apparently, his real challenge was about to be assembling baby furniture with no instructions.

Tim had faced shootouts, car chases, and criminals twice his size without breaking a sweat. But as he sat cross-legged on the nursery floor, staring down at the disassembled crib like it was an active crime scene, he was starting to think this might be his toughest challenge yet.

You, comfortably perched in the nursery’s new rocking chair with a glass of water in hand, were thoroughly enjoying the show.

“You know,” you mused, watching as he flipped the instruction manual upside down, “I did start putting it together already.”

Tim shot you a look, then gestured to the mess of screws and wooden panels scattered around him. “Yeah, and I’m trying to undo whatever chaos you unleashed before I got home.”

You smirked, shifting to get more comfortable. “I was making progress.”

“You put two of the legs on backward.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Details.”

Tim sighed, running a hand through his hair before glancing back at you. “You really should be in bed.”

“I was in bed. Then I got bored.” You sipped your water, giving him your most innocent look. “Besides, if I went to sleep, I would’ve missed this.”

“This?”

“The rare sight of Tim Bradford struggling.”

He pointed a screwdriver at you. “Careful. I could make you finish this yourself.”

You laughed, the sound light and easy, and despite the exhaustion still clinging to him from his shift, Tim felt the tension in his body ease. It didn’t matter how tired he was—being here with you, working on something for her, made everything else fade into the background.

A comfortable silence settled between you as he focused on assembling the crib. Every so often, you’d make an observation (“Are you sure that piece goes there?”), and he’d remind you, gently, that he knew what he was doing. (He didn’t.)

Eventually, after some cursing under his breath, an unnecessary amount of re-reading the instructions, and one incident where the crib almost collapsed on itself, he finally tightened the last screw and sat back with a victorious sigh.

“There,” he declared, brushing his hands off. “One fully operational crib, courtesy of your incredibly capable husband.”

You grinned. “I don’t know, I think she’ll have to test it herself before I give you full credit.”

Tim rolled his eyes, pushing himself up to his feet before walking over to where you sat. He rested a hand on your belly, feeling the soft movement of your breath beneath his palm.

“She’s gonna love it,” he murmured, voice softer now. “And she’s gonna love you even more.”

Your eyes glistened, and you covered his hand with yours. “We built a crib today, Tim.”

He smirked. “Correction. I built a crib today. You provided comedic relief at best.”

You swatted his arm, but your smile stayed. “First of all, my comedic relief is amazing and helpful. Second of all I can’t believe we’re really doing this.”

Tim leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before dropping another one to your belly. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice full of something so deep and unshakable it made your heart squeeze. “Me neither.”

[girl-of-many-fandoms]

I need more tim Bradford from you

His Achilles Heel

Pairing: Tim Bradford x Reader

Summary: Y/N gets injured while on the job and Tim is immediately worried.

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort | Angst Turned Fluff | Established Relationship.

MASTERLIST

~~~~~~~~~

The second Tim saw the blood, he stopped breathing.

It was chaos—sirens blaring, shouting across radios, the suspect cuffed and screaming obscenities. But all Tim could focus on was you, slumped against the side of the squad car, clutching your side with a pale, shaking hand.

“No, no, no—hey—hey!” he was at your side in seconds, kneeling, pressing his hands over yours to apply pressure. “What happened? Who shot you?”

“Just—grazed me,” you gritted out, trying to smile. “Got cocky in the hallway. I’m okay, Tim.”

His jaw clenched. “You are not okay.”

You tried to sit up straighter, stubborn as always. “Seriously, it’s not—”

“Stop.” His voice cracked. “Don’t do that. Don’t downplay it to protect me.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “I wasn’t…”

“You were.” His voice was low, trembling with emotion. “You always do. You laugh off pain, act like you’re made of steel, and it’s killing me.”

You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “Tim…”

“I need you to stop scaring the hell out of me,” he whispered, leaning into your touch. “I can’t lose you. You get that? You’re not just my partner, you’re—” His throat bobbed. “You’re everything.”

You smiled then, even through the pain. “So… this mean I’m your emergency contact now?”

Tim huffed a weak laugh and pressed his forehead against yours, voice choked with relief. “Yeah. And the one I wanna come home to. Always.”

“Then help me up, Bradford. I need to survive this graze so we can argue about the thermostat later.”

He kissed your forehead, gently, reverently. “You’re impossible.”

“But you love me.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “More than anything.”

~~~~~~~~~

If you'd like to be added to The Rookie's taglist, let me know so that you can be notified when I post anything related to that show <3.

[quinnsdesk]

objection, your honor

tim bradford x lawyer!fem!reader

synopsis: tim bradford and you never got along. as a no-nonsense cop and a sharp-tongued defense attorney, your encounters were always tense and crackling with friction. but after a blurry night at a legal conference ends with the two of you tangled in bed, what should’ve been a one-time mistake becomes a regular escape. the arrangement is simple, no strings, just tension relief. until you mention you're going on a date, and tim suddenly shifts. colder. moodier. jealous. he says it doesn't mean anything, but his eyes say otherwise. you were never supposed to catch feelings, especially not for the man who drives you crazy in and out of court.

requested by: @mrsmaugic

content warnings: mdni, enemies with benefits, blowjobs, almost getting caught in tim's office, phone sex, cunnilingus, mutual masturbation, angst if you squint, i decided to end with some tooth-rotting fluff to balance the filth <3

word count: 10.4k (WHAT? i'm so sorry guys but i'm obsessed with this idea, also not proofread because i'm so damn lazy)

You peeled your eyes open, your head throbbing like a drumline had taken up residence in your skull. The taste of stale whiskey clung to your tongue, and your skin felt too warm, too close. You blinked against the dim light filtering in through the crack in the curtains, trying to get your bearings. The sheets were tangled around your legs, and something heavy, solid, and undeniably human was wrapped around your waist.

A big, warm, comforting arm.

What the actual fuck?

Your heart skipped, then stumbled into overdrive. Slowly, carefully, like lifting the lid off a bomb, you inched your gaze to your side.

Tim Bradford.

Naked.

Correction: you were both naked in the bed.

"No. No, no, no. Fuck no." The words left your mouth in a dry whisper, more prayer than protest.

You sat up slowly, the movement making your head reel. You clutched the sheets to your chest as if they could somehow shield you from the reality in front of you. Your bare shoulder brushed against the wall as you turned, wide-eyed, trying to put the pieces together.

Hotel room.

Dim lighting.

Wrinkled clothes—both of your clothes—strewn carelessly across the carpet like breadcrumbs to a very bad decision.

Tim shifted beside you, letting out a soft groan, his arm sliding off your waist. You froze, eyes darting to him as he rolled onto his back, the blanket dipping dangerously low on his hips, his beautiful sharp v-line in your view. He looked peaceful in sleep, unfairly handsome for someone who'd probably been just as drunk as you last night. His brows furrowed briefly and then relaxed again. You watched him, heart pounding, pulse racing in your ears like sirens.

Of all the people.

Tim Bradford.

The man who constantly had something to say about how you did your job, how you carried yourself. The guy you argued with when you represented a client, the guy who smirked when you get flustered, the guy who drove you crazy in every possible way.

The same man whose mouth had clearly been everywhere last night, judging from the painful hickeys you saw when you glanced down at your bare chest beneath the sheets.

You clamped your eyes shut, as if doing so would erase the flashes now surfacing in your mind, his hands on your hips, his mouth on your neck, the feel of his stubble scraping against your thighs. Heat flooded your cheeks, horror mixing with the shameful curl of something dangerously close to satisfaction.

You fucked Tim Bradford. And what had made it worse is that you enjoyed it.

Your eyes flew open, and you scrambled for your underwear like it was a lifeline. You fumbled with your bra, hopping on one foot as you tried to tug your jeans on without making a sound. But fate, cruel as ever, had other plans.

Tim stirred again, this time slower, heavier.

You paused mid-button, bracing.

He turned his head toward you, eyes still hazy with sleep. “Mmm… you always get dressed this fast after sex, or is it just with me?” he murmured, voice low and gravelly, thick with amusement.

Your jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

He cracked one eye open, then the other. A lazy smirk stretched across his face as he took in the sight of you, half-dressed, clearly panicking.

“Nope. Not kidding. Morning.”

You picked up the nearest pillow and chucked it at his chest. “We’re not talking about this.”

“Pretty sure we already did a lot more than talk.” He stretched, arms going over his head, and God, why did he have to look that good first thing in the morning?

You scowled, running a hand through your tangled hair. “This was a mistake.”

He sobered a little, propping himself up on one elbow. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Probably.”

The word hung in the air between you, heavier than it should’ve been. It was a mistake—right? One night, a drunken lapse in judgment. Nothing more. Just two people with unresolved tension and too much tequila in their system. It didn’t mean anything.

But as your eyes locked with his, something passed between you—something that made your stomach twist.

Regret? Longing? Curiosity?

You broke eye contact first, tugging your jacket over your top. “Let’s just forget this happened.”

Tim leaned back against the headboard, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he muttered, finally realizing the severity of the situation. He just slept with one of the most irritating women he knew. Not to mention a defense attorney, sharp-tongued, in more ways than one.

____________

“Is this a violation of human rights, right in front of my eyes?” you asked with mock horror as you strolled into the interrogation room, your tone dripping with dry sarcasm.

Tim Bradford didn’t even look up as Lucy Chen muttered, “Please, the real violation of human rights is your client’s involvement in fentanyl-laced heroin he was going to sell.”

“Alleged involvement,” you corrected, arching a brow as you walked further into the room. Your heels clicked sharply against the cold tile floor, drawing Lucy’s attention. She stood and closed her notepad, Tim's gaze briefly flicking to your hips where your briefcase rested against your pencil skirt. Lucy didn’t say anything, but the way her eyes lingered felt like a silent jab, she’d clearly noticed the extra edge in the air between you and Tim.

Your client, a twitchy man in his late twenties, was practically shrinking into the chair between the two officers. You gave him a glance but said nothing to him yet. This wasn’t about him. Not yet.

Tim finally looked up, jaw tight, his expression unreadable. "You're surprisingly late. Usually, you're the first one through that door, ready to sink your claws into us and make sure some drug dealer gets home in time for dinner."

“Traffic. And lunch. Both equally tragic,” you replied coolly, pulling out a chair and settling into it with the grace of someone who had absolutely nothing to be nervous about, even though your stomach had flipped the second you walked in and saw him. The echo of last night still haunted you in the worst way.

His mouth on yours.

Your nails on his back.

His voice rasping out your name like a confession and a warning all in one breath.

You shook the memory off like water and opened your file with deliberate calm. “So. What’s he supposedly done now?”

Tim didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stared at you, eyes narrowed slightly. He looked tired. Edgy. Like the night hadn’t left him either.

After a beat, Lucy cleared her throat. “We were just finishing up. No need to derail the interrogation.”

You didn’t so much as blink. “Trust me, I wouldn’t waste my energy.”

The rest of the session was brief and frosty. Your client offered vague answers— “You don’t need to answer that,” you cut in, voice firm and measured. Lucy handled most of the questioning, while Tim said very little, but his gaze flicked to you far too often. You pretended not to notice.

When they wrapped up, you walked your client out into the hallway and gave him your standard list of instructions: don’t talk to anyone else, don’t make any stupid decisions, and if he had so much as a gram of anything illegal on him, he'd be cuffed in a blink.

Once he was handed off to holding, you turned, ready to head back to your office until a familiar voice called out behind you.

“Can we talk?”

You turned to find Tim standing in the corridor, arms crossed, posture stiff. His tone wasn’t aggressive, but it wasn’t casual either. He wasn’t asking as a cop. He was asking as him.

You glanced toward the bullpen, then at the closed door of the interview room. “Now?”

“Now.”

You followed him in silence down the hall to an empty break room. It smelled faintly of burned coffee and whatever sad lunch someone had microwaved earlier. He shut the door behind you.

You didn’t lean on the counter. You didn’t sit. You kept your spine straight and your face unreadable, even though your skin was starting to betray you, a flush rising slowly up your neck.

“Well?” you said, voice carefully neutral. “Something on your mind, Seargeant Bradford?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “About the other night…”

Your lips pressed into a tight line. You didn’t speak, letting the silence push him forward.

“I just want to make sure we’re on the same page,” he said finally. “It was a mistake. One-time thing. It’s not going to happen again.”

You nodded once. “Good. That’s exactly what I was going to say.”

He studied you for a second, like he didn’t quite believe how composed you were. Like he expected something else, maybe regret, maybe embarrassment.

“I’m still the pain-in-the-ass defense attorney who's criminally amazing at her job, and you’re still the pain-in-the-ass cop who thinks I get criminals off too easily,” you said, forcing a light smirk. “Nothing’s changed.”

Except everything had. The air between you was heavier now. More charged. You could still feel the imprint of his hands on your skin, even if you refused to let it show.

Tim nodded slowly. “Right. Nothing’s changed.”

You moved toward the door, pausing only when your hand touched the knob. “We keep this professional, Bradford.”

“Absolutely,” he said.

You were so damn naive.

You thought you could keep things separate. That you could waltz into the precinct with your tailored suits and quick wit, play defense for people who didn’t deserve it, and walk out untouched. But the cracks were starting to show.

The following week, yet another one of your clients got dragged in—this time, the charges were more serious. Concrete. Messy. You spent nearly two hours in the interrogation room with Officer Nolan, Detective Harper, and the infamous Mr. Evers.

“Counselor,” Harper leaned back, arms folded, clearly unimpressed. “You don’t seriously expect us to believe your client didn’t stab a man.”

You let out a dry, mocking laugh, standing up and adjusting your blazer like you were on stage. “Detective, you don’t seriously expect me to believe you think this case is airtight. No prints, no witnesses, no body. Just a bloody knife and a wild theory.”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing with the kind of smirk that made cops itch.

“You’re welcome to try your luck in court, but if you’re smart, you’ll drop this circus act before it becomes embarrassing.”

The room was silent, thick with tension, before you turned and gestured to your client. “We’re done here.”

Without another word, you led your client out, your heels clicking like gunshots against the tile. You didn’t even bother hiding the grin on your face. Winning felt good, even if it came with a side of moral whiplash.

As you made your way down the hallway, finally free of the cold stares and fluorescent lighting, your phone buzzed in your hand. You glanced down, heart skipping when you saw the timestamp.

Bradford: My office. 5 mins. (2:45 PM) You: For? (2:55 PM) Bradford: Don’t make me wait. (2:56 PM)

Shit.

You slowly turned on your heel, making your way toward Tim’s office, heels quieter than usual on the tile. You pretended to check your phone, fix your hair, anything to avoid the eyes in the bullpen, though no one seemed to be paying attention. Still, you looked around for the fifth time before you reached his door, your heart thudding like a warning. One last glance down the hallway… coast clear.

You gave a soft, deliberate knock.

“Come in.” came the familiar, deep voice from inside.

You slipped inside, carefully closing the door behind you. The soft click of the lock echoed louder than it should’ve. Tim didn’t look up, he was at his desk, flipping through a manila folder like this was just another day at work. The tension in your chest tightened.

“You wanted to see me?” you asked, tone light but cautious.

He looked up at you finally, eyes flicking from your face to the door behind you, then back again. “I told you not to be late.”

You rolled your eyes slightly, arms folding across your chest. “I was mid-interrogation. Harper wouldn’t stop circling like a damn shark.”

Tim leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing just enough to make your stomach flip. “You manage to get your client out of it?”

You smirked. “Like I always do. No prints, no witnesses, no case. Honestly, they should thank me for clearing their schedule.”

He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Yeah, I’m sure the stabbing victim would be thrilled.”

You stepped closer, tossing your bag down by the chair opposite his desk. “If this is about the case, you could’ve just emailed.”

“If this were about the case,” he said, voice dropping a tone, “you wouldn’t have locked the door.”

You blinked, caught.

“Touché,” you muttered, lifting a brow. “So what is this about? Another lecture? You gonna scold me?"

Tim didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you for a long, heavy second, eyes full of something dangerous and unspoken. Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk, voice low and deliberate.

“Get under the desk.”

Your lips parted, surprised, confused, and already burning.

“I—what?”

“You heard me.” He didn’t smile. “You like playing games in this station? Keep pushing me with those smug little courtroom speeches? Time to see if you can keep that mouth quiet where it counts.”

A beat passed.

You stood there, frozen in place, pulse hammering through your ears.

Tim sat back in his chair, like he had all the time in the world. “Unless you’re going to start disobeying orders now, Counselor.”

And just like that, your knees felt weak for an entirely different reason.

Your throat went dry. He had that look in his eyes, calm, unreadable, dominant, the same one that undid you every time. Still, you hesitated, fingers twitching at your sides as the weight of what he said settled over you.

“I thought we agreed this wouldn’t happen again,” you muttered, even as your heels clicked quietly against the floor, step by step taking you toward his desk.

Tim didn’t blink. “We agree on a lot of things in this office. Doesn’t mean we follow through.”

Your eyes narrowed, part in challenge, part in self-preservation. “You said we needed boundaries. That we had to keep it professional.”

“I also said not to make me wait,” he shot back smoothly, his gaze burning through you, voice a husky low growl that cut through all your better judgment. “And here you are—ten minutes late, smug as hell, acting like you don’t know exactly what this is.”

You reached the edge of his desk; hands braced lightly on the wood. For a second, neither of you spoke, just the charged silence of a hundred unspoken moments between courtrooms and case files.

He tilted his head, slow and measured. “On your knees, Counsellor.”

You stared at him, breathing shallow, pulse racing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re still standing.”

Something between a curse and a whisper escaped your lips as you finally knelt down, slipping beneath the desk, heart pounding in your throat. The space was narrow, confined, his legs brushing yours as you settled in the shadow of his authority.

Above you, the creak of his chair shifting as he leaned back.

“I have about twenty minutes before I’m due in Grey’s office,” he said casually, flipping another page in the file like this was just business as usual. “Think you can behave that long?”

You looked up at him from under the desk, defiance flickering behind your eyes even as you nodded.

“Good girl,” he muttered.

And damn it—you hated how much you liked hearing it.

The sound of his voice, commanding, just above a whisper, it sent a shiver down your spine. There was something about the way he spoke to you here, in the silence of his office, behind a locked door, like you were the only person that existed in his world right now.

You slowed your pace, letting your tongue trace deliberate paths, pulling another sharp breath from him. His thigh tensed beneath your palm, the only visible crack in his otherwise stoic armor.

“God,” he hissed, barely audible. “That mouth…”

You couldn’t see his face, but you could feel the effect you had on him in every shift of his body, every shallow breath, every muted sound he was trying too hard to contain. His hand found the back of your head, not forcing, just resting there, fingers tangling softly in your hair. A silent encouragement. A subtle claim.

Somewhere down the hallway, footsteps echoed, faint but present.

Your eyes snapped open, and the adrenaline shot through you like lightning.

“Don’t stop,” Tim muttered under his breath, his grip tightening just slightly. “They won’t come in.”

You should’ve cared more. About the risk. The possibility. But all you could think about was the way he sounded when he was trying not to lose control.

Your movements grew more confident, your pace more deliberate. His other hand gripped the edge of his desk now, knuckles white, jaw probably clenched tight above you. You imagined the look on his face, the one he got when he was trying to win a fight without throwing a punch.

“Damn it,” he whispered, a rare crack in his voice. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

And right then? You didn’t mind going down in history for it.

You kept your rhythm steady, focused, every movement slow and deliberate, like you were trying to memorize the shape of him. Tim’s hand stayed tangled in your hair, not controlling, just anchoring himself to the moment, to you. His breathing had shifted, deeper now, heavier. More uneven.

“Just like that…” he murmured, voice thick with restraint. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”

The praise sent a fresh wave of warmth through your body; it was strange coming from Tim. Your cheeks hollowing tighter around him in response. You felt the way he twitched slightly, the way his leg jerked under your hand. You were unraveling him, one slow, sinful second at a time.

Knock knock knock.

Your body froze.

“Bradford?” came Sergeant Grey’s voice through the door, deep and authoritative. “You in there?”

Tim went rigid above you, every muscle tensing like steel. His hand gently but urgently pulled back, guiding you off him with one silent motion. You sat frozen beneath the desk, eyes wide, breathing hard, your mouth still tingling.

Tim cleared his throat, adjusting himself quickly with a quiet hiss of frustration. “Yeah,” he called out, his voice impressively composed despite what he was clearly fighting back. “Give me one second.”

“I need that Harper file before the briefing. Now.”

You quickly scrambled out from under the desk, doing your best to make the movement look effortless, though your knees cracked in betrayal and your skirt had definitely ridden up too far. You smoothed it down in one swift motion, running your fingers through your hair and trying to tame the chaos that came with... well, being under Tim Bradford’s desk.

Just as you took a breath, steadying yourself, before quickly walking to the door, unlocking it and opening it for Grey.

“Counselor?” Sergeant Grey’s deep voice filled the room, laced with calm authority. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You turned to him, already conjuring a smile it was tight, polite, just short of believable. “Sergeant,” you greeted smoothly, voice honeyed. “Well, you know how it is, someone’s got to make sure Seargeant Bradford doesn’t accidentally sign off on anything unconstitutional.”

Grey raised a brow, stepping into the room slowly. “Is that so?”

You gestured to the folder still open on Tim’s desk, praying he wouldn’t notice the slight tilt of the chair, or the fact that Tim looked like he was holding his breath. “Mm-hmm. He flagged a case I worked last week, had a couple inconsistencies. I stopped by to… clarify.”

Tim gave a sharp nod behind you, clearing his throat. “Didn’t want to pass it to you, sir, until I was sure the paperwork lined up.”

Grey’s eyes flicked between the two of you.

Then to the door that was locked a few minutes ago.

Then back to your slightly flushed cheeks.

He wasn’t an idiot. He was far from it.

He folded his arms across his chest, expression unreadable. “You locking the door for clarification now?”

You laughed, bright, fake, bold. “Habit, I’m afraid. Defense attorneys don’t survive without a few healthy boundaries.”

There was a beat of silence. A long one.

Then, with the faintest twitch of his lips, more disbelief than amusement, Grey exhaled through his nose. “Well… as long as it wasn’t anything unethical.”

You smiled innocently, like you’d been accused of something as harmless as jaywalking. “Never. I’m one of the last remaining ethical lawyers in all of Los Angeles. An endangered species, really.”

From beside you, a dry, mocking scoff rumbled out of Tim’s chest. You didn’t even have to look to know he was smirking.

You fought the urge to shoot him a death glare, instead clenching your jaw slightly as you straightened your blazer. Professionalism first. Always. Even when your favorite thorn in your side was clearly enjoying himself a little too much.

Grey looked to Tim one last time, eyes narrowing, lingering, but ultimately, he said nothing. He simply held out his hand. “Harper file. Now.”

Tim passed it over silently, posture military-straight.

Grey took it, gave you one last long look, then turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

You stood frozen for a second, still catching your breath.

____________

You hummed, content and relaxed, as you sank into the comfort of your couch, a freshly brewed cup of coffee cradled in one hand and a thick client file balanced on your lap. Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, casting golden streaks across your living room floor. For once, the world felt quiet.

It was your day off, your first in what felt like forever, and you'd promised yourself a little balance: a little rest, a little work, a little coffee, maybe a face mask or two. The hum of a classical playlist played faintly in the background, and you actually felt… human.

You flipped through the case file with a focused expression, occasionally pausing to scribble notes in the margins or highlight a passage. It was an assault case, messy, full of contradictions, and exactly the kind of legal puzzle you secretly loved solving.

Still, after about forty minutes, your eyes began to wander from the text. Your mind drifted… not to the case… but to Tim Bradford.

You hadn’t heard from him since your little “clarification session” in his office the day before. Not a call, not a text, not even one of his trademark passive-aggressive grunts.

You took another sip of your coffee, arching a brow as your lips curved into a smirk.

So he was going to act like nothing happened?

Fine.

Two could play that game.

You leaned back into the couch, legs stretching out as your thoughts took a deliciously devious turn. Your phone sat on the coffee table, screen lighting up briefly with some boring email notification. But all you could think about was Tim, probably sitting at his desk right now, focused, unreadable, brooding, and absolutely not expecting to be disturbed.

Especially not by you.

Your smirk widened.

Slowly, you set the file aside and picked up your phone, thumbing over to your camera. You angled it just right, legs crossed, coffee in hand, nothing but a silky robe barely clinging to your body. It showed just enough skin to make it obvious what you weren’t wearing beneath. Your cleavage was sexy, your nipples perked, guaranteed to drive Tim insane.

You took the shot.

Reviewed it once. Twice.

Perfect.

You tapped out a short message to go with it, deliberately casual:

You: Hope you’re enjoying paperwork as much as I’m enjoying my morning off. (9:22 AM)

Then you hit send.

You tossed your phone down beside you, heart racing just a little, that smug satisfaction already blooming in your chest.

It didn’t take long.

You were barely two sips into your now slightly colder coffee, flipping half-heartedly through the next page of the case file, when your phone buzzed against your thigh. You glanced down, already anticipating his name lighting up your screen.

Bradford: Don’t fucking test me, doll. I’m at work. (9:28 AM)

A grin tugged at the corner of your mouth before you even finished reading it. You bit down gently on your bottom lip, teeth dragging across the skin as you leaned back into the couch. The warning in his words only made the little flutter in your stomach grow stronger.

Curious, you scrolled down.

The image filled your screen, instantly making your mouth go dry and your thighs shift. A picture taken from above: Tim’s broad hand resting possessively on his thick thigh, his fingers splayed just enough to draw the eye downward, right to the unmistakable outline pressing tight against his LAPD-issue pants.

You blinked, pulse kicking up as your eyes lingered.

His bulge was impossible to miss, hard and heavy, the fabric of his slacks doing a poor job of concealing the effect your little photo had on him. He was clearly sitting in his office.

And hard.

For you.

You shifted on the couch, your silk robe sliding slightly along your skin as your body responded without permission. The coffee was long forgotten now, the file on your lap discarded to the side table. Your fingers hovered over your phone, unsure whether to play innocent or double down on the tease.

Because he’d given you an opening. A very tempting one.

Your thumbs moved before your brain could catch up.

You: Not testing. Just... encouraging. You looked tense yesterday. Thought you might appreciate a little stress relief. (09:29 AM)

You hit send, your heart thudding harder in your chest as you stared at the image again, replaying how flustered he must’ve been the moment your photo landed in his inbox. You imagined him shifting in his chair, adjusting himself beneath the desk, biting back a groan.

Seconds later, your phone buzzed again.

Bradford: If you don't quit it now counsellor, I'm gonna do something we're both gonna regret. (09:30 AM)

Your body reacted immediately to that message, heat pooling low and fast. You pulled the robe tighter around you out of instinct, like it could somehow contain the growing ache you were feeling.

Still, you couldn't help yourself.

You: Only one way to find out if I’ll like it or not… isn’t there? (09:30 AM)

You sat back, grinning wickedly, completely abandoning the idea of work now. The case file could wait. The law could wait.

All you could think about was how hard he was, how much tension was now simmering beneath the surface of every interaction you two would have the rest of the week. Barking orders like it could cover how flustered he was.

And you? You’d smile sweetly in meetings, legs crossed just so, knowing exactly what you’d done.

Your phone buzzed once more. Then again.

You looked down, expecting another message, but instead, his name lit up your screen.

He was FaceTiming you.

You ran your fingers through your hair one last time, smoothing the strands before picking up the call. His face appeared on your screen, tense and unreadable, a faint crease between his brows. The muted bustle of the station buzzed behind him, but his eyes locked onto yours with a magnetic intensity.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I’m at work.” His voice was sharp, tight with barely concealed frustration.

You smirked, your voice dipping low and teasing. “No hello? Tim, did no one ever teach you manners?”

His lips twitched as his gaze darkened. “Show me what you’re wearing.”

Slowly, deliberately, you tilted the camera down, revealing the red silk nightgown hugging your curves, delicate straps slipping off your shoulders. No bra beneath, the sheer fabric outlining the hard peaks of your nipples.

His breath caught audibly. “Fuck,” he muttered, eyes lingering as his hand slipped beneath his desk out of view.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, voice rough and commanding. “I want to hear you.”

You set the phone down carefully on the coffee table, propping it up against a mug so he had an unobstructed view. Spreading your legs slowly, your fingers traced a path between your wet folds, sliding down your hips as your panties slipped away.

The wet, slick sounds filled the quiet room. His pupils dilated in the glow of the screen, breath hitching. “That’s my girl,” he growled low.

Your moans grew softer, breath catching as your fingers moved with more confidence, circling, pressing deep. You felt the heat pooling, the burn building.

You could see his arm moving up and down out of frame. You let out a raspy moan as Tim cursed under his breath. Suddenly, the camera shifted, his cock came into view, thick and slick, hand wrapped tight around it as he stroked slowly, eyes never leaving you.

"Wet for me huh baby?" He coos watching as you pump a finger in and out of your sopping cunt. "Add another." You paused glancing at the phone, "Did I stutter? Add another finger honey." He groaned as you added another finger, curling them at the spongy spot the way Tim did, making you moan his name. "There she is. There's my perfect girl." He hummed with pride as you arched your back.

"You gonna cum f'me?" His voice was raspier now, heavier, like he was approaching his orgasm as well. You nodded, fast and vigorous before glancing down at your phone, Tim's eyes were shut, his head resting on his office chair as he jerked himself off to your moans.

"God, I could listen to those sweet noises all day baby." He grunted before opening his eyes to see your legs shaking. You were overstimulated and so damn close. "Cum on those pretty finger baby, say my name." He groaned, he was close too, he was waiting for you. "Tim!" You yelled as the coil you felt in your belly came undone. "That's it. Attagirl." He praised before grunting a few more times and releasing his load on his lower belly. His shirt was unbuttoned in preparation.

You huffed finally closing your shaky legs before looking down at your phone, Tim was cleaning himself up with a cocky smirk. "What?" You cocked a brow before picking up your phone, glaring into the camera. "Can't believe I can make you cum without even being there." He smirked buttoning his shirt again. You scoffed, "If I remember correctly, you came too." He couldn't help but let out a slight chuckled at that.

"Hey, Tim."

You heard a voice behind Tim’s phone. It was faint, but familiar, not too high-pitched with a hint of amusement. Lucy. You could tell immediately.

Tim’s eyes flicked up, clearly startled. “Who are you talking to?” she asked, the sound of her boots drawing closer.

With a barely-there twitch of his lips, Tim subtly angled his phone downward, just enough to hide the screen from view. “Genny,” he said smoothly, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You raised an eyebrow at the name drop, mouthing a silent wow to yourself. He really said Genny?

“Oh?” Lucy’s voice got a little more curious. “Can I say hi?”

You could almost see the shift in Tim’s expression. His smirk dropped faster than a suspect under interrogation. His jaw clenched, brows pulling together as panic settled across his features in the most delicious way. You bit back a laugh, covering your mouth with your hand as you leaned into the phone camera, amused.

Tim’s voice hardened. “No, Chen. What do you need?” The Sergeant was back.

Lucy didn't miss a beat. “Grey wants us to follow up on that lead for Angela. Says you’ve been cooped up in your office for a suspicious amount of time.”

Tim’s face flushed. Just slightly—but enough to catch. His eyes darted away from the phone, almost guilty. “Yeah. Okay. Got it,” he mumbled, voice clipped.

“Bye, Genny!” Lucy called out with a grin, clearly not buying a word of it but choosing not to press further. She turned on her heel and walked out of frame.

There was a moment of silence before you said anything. Then, with a sly tilt of your head and a smirk tugging at your lips, you leaned in again. “Bye,” you said sweetly, drawing the word out just a little too long.

Tim’s eyes snapped back to the screen. He groaned softly, scrubbing a hand down his face before fixing you with a narrowed look. “You're enjoying this way too much.”

“Oh, definitely,” you grinned, practically glowing with mischief. “Caught lying about me? That's priceless, Sergeant.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curving into something almost affectionate. “You're a pain in the ass.”

“You love it,” you shot back.

And before he could reply, he hung up, but not before you caught the faintest ghost of a smile as the screen went dark.

You stared at your now-black phone screen, lips pursed in amusement. Caught lying and blushing? You were going to be milking this for weeks.

You tossed your phone onto the couch beside you and stretched out. You knew what effect you had on him. And you knew he knew it too, even if he pretended otherwise.

Meanwhile, across town, Tim was pacing behind his desk, jaw clenched, hands on his hips. That damn smile on your face was still playing on loop in his head. So smug. So confident. So knowing.

He’d tried to be subtle, tried to keep it professional, compartmentalized, as Grey would put it, but then Lucy had to walk in at exactly the wrong time, and now he’d officially lied to his partner about you. About you of all people.

His phone buzzed again. One look at the name flashing on his screen and he sighed like he was preparing to defuse a bomb.

You: You lied, badly. (10:07 AM) You: You really thought of you sister? Gross, Bradford. (10:07 AM)

He groaned, knowing that you're back behaving like your usual annoying self.

Bradford: I panicked. (10:08 AM) You: That's adorable. (10:08 AM)

He stared at that word for a moment, jaw tightening. Adorable. That wasn’t something he got called often. He was used to “intimidating,” “cold,” “Sergeant Buzzkill.” But you? You looked at him like he was a puzzle worth solving, and damn if that didn’t scare him more than anything else.

Lucy peeked her head back into the office briefly, arching a brow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Tim muttered, stuffing his phone in his pocket like it was radioactive. “On my way.”

As soon as she left again, another message came through.

He let out an audible exhale, running a hand through his hair. God, you were a menace. Flirty, relentless, and always two steps ahead. And worst of all? He liked it.

Liked you.

Too much.

Back at your place, you were still staring at your phone, chin resting on your knuckles. You hadn’t heard back. Not yet. But you didn’t mind. Watching him squirm for once was reward enough. The big, bad Sergeant Bradford had just fumbled a lie because of you, and while you probably shouldn’t be as gleeful as you were… you were.

You locked your screen and whispered to yourself with a quiet, smug little chuckle.

____________

It’s been about a week since your FaceTime with Tim. You haven’t seen him around, not at court, not even in passing at the station. And you haven’t heard from him either. Not that you cared, that man was a walking headache. Always knew exactly how to get under your skin, especially because he was so damn good in bed. You’d convinced yourself you were better off without the distraction. Still, as you sat in your office, half-heartedly flipping through your client’s case file, your mind wandered more than it should’ve.

You sighed, shifting in your chair. The hard leather dug into your back as you leaned forward, narrowing your eyes on the paperwork. This one wasn’t like the others. Most of your clients were textbook cases, minor possession, procedural slipups, easy loopholes to exploit. But this one? This one felt different. It was messier. Riskier. Personal, almost.

Name: Mason Willis. Age: 23. Charges: Possession of heroin with intent to distribute. Arresting Officers: Detective Nyla Harper & Officer Aaron Thorsen.

You clenched your jaw as you scanned the report. Mason had been caught with over fifty individual baggies of heroin stuffed into a duffel bag in the trunk of his car, parked outside a run-down motel near Koreatown. According to the arresting report, Harper had been tipped off through a confidential informant. Thorsen backed her up on surveillance. They'd been watching Mason for three days before they made the move.

You flipped the page, mugshot stapled to the corner. He looked scared. Young. Like he’d made a stupid mistake and didn’t know how to get out of it. Still, the facts were damning. There were surveillance photos of Mason handing off small parcels in parking lots. Video footage from the motel's security camera. Fingerprints on the baggies. A digital scale. Even a notebook filled with scribbled names and numbers that the DA was calling a dealer’s ledger.

And worst of all? He talked. Not much, but enough to hurt his own case. Claimed the drugs weren’t his, that he was just “watching” them for someone else, an argument juries hardly ever believed. You’d tried that defense once. Lost in under an hour.

You leaned back in your chair, rubbing your temples with your thumb and forefinger. There was a pounding headache threatening to split your skull in two, and this case wasn’t helping. What made it worse was the fact that it was Harper who made the bust. You respected her, dare you say you even admired her. She was calculated, unshakable, clean. She didn’t leave procedural errors behind to give defense attorneys like you an easy in.

And Thorsen? You’d gone up against his arrests before. Young, sharp, and annoyingly by-the-book. If he’d backed her up, you could bet your reputation there were no missteps in the chain of custody.

But something still didn’t sit right.

The timeline in the report didn’t fully match up. They claimed Mason was under surveillance for seventy-two hours, but there was a two-hour window on the second day where Harper and Thorsen were both logged in on a separate call across the city, something about assisting with a robbery suspect.

So who had eyes on Mason then?

You circled the discrepancy with a red pen, tapping it as if doing so would magically reveal the answer. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was a clerical error. Or maybe… it was the kind of thread you could pull to unravel the whole thing.

You turned back to the front of the file and stared at Elijah’s mugshot again. He wasn’t innocent. You knew that. But being guilty didn’t mean he didn’t deserve a fair trial. And that was your job, to make sure the state didn’t bulldoze his rights just because he made a stupid decision.

Your head shot up when you heard a knock on the door. You assumed it was your boss’s secretary, probably dropping off another cursed stack of case files you’d have to drown in, but when the door opened, you were met with a surprise.

“Tim?” You stood quickly, nearly knocking your chair back.

“Wow,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Didn’t expect such a warm welcome.”

You rolled your eyes, smoothing your blouse as you closed the file on your desk. “Didn’t expect you either. Thought you were too busy playing hero on the streets to darken the halls of defense.”

He smirked, eyes scanning your office like he was assessing it for weaknesses. “Didn’t realize your ego extended to entire professions.”

“It does when the cops involved keep dragging my clients in like fish in a net.” You crossed your arms and leaned against your desk. “To what do I owe the honor, Sergeant Bradford?”

“I was sent to deliver a few supplemental files from Harper’s case. She got caught up in a debrief with Thorsen.”

“Figures,” you muttered under your breath.

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You always this charming when someone does your job for you?”

You walked over and snatched the manila envelope from his hand, brushing his fingers just slightly, too slightly, too briefly. He didn’t move away. Neither did you.

“Forgive me for not bowing at your feet,” you said dryly, flipping through the documents. “But unless you’ve suddenly become a paralegal, I don’t need your help.”

He didn’t leave.

You glanced up, catching the way his eyes lingered on you. Not your outfit. Not your curves. You. The stress written across your face, the tension in your jaw, the fatigue sitting beneath your eyes like bruises.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” he said, softer this time. The teasing edge dulled.

You blinked, surprised by the shift in his tone. “That obvious?”

He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “You’ve got that look. The one you get when a case is eating at you.”

You hesitated, then exhaled slowly, the weight pressing heavy against your shoulders. “This one’s messy,” you admitted. “And airtight. Harper and Thorsen are too damn careful. There’s barely anything to argue. And the kid, my client, he’s not innocent. But he’s not a kingpin either. He’s scared. He messed up. The kind of mess up that’ll haunt him for life.”

Tim nodded, moving closer, but not too close. He wasn’t crowding you, just there. Present.

“You know I don’t say this often,” he started.

“Oh, this should be good.”

He gave you a sideways look. “You’re good at your job. Too good. You fight hard for people who wouldn’t last five seconds without you. That kind of pressure? It’s gonna crush you if you don’t step back sometimes.”

You swallowed, feeling the flicker of something unfamiliar in your chest. Vulnerability, maybe. Or just the fact that Tim Bradford—your walking headache—was being almost… decent.

“You came here to tell me that?” you asked, folding your arms again, this time more guarded.

“I came to drop off files,” he said, that smirk crawling back across his lips, “but you’re obviously wound tighter than a snare drum. Figured I could stick around… help you relax.”

Your brows shot up, an incredulous laugh escaping your lips. “Relax? You?”

He shrugged with exaggerated innocence. “I’ve got a few talents outside law enforcement, believe it or not.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He held up his hands in surrender. “You’re the one who looks like she’s about to burst into flames. I’m just offering… assistance. No badge. No attitude.”

You paused.

The room was quiet except for the rustling of papers on your desk and the faint hum of the air vent. You could feel his eyes on you—steady, unwavering, irritatingly sincere.

Maybe he was annoying. Arrogant. Self-righteous.

But maybe… just maybe… he was right.

You finally let out a sigh of defeat. "Fine, what're you gonna do? Rub my shoulders?" He almost let out a chuckle at your suggestion. "Sit down, counsellor." He ordered, and like muscle memory, you obeyed. He followed you, walking over to your desk before moving your desk chair back, giving him space to move in between your legs."

Then, he got down on his knees.

"Tim what are you-" You let out a gasp before you could finish your sentence, Tim pulled your panties down after shoving your pencil skirt up. "Shh, just make your notes, I'll take care of you." He licked his lips as he ran his fingers over your cunt, collecting your juices before slowly shoving a finger inside you. You let out as gasp as his lips met your clit, gently sucking, not to stimulate but to relax.

His moans on your clit made you arch your back a little, before calming you down to flip through the case file. Soon his tongue was pumping in and out of you, his nose brushing on your clit. "Tim..." You whined, closing your eyes for a brief second before looking back at your notes and running your hands through his hair. He hummed on your pussy as you let out a sigh of relief.

One thing you could give to Tim Bradford is that this man knew how to eat pussy like a champ. He knows it's not to make you writhe above him but to rather relax and let go. One hand held your pen, making little side notes on statements witnesses and officers gave while your other hand rested in Tim hair. Not tugging, just to feel him, to acknowledge his calming presence. He was enjoying himself, he could sit there and devour your sweet pussy for hours.

You began to clench around his two fingers. You arched your back a little as he lapped at your swollen cunt. "That's it, doll. Let go f'me." He hummed as you let out pathetic, weak, exhausted little pants. You tugged on your hair as you did what you were told, you finally let go, letting your orgasm wash over you.

"That's it." He hummed as he placed one final kiss on your clit before licking his lips and standing up. "Thanks." You muttered, your chest heaving, you look down at your desk to see all your notes, notes you wouldn't have been able to do without Tim's help. "You're welcome." He smirked before helping you fix your skirt. You gulped, still trying to catch your breath.

That's when you felt it. A pang in your chest, the way it swelled when you looked at Tim, like you enjoyed his presence beyond the sex.

Tim must've felt it too because suddenly his stance was sterner. "I'll uh- see you around." He hummed in reply. "Yeah." He gave you one last look before walking out of your office. A look of longing, like he wanted to say something that would sound like gibberish if he tried to verbalize it.

____________

Mid-Wilshire’s bullpen buzzed around you, phones ringing, officers exchanging case notes, the familiar creak of uncomfortable chairs and worn boots on linoleum. You stood leaning against one of the desks, flipping absently through a file while your mind wandered… specifically to him.

To yesterday. To the way Tim's tongue had been so relaxing and so amazing on you. To how he left without a word, like he always did. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like you didn’t mean anything. To how he left you with a pang in your chest and a sudden empty feeling.

"Counselor."

You looked up, startled from your thoughts, and found Ethan Cole standing a few feet away. Immaculately dressed in a tailored navy suit, tie just loosened enough to make it feel casual, but still polished. He looked like he belonged in a courtroom, not among cops and criminals.

"Ethan," you said, masking your exhaustion with a smile. "Didn't think I'd see you down here. Mid-Wilshire isn’t exactly your scene."

He grinned. “I go where my clients go. Some of them like to commit crimes in new zip codes.”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes. “You always did keep a colorful clientele.”

He stepped a bit closer, arms folding casually. “I was actually hoping I'd run into you.”

You arched a brow. “Really? Why’s that?”

He shrugged, almost shyly, a rare expression for him. “Just thought… maybe we could get a drink sometime. Unwind. Talk about something that doesn’t involve bail or broken alibis.”

The offer hung in the air. You opened your mouth, ready with a deflecting joke—but then you saw him. Out of the corner of your eye, just past Ethan’s shoulder.

Tim.

He was standing by the front desk, paperwork in hand, eyes locked on the two of you. His expression unreadable. But you knew that look. You felt it. The stillness. The storm brewing beneath.

Your chest tightened.

You hesitated. Every cell in your body screamed he’s watching. But you also knew exactly how this would go: Tim would sleep with you again. Maybe tonight, maybe next week. He’d kiss you like you were the only person left on Earth, then vanish again before the sun came up. You weren’t his. He’d made sure of that.

So why did it feel like you were about to do something wrong?

"Yeah," you finally said, your voice softer than you'd intended. "Sure. Why not?"

Ethan smiled like he’d just won a case he didn’t think he could. “Great. I’ll text you.”

He gave your arm a brief, warm touch before he left.

And then the air changed.

A shadow fell over your shoulder before a word was even spoken.

“You said yes.”

You turned slowly, already knowing who it was. Tim stood there, arms crossed, blue eyes narrowed, body rigid like he was holding himself back from something, or someone.

You folded your arms in return. “Were you eavesdropping now? That part of your patrol duty?”

He ignored the jab. “You said yes to him.”

You blinked, feigning confusion. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission.”

His jaw clenched. “You don’t. I just… didn’t think that’s what we were doing.”

Your stomach twisted. “What are we doing, Tim? Enlighten me. Because from where I’m standing, we don’t do anything that isn’t in the dark or behind closed doors.”

“You know it’s not like that.”

“Do I?” You tilted your head, voice sharp. “Because you show up, eat me out from under my desk, maybe some phone sex if you're feeling generous, and then you’re gone before I can even remember what your cologne smells like. You never stay. You never call. We don’t go out. We don’t talk about us. So yeah, maybe I don’t know.”

His eyes darted, like he was trying to find the right words, but nothing came out. Silence. Again. Just like always.

“You mad I said yes to him?” you asked, stepping closer. “Or mad you didn’t ask first?”

His mouth opened slightly, like he was about to answer. But all that came was a rough, “That guy doesn’t deserve you.”

You laughed bitterly. “And you do?”

That one landed. His lips pressed into a thin line, gaze darkening.

“I never promised you anything,” he said quietly.

“No,” you whispered. “But you made me feel things anyway. That’s worse.”

The tension between you crackled like a live wire. You could see the conflict in his face, he wanted to say more. Needed to. But whatever war he was fighting inside, it kept winning. Like always.

“I have a date, Tim,” you said, softer this time, almost like an apology. “It’s one drink. Maybe it won't go anywhere. Maybe it will. But I’m tired of pretending that I’m okay with being nothing more than a late-night escape.”

You stepped past him, brushing his shoulder. He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t even move.

But just before you reached the door, you heard him, voice quiet, strained, like he couldn’t stop the words from escaping.

“I don’t want to be nothing to you.”

You froze.

But you didn’t turn around. You continued walking, your heels clicking against the floor as you walked out of the Mid-Wilshire station.

That night, you couldn’t stop thinking about your encounter with Tim.

It replayed on an endless loop in your head, the sharp, bitter tension, the way his jaw clenched when you told him you had a date, the way you’d all but snapped at him in front of half the Mid-Wilshire station. But most of all, it was the words you’d said. Words that didn’t sound casual or cool or detached. Words that revealed something you'd worked so hard to keep buried.

“You made me feel things anyway. That’s worse.”

God. You squeezed your eyes shut and groaned into your pillow, mortified.

You basically admitted you wanted more than office blowjobs. More than being the secret he texted after hours. More than half-dressed makeouts behind locked doors and quick, desperate touches before reality caught up. You’d told him, in no uncertain terms, that you wanted more.

Dates. Movie nights. Dinners where you weren’t pretending this thing between you didn’t exist.

And what had he said in return? Nothing. Not really. Just stood there with that unreadable expression, like you’d kicked the air out of him but he didn’t have the guts to ask for it back.

You felt pathetic.

You sat curled up on your couch in the dark, the only light coming from the glow of your phone screen. You hadn’t texted Ethan back. You weren’t even thinking about him. Not really.

Because no matter how hard you tried, Tim was still there, haunting you. In the way your skin still tingled where his hands had held you. In the echo of his voice when he used that low, gravelly tone only you ever got to hear. In the hollow ache in your chest that came from wanting him and knowing you couldn’t have him. Not in the way that mattered.

You pulled your knees to your chest, silently cursing yourself.

He didn’t owe you anything. That was the deal. That was what you both agreed on. You let him touch you, claim you, ruin you, and then watched him leave like it never meant a damn thing. You were the idiot who caught feelings. You were the one who got too close to fire and acted surprised when it burned.

And yet, for all the reasons you should’ve walked away… you hadn’t.

So when the knock came at your door just after midnight, your heart dropped into your stomach.

You knew it was him.

Of course it was.

You padded barefoot to the door, pulse hammering against your ribs. You stood there for a second, just breathing, trying to decide whether to open it or not. Whether you could handle seeing him again—looking into those eyes and pretending you were fine.

But something in you couldn’t resist. Couldn’t not open the door.

And there he was.

Tim stood under the flickering hallway light, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, looking every bit as wrecked as you felt. His hair was messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His eyes met yours, and for the first time in a long time, there was no wall. No shield. Just raw, exposed vulnerability.

You stayed silent.

So did he.

Until finally, he spoke, quiet, low, like he didn’t trust the words to come out right.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

You swallowed. “You should’ve tried harder.”

He winced a little. “I know. I deserve that.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to stay upright when everything inside you felt like it was falling apart. “Why are you here, Tim?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped forward, slowly, like he thought you might slam the door in his face.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said,” he said, voice rough. “About me… about us. About what we’ve been doing.”

You forced a shaky laugh. “Right. That embarrassing little monologue where I basically confessed that I’ve been deluding myself into thinking I could handle being your secret.”

His expression softened. “You weren’t deluding yourself.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then what the hell was I doing, Tim? Because I sure as hell wasn’t being treated like someone you care about. I wasn’t even being treated like a human half the time. Just a- a- fuck buddy”

“Stop,” he said, stepping in. “Don’t say that.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes made you freeze.

“I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he admitted. “To pretend this thing between us wasn’t real. That it was just physical. That you were just someone who made my life more complicated.”

His gaze dropped for a moment.

“But it’s not just that. You’re not just that. You never were.”

Your breath caught, but you stayed still, silent, afraid to believe it.

He finally looked up again. His voice was softer now, barely above a whisper.

“I want the dinners. The movie nights. I want to fight about takeout and fall asleep on your couch and wake up next to you instead of pretending I’m better off leaving. I want to learn how to stop running when things feel too good.”

You blinked, your vision blurring slightly.

“I want you,” he said. “All of you. Not just the parts you give me when we’re alone.”

A long pause followed. You didn’t know what to say. You’d spent the entire night telling yourself not to get your hopes up, that he wouldn’t come, that it didn’t mean anything.

And now he was here, saying everything you’d waited to hear.

Slowly, cautiously, you stepped aside.

He didn’t ask if he could come in. He just did.

You closed the door gently behind him, your hand lingering on the handle like it grounded you. He stood a few steps into your apartment, eyes soft but hesitant, like he didn’t want to scare you off by pushing too hard.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him. Because God, he came back.

But that didn’t erase the months of confusion, of blurred lines, of you pretending not to care when he left your bed without a word. It didn’t undo how small you felt when you confessed what you really wanted, and he didn’t say anything.

Now he was here, and your heart didn’t know whether to leap or scream.

“I meant what I said,” he said gently, hands still shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie. “About wanting more. About you.”

You exhaled shakily and crossed your arms, hugging yourself.

“I believe you,” you said softly. “I just… I don’t know if it’s enough.”

That made him flinch, just barely, but he didn’t run.

You walked past him slowly, pacing toward your couch but not sitting. You couldn’t. You needed to move, to do something with the flood of emotion threatening to break you open again.

“I’ve spent months telling myself I could handle this,” you said, your voice quiet but thick with feeling. “That I could be the person who didn’t care. Who didn’t want more. That I could just enjoy you when you showed up and forget you when you didn’t. But I can’t. I’m not built that way.”

He was quiet. Listening.

“I’m a defense attorney,” you continued, “you’re a cop. It’s not just complicated, it’s risky. One wrong headline and I’m the girl sleeping with the arresting officer. My credibility goes out the window. So does yours.”

Tim took a careful step closer, voice low. “You think I haven’t thought about that?”

“Then you know how messy this could get,” you said, almost pleading. “You know how people will talk. How every time we’re seen together, they’ll wonder what rules we’ve bent. How fair the game really is.”

“I do,” he said without hesitation. “But I also know it’s worth it.”

Your breath hitched.

“Angela and Wesley,” he continued, “are on opposite sides too. She arrests people, he used to get them off. They argue, they fight, they don’t always see eye to eye, but they love each other enough to figure it out. And if they can do it…”

He looked at you like he meant it—like he wasn’t just reaching for an excuse.

“…why can’t we?”

You wanted to say something. Anything. But your throat felt tight, like you were holding back tears you didn’t even realize were there.

Tim took another step forward.

“You’re the most brilliant, impossible, infuriating person I’ve ever met,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And I’ve been pretending that being with you was about convenience, about blowing off steam, because I was scared of how real it started to feel.”

Your lips parted slightly, your eyes locked on his.

“But I’m not scared anymore,” he whispered. “Not of this. Not of you.”

And then, slowly, giving you time to stop him, he leaned in.

His hand slid up to your cheek, calloused thumb brushing your skin like it was something delicate, sacred. His other hand hovered at your waist but didn’t pull you in, didn’t assume.

You didn’t pull away.

You closed the space between you.

The kiss that followed wasn’t like the ones before.

It wasn’t hard or frenzied or breathless with need.

It was slow. Careful. Intentional.

It was a kiss that said I see you. A kiss that said stay. A kiss that tasted like the beginning of something neither of you had been brave enough to name until now.

His lips moved against yours gently, savoring. His hands found your waist, grounding you, holding you, not like something he wanted to take, but like something he wanted to keep.

When you finally pulled back, your breath was shaky, but your heart was steady.

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, like he was breathing for the first time in weeks.

“I know I can’t undo what we’ve done before,” he murmured. “But I can start doing better now.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Tim…”

“Can I take you to dinner?” he asked softly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “A real one. Sit across from you at an actual table. Ask about your day. Not just sneak into your apartment when the lights are out.”

You stared at him for a moment.

You’d dreamed of this. Hoped for it. And you never really believed it would come.

But here he was. Standing in front of you. Asking.

You nodded slowly, a real smile beginning to curl on your lips. “Yeah. You can.”

He smiled too, small but honest, like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

He didn’t kiss you again, not yet.

Instead, he just wrapped his arms around you and held you there—solid, quiet, steady, like a promise waiting to be kept.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like home.

tags: @sleepymissy <3 @simplyhale <3 @jessewesmitchellfan @w1ldf1owers @spxcekru @mrsmaugic @jaded222 @starlightduchess @cosavuoi-me @im-feeling-blue-today @yourgirlcarol @jades-archive @Soleillunar @winchestersbgirl @bradleybeachbabe @whatasadlittlelife @thesupersecretboyband22 @vinos-things

[amxritt]

Wrong Code

Tim Bradford x f!reader

summary: after a home security mix-up Y/n lands herself in a holding cell

part 2 — lattes

word count: 1.4k words

warnings: wrongful arrest, fluff

It was supposed to be a chill morning. y/n was in her sweatpants, hair in a loose braid, and slippers as she padded up to her friend’s house. She was dog sitting for the week while her friend was away shooting for a new movie. She was happy to get a break from the chaos of her job, or so she thought.

y/n typed the code into the keypad next to the front door.

Beep. Beep. Error.

Weird.

She tried again.

Beep. Error.

Panic started to fizz under her skin. She was sure this was the right code.

The alarm went off—blaring, screeching, end-of-the-world kind of loud.

“Oh my god,” y/n muttered, fumbling with her phone and the slip of paper with the override code on it. Her fingers were shaking. “It’s fine, it’s fine…”

It was not fine.

The alarm company had already pinged the LAPD. Neighbors peeked out of windows, one of them already on the phone. And then—

Flashing red and blue lights.

A black-and-white cruiser pulled up, and outstepped two officers. y/n froze mid-button press.

“Ma’am,” Bradford called out, hand near his holster. “Step away from the door. Put your hands where I can see them.”

“I live here!” she yelped, then immediately corrected herself. “No—I don’t live here. I’m dog sitting! My friend’s an actress! She’s in—where is she filming? Italy? No, no—France! It’s in France—”

Chen raised a brow. Bradford was already walking toward her, expression unreadable. “Ma’am, we have a report of a suspected break-in. I need you to stay calm.”

“I am calm,” y/n lied, hands shaking as she gestured to her slippers. “Would a burglar wear slippers? These are bunny slippers!”

“Regardless, we’ll have to take you into custody until we can confirm your story,” Bradford said, matter-of-fact. “You have the right to remain—”

“Wait!” Y/n blurted. “Can I at least let the dog out first? He hasn’t been out since last night and I really don’t want him to pee on the couch.”

Tim blinked. It was the kind of request no perp ever made.

He looked at Chen. She gave him a “don’t-look-at-me” shrug.

“Make it quick,” he muttered, unlocking the door.

y/n dashed in, the dog—a fluffy golden retriever named Henry—bounding up to her in joy. “Hi, baby!” she cooed, then opened the back door. Henry zoomed outside, tail wagging, barking at the wind.

Bradford watched her carefully, arms crossed, but something in his stern face had shifted. Just a little.

“He needs to run a bit or he’s going to go stir crazy,” she pleaded, throwing a tennis ball for Henry. “Please. My friend won’t be back for days. I swear, if she would just pick up—”

“You have five minutes,” Bradford relented, jaw still tight.

She looked at him gratefully, cheeks flushed, and that was when he really noticed her. The way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. The messy braid. The oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. She didn’t look like a criminal. She looked… soft. Real.

Eventually, she returned inside, scooping up Henry’s water bowl and refilling it. “Alright,” she said, voice small. “Let’s go.”

Tim gently took her wrist. “Sorry, but we still have to cuff you.”

“Even if I’m cooperating?”

“Policy.”

“Ugh,” she muttered, holding her wrists out dramatically. “Do what you must, Officer Serious.”

—

Six hours. That’s how long y/n say in the holding cell.

Her one phone call? Straight to voicemail.

By the fifth hour, even Officer Chen had brought her a granola bar and an apologetic look. “We’re really sorry,” she said softly. “We know it’s a mistake, but we have to follow protocol.”

Y/n sighed, head in her hands.

At hour six, the holding cell buzzed open and Bradford appeared.

“She called,” he said simply, unlocking the door. “You’re good to go.”

Y/n stood, rubbing her wrists, eyes wide with exhaustion and relief. “Thank God.”

—

Outside the station, she stood on the sidewalk, phone clutched in her hand, waiting for her Uber.

Bradford’s truck pulled up instead.

“Need a ride?” he asked through the open window. “Figured it’s the least i can do.”

She eyed him. “You’re off-duty?”

“Clocked out ten minutes ago.”

“Then…yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

—

They pulled up to her friend’s place twenty minutes later. y/n punched the code perfectly and gave him a pointed look as the door clicked open.

“See?” she teased. “I do know the code.”

Tim shook his head, amused.

“You hungry?” she asked suddenly, turning in the doorway.

He hesitated. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Come on. You arrested me. You can at least let me feed you. If she has anything edible in here.”

They ended up cooking pasta together—well. y/n cooked, Tim let the dog out again and insisted on washing the dishes. They sat side by side at the kitchen bar, laughing and sharing stories.

“So, be honest… do you secretly judge people by how they parallel park?” y/n asked with a slight smirk.

Tim raised an eyebrow, and gave a small chuckle, “Depends. Are we talking ‘can’t park within the lines’ or ‘curb it like they’re drunk’?”

“I mean, the ones who do a 12-point turn to squeeze into a space that’s basically a football field,” y/n replied in a playful tone, “because I nailed it in two moves out front, and I feel like I deserve some kind of medal or something.”

“Is that so?” Tim laughed lightly in response.

“It is!” she exclaimed as they both broke out laughing.

As they came down from their laughter, she leaned a little closer. “You know,” she said, voice warm, “you’re kind of cute when you’re not arresting people.”

He raised a brow. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

A pause.

Then Tim looked her dead in the eyes. “Go out with me.”

y/n blinked. “Like, on a date?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, honest and direct.

She grinned, eyes lighting up. “Only if you promise not to arrest me again.”

“No promises.”

They both laughed—and when he leaned in, she didn’t pull back.

The kiss was soft. Unhurried. Like maybe this was the start of something neither of them had planned—but weren’t about to run from either.

[sabrinajenre96]

Title: “Three’s Company”

Pairing: Tim Bradford x Detective!Wife!Reader

Featuring: Kojo the bulldog mix, Lucy Chen

---

The first time Tim saw the dog, it was sitting on the front seat of Lucy’s car, tongue lolling out, happy as can be.

“He’s not staying,” Tim grunted, arms crossed, frown deepening.

Lucy cringed. “Look, I thought I could handle it—after Caleb, I just… needed something to ground me. But Kojo needs more than I can give him right now.”

The dog—Kojo—let out a snort and hopped out of the car, waddling right up to Tim like they were old friends.

Tim narrowed his eyes. “Great. He likes me.”

“More than me,” Lucy muttered, guilt in her voice. “But… I don’t want to send him to a shelter. He deserves better.”

And somehow, that was how Kojo ended up in the passenger seat of Tim’s truck, staring out the window like it was the best day of his life.

Tim didn’t want a dog. He barely wanted lunch most days. But the dog obeyed him better than some rookies he’d trained. No barking. No accidents. Just… loyalty. Annoyingly persistent loyalty.

When he got home for lunch—on your rare day off—Kojo followed him inside like he already had the key.

You stood in the kitchen, barefoot, coffee in one hand and wearing his hoodie. “Hey babe,” you said sweetly, eyes landing on the dog behind him. “Who’s this?”

Tim sighed. “This is Kojo. Lucy’s. Was Lucy’s. Now he’s—”

“Ours,” you interrupted, kneeling and letting Kojo lick your face enthusiastically. “We’re keeping him. No questions asked.”

Tim stared. “Babe—”

You pointed at him. “No. You brought a dog into this house. Into my kitchen. He’s claimed the rug. You’re outnumbered.”

Kojo let out a soft bark of approval.

---

Two Weeks Later

Tim adjusted faster than he’d admit. Kojo was a surprisingly good jogging partner and seemed to understand “stay out of the crime scene evidence” better than some new recruits.

You, on the other hand, took to dog mom life like you’d been born for it. Kojo slept at the foot of the bed, had his own drawer in the kitchen for treats, and sat like a gentleman whenever you gave commands.

He did, however, try to eat Tim’s boots once. There was growling. From both sides.

“You trained cops. You can train a dog,” you told Tim, brushing Kojo’s fur as he pouted. “He just needs structure.”

“I am structure,” Tim muttered.

---

One Month Later

Tim came home from a double shift to find Kojo asleep with his head in your lap while you read a case file.

You looked up, eyes soft. “He waited at the door for you for two hours.”

Tim dropped his bag and sighed. “He’s softening me. I can feel it. He’s ruining my rep.”

You grinned. “You’re not that grumpy.”

Kojo let out a snore.

Tim crossed his arms. “Traitor.”

---

Epilogue:

Kojo became an unofficial mascot at Mid-Wilshire. Chen smiled every time she saw him. Nolan made him a badge.

When you and Tim hosted a BBQ for the team, Kojo proudly wore an LAPD vest that said K9 (Kind of).

Tim rolled his eyes, but he scratched behind Kojo’s ears when no one was looking.

You caught him once. He shrugged. “He’s family now.”

You kissed his cheek. “Told you.”

Kojo barked. Tim groaned.

Three’s company.

[lives-in-midgard]

You Are In Love

Pairing: Evan Buckley x reader

Summary: When you're out with your friends you meet a handsome firefighter. After a while you go on a date and decide to keep your relationship a secret until something happens.

Word Count: 1200

A/N: Hey. This is part of the Buddie-August challenge. This also includes some characters from the Rookie. I hope you like it!

Divider made by @firefly-graphics

Buddie-August hosted by me and @buckys-wintersoldier

Prompt: Kisses

911 Masterlist | Main Masterlist

After a long shift at work one of your colleagues had the idea to go to a bar. You don’t often go to bars with all of them, but today you all finally had time. A lot has changed for you since you started working as a police officer at the Mid-Wilshire Station. You found a lot of friends there and you love your job.

“I’m gonna get a drink, would any of you like one too?” You asked the others.

“Could you get me another one of these.” Lucy said, pointing at her drink and you nodded.

“What about you Tim?”

“I’m good, thanks.” He said, smiling at you. When the others said they didn’t need anything, you made your way over to the bar. While you were waiting in line for drinks, a cute guy stood next to you and waited as well. Somehow he looked familiar to you, but you weren’t sure where you had seen him before. He smiled at you and then you suddenly remembered him. You could never forget that smile.

“You’re firefighter Buckley, right?” You asked and he chuckled.

“Yeah, that’s me. Wait and you are officer L/n.”

“You can call me y/n.” You said with a smile.

“Only if you call me Buck because that’s what everyone calls me.”

“Okay, deal.” You said and he had that sweet smile again. You talked for a few more minutes until your drinks were ready.

“See you around, Buck.”

“See you and be safe.” He said and watched as you walked back to your table. You handed Lucy her drink and sat down next to Tim again.

“Who was this guy?” Tim asked curious.

“Oh, just a friend.” You answered and Tim nodded. You and Tim have been friends and partners for a long time and over time he has become very protective over you. He always knows when something is wrong and is there for you as best as he can.

The next day you kept thinking about your meeting with Buck. He was so sweet and you hope to see him again. You didn’t think you’d see him again soon because just when you had an emergency call and had to call the ambulance, it was the 118 that showed up. You couldn’t really talk to him, but it was great to see each other again.

When you were grocery shopping and walking through the halls someone said your name and when you turned around you saw that it was Buck.

“Hey Buck.” You greeted him with a smile.

“Hey, good to see you.”

“I was wondering if you would like to have a coffee with me sometime?” He suddenly asked.

“Yeah, sure. How about I give you my phone number.” He nodded and pulled out his phone. You tipped in your number and he called you, so you had his number too.

Two days passed until you got a message from Buck. He asked if you were free tomorrow and you agreed to meet after work. At work Tim noticed that you were different, happier and more excited. He didn’t ask you about it, but it made him happy to see you happy.

The coffee date with Buck went very well. You talked about everything that came to your mind. You both really enjoyed it and had a great time. He asked you out on a date and that date turned into another date and suddenly you were in a happy relationship.

You had been dating for about three months now. Usually you were at his house or yours or sometimes you were going out. Favorite things to do together include cooking, watching movies, going to the beach and you enjoying it when he tells you a story from work and then you tell him some stories too. You’re very happy together and try to spend as much time together as possible, even if it can be a bit difficult due to your work shifts. Some people don’t think a relationship between a police officer and a firefighter is a good idea, so you decided to keep the relationship a secret for a while, which wasn’t always easy especially if you would see him on a call.

Today you have been called into a very difficult situation. You called for backup, but things quickly escalated, and you injured your left arm. Luckily, Officer Harper, Officer Nolan and Officer Bradford arrived at the right time to arrest the person. While Harper and Nolan arrested the person, Tim ran over to you and called an ambulance.

“Tim, I’m aright, it’s just a small scratch.”

“Let’s wait and see what the medics say, okay?” Tim said and put some pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. A few minutes later you could already hear the ambulance driving near you. When the doors opened you could see that it was Buck. As soon as he saw you, he ran towards you.

“Babe, are you okay? What happened?” He asked, looking at your arm. When you looked over, you saw that Tim had a confused look on his face.

“I’m okay, it’s just a small scratch.” You said again.

“Let’s go to the truck and I’ll take a look at it.” Buck said, placed his hand on your back and guided you to the truck. Then he removed the cloth from your wound and gently tried to stop the bleeding. You took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, babe.” He looked into your eyes and tried to smile at you. Then he looked back at the wound.

“The cut isn’t too deep, so it’s okay if I just bandage it.” He said and you nodded. Buck gently put the bandage over your wound and then gave you a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you, honey.”

“Anytime.” He said, then Buck tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and gently pulled you into a passionate kiss. When you broke the kiss, you reached for his hand and smiled at each other.

“I have to go back to work.” You said after a few seconds, even though you didn’t want to say goodbye.

“Me too.” He said, looking over his shoulder to see his friends looking at you both with smiles.

“I guess they all know now.”

“They definitely do.” You said with chuckle. You noticed how happy they all were and then looked over at Tim who was as happy as they were.

“I think I have to go now. See you later.” Buck said and gave you a quick hug.

“See you.” You said, waving at him as you walked away. As you walked to your car, Tim was still standing next to yours and looked at you with a grin.

“Now I know why you’ve been so happy lately.”

“Yeah, Buck makes me really happy.” You confirmed and opened the car door.

You were glad that Tim and Buck’s colleagues now found out about your relationship, but you definitely want to meet them soon on a better occasion. Buck has told you a lot about them, so you’re very excited to meet them.

Taglist:

@cevansbaby-dove | @buckys-wintersoldier

@beaubbdoll

[newobsessionweekly]

She's my wife

Tim Bradford x wife!reader

part 1

Fandom: The Rookie

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

Fluff

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

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

Requested: Yes!

Words: -

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

And yet, here he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am sleeping."

"You’re awake," he deadpanned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It’s called resting, sweetheart."

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

And, of course, you won.

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

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

And here Tim was, barely keeping it together.

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

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

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

Tim immediately frowned.

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

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

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

He exhaled sharply but didn’t argue.

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

Your balance was off.

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

You stumbled.

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

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

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

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

"You shouldn’t even be—"

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

Tim’s stomach burned.

And then Matthews laughed.

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

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

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

The temperature in the room plummeted.

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

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

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

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

Matthews’ smirk vanished.

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

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

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

Silence.

The entire room seemed to collectively hold its breath.

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

"You okay?" he murmured, softer now.

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

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

"Looking forward to it," you deadpanned.

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

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

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

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

And just like that, the spell broke.

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

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

And no one messed with Tim Bradford’s wife.

[nevereclipse]

Never Again

Pairing: Tim Bradford x wife!reader

Word count: 2.7k

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Requested: yes, here

Summary: When your parents come to visit you, they're as a toxic as ever. But after coming back from a brief undercover operation, Tim finds out the true extent of your parent's cruelty.

Warnings: mentions of police corruption, physical/verbal abuse and discussed past child abuse, mentions of bodyshaming and accusations of cheating (from y/n's parents.) Use of y/n. Probably incorrect representations of American & use of the metric system because I'm Australian.

A/N: I may have gone slightly overboard with this one, hopefully it's what you wanted. I thought y/n having rich parents added an interesting bit of backstory and dynamic with Tim, especially in her reasoning as to why she didn't tell Tim the truth about her family.

---

Your hands were shaking slightly when you put down your phone. You’d just ended a call with your mother, where she’d demanded that her and your father come and stay for a week with you and your husband while they were visiting LA. It’d been about a year since you’d seen them – probably around last Christmas. With them living in New York while you lived in California, visits were rare. An intentional fact, something you’d chosen very purposefully when you’d decided to join the LAPD instead of the NYPD. Not that you would’ve ever joined the NYPD in the first place. Partly because your parents would’ve done everything they could to lock you out, but mainly because you had no faith in the department after hearing your entire childhood about how your parents could get the police captain to do ‘anything they wanted.’

You set your phone on the sofa and took a steadying breath. Your husband, Tim Bradford, would be getting out of the shower soon, and while he knew some things about what your childhood was like, he didn’t know the full story (and never would). It’s not even that you thought he wouldn’t believe you, you knew he would, but how could you possibly complain about your upbringing when his had been… undeniably worse? So, you took a breath to steady yourself, and waiting for Tim to emerge from your bedroom.

Tim walked out, predictably, in sweatpants and a dark green shirt, his usual sleeping attire. You stole that shirt whenever he was away, because his constant wear of it meant it always smelt like him.

“Hey, baby,” you said, glancing up. You ran a hand through your hair quickly and forced another deep breath.

Tim’s eyebrows furrowed, and in an instant he was beside you on the couch, gentle grasping your hands in his. “What’s wrong?” His eyes searched yours.

You shook your head quickly, answering, “Nothing, Tim. I just got off the phone with my mother.”

Tim scowled. He’d never liked your mother, not since he’d first met her and had been forced to sit silently while she criticised you for how much weight you’d put on (it was less than a pound). Still, you insisted on maintaining a relationship with her, and with your father, so he softened his expression slightly and asked, “Oh?”

“She and Father are going to come over next week. Father’s in town for business, so they thought they’d… drop in.” You swallowed.

“And you’re okay with that, right?” Tim asked hesitantly. If you ever expressed even the slightest indication that you didn’t want your parents to visit, he’d call them himself and tell them to fuck off. But you nodded, and said it was okay, so Tim relented and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Okay,” he murmured into your hair, “I love you.”

You ducked your head and whispered, “I love you too,” all while guilt and nerves settled into your stomach.

--

You were panicking. Not enough for the average person to notice, maybe, but enough for your husband to. Tim sat on your bed, putting on his fancy shoes, and watched you struggle to choose which dress to wear for dinner with your parents. It’d taken you an hour to do your makeup, a process which usually took half of one, max, and nearly another hour just to put light waves into your hair.

“Sweetheart.” Tim finally said, coming to stand behind you in the mirror. He rarely used pet names, and the sound of the word softened the tension in your shoulders. “You’re going to look beautiful whatever you wear. You always do.”

“Not beautiful enough for my mother.” You almost spat the words out, alternating between holding two nearly identical dresses in front of your body.

Tim gentled grabbed your waist and maneuverered you around so you were facing him. “What did we agree about dressing for your mother?” He asked, cupping your face so you were forced to meet his earnest, dark blue eyes.

“…Not to.” You admitted begrudgingly, a slightly flush coating your face at the intense eye contact. Even after three years of marriage and five of dating, Tim always managed to fluster you.

“Exactly. You are stunning. I promise. But if you’re worried, I would go with the darker one.” Tim carefully avoided touching your hair, knowing a single hair out of place would send you into another spiral of panic. He hated seeing you so stressed, hated it with every fibre of his being. Especially when it was caused by your parents; he knew all too well the pain a well time jab (verbal or literal) from a parent could cause.

You took a breath and nodded. “Thank you.” You got into your dress just in time for the oven timer to go off.

--

Your mother never knocked more than once. It was, she believed, completely unnecessary for someone of her and your father’s social importance to ever deign to bang on wood like deliverymen. So, when you heard the one sharp, precise rap against your front door, you knew exactly who had arrived. Your stomach dropped in preparation, and with one last fitful look at the mirror, then Tim, you opened the door.

“Hello, Mother. Father.” You said with a gracious smile, sweeping your arm to the side. “Come in, please.”

Your father embraced you in a quick, impersonal hug, but even as you hugged him back, your eyes were glued to your mother. She swept her gaze over what seemed like every inch of your house, searching for the invisible dust she would inevitably find. She glided a finger along a bookshelf, looked at it, scrunched her nose in silent judgement, before finally turning to you with a precise smile.

“Darling,” She said, quickly taking you in, “It has been too long since we’ve visited. God knows you don’t want to see your parents anymore, hmm?”

You forced a slight chuckle, refusing to take the openly dangling bait, “Yes, Mother. It’s been too long. Please, come join us for dinner.”

Tim watched the interact out of the corner of his eye as he made small talk with your father. On the surface, the two of them should’ve gotten along – both outwardly grumpy and work obsessed. But where Tim’s grumpiness and work obsession came from a desire to not get hurt, and to help people, your fathers came from a cold disinterest and casual cruelty. Tim had never managed to force himself to like your father, but he pretended to, for your sake. In Tim’s eyes, it was a miracle you’d turned out to be such a soft, kind person. One hand on the small of your back, the other gesturing as he spoke to your mother, he led your family into the dining room, where the meal you’d slaved away at for hours sat waiting.

--

“So, Timothy,” Your mother asked, setting down her cutlery, “How’s Y/n treating you as a wife?” The was a sharpness in her town that made your skin prickle – the kind of sharpness that came right before a criticism, thinly veiled in polite conversation. Your father had an ever so slight smirk on his face, but he chewed his food silently.

Tim opened his mouth to respond, to brag with great pride about how lucky he was to have married you, when your mother interrupted him.

“I mean, if this is the standard of meals she’s making you, I can’t imagine marriage is living up to everything you dreamed.” Your mother made direct eye contact with you as she said that, her eyes seeming to pierce directly into your soul.

Your cutlery clattered to the table. Luckily, you were holding it only a few centimetres from the wood, and it barely made a sound. Just enough for Tim to reach out and clutch your thigh under the table, a silent comfort.

“Actually, Mrs. Taylor, I love the food that Y/n makes for me. I’m very lucky to call her my wife.”

For a brief moment, a scowl flashed over your mother’s face. Then she laughed, the sound high and sharp, and utterly fake. “Oh, I jest, I jest, darling. I’m sure Y/n here wouldn’t dream of letting you down. Would you, dear?”

“Of course not, Mother.” You replied, the food you’d earlier thought so delicious turning to cardboard in your mouth. It was an effort to swallow.

Your father chuckled at that, adding, “Our Y/n always knows better than to let people down, hmm?”

Your smile was as weak as your response was noncommittal.

--

Things were… okay for the next few days. Not good, but not as bad as it could’ve been. Tolerable. Your parents were always nicer when Tim was around, covering their critiques with smiles and sharp laughter.

So, when Tim announced he had to run tac support for Lucy for a few days, and your parents had another five of their visit, you almost broke down in tears. You had no problem with him going undercover – he’d done it a couple of times before, as tactical support, and you knew it was relatively safe. But you hadn’t been truly alone with your parents for years, and you didn’t want to be now.

Still, you couldn’t exactly explain that to Tim, not without telling him a lot more about your past then you really wanted to, so you swallowed your fears, kissed Tim goodbye, and prayed that it would be a short assignment.

Things went downhill quickly. Your parents stopped covering their insults, and you woke up each day feeling like you were seventeen again, crumpling under the weight of their words and expectations. It wasn’t long until you were at the end of your tether, and a casual insult turned into a proper argument.

“You know, he’s probably cheating on you.” Your mother’s word were completely unprompted, the two of you sitting next to each other on the sofa, browsing Netflix.

Your blood chilled. “Excuse me?”

“Timothy, dear,” repeated your mother. “I mean, honestly, what do you expect? He’s spending all his time with this… Lucy woman, and you’ve really let yourself go since you two got married.”

You took a deep breath and tried to keep your tone steady. You ignored the insult and simply addressed the accusation. “I trust Tim, Mother. And I trust Lucy. She was at our wedding, and I work with her every day. They would never do that.” You pushed off the couch, walking around the lounge room.

Your mother hummed noncommittally, and of course your father chimed in. “Y/n, all your mother is saying, is that men… well, they have desires. And if Tim feels you aren’t satisfying him as a wife…”

“He doesn’t.”

Your mother plastered on a sharp smile, “Good, then. Because Lord knows it’s embarrassing enough for us to tell our friends back in New York that you’ve moved here to become a cop, instead of a lawyer, but to have you be divorced? It would be pathetic, even for you.”

You scoffed, the tiny bit of the patience you had left disappearing. “It’s a good thing I’m not getting divorced, then.” You winced at the snap in your tone.

The shift on your mother’s face was instant, moving from bland cruelty to cold anger, and she pushed herself off the couch You felt your head snapping to the side before you felt the sting of the slap. Your mother grabbed your collared shirt, pulling you close.

“How dare you speak to me in that tone. You are nothing. You’re lucky we didn’t cut you off when you abandoned your family and moved out here like a little shit. Do you know how embarrassing that was for us? How much of an embarrassment you are? Where did our perfect little daughter go, hmm? Why do you insist on being such a failure?”

You stared forward, tears welling in your eyes. Your cheek stung, and you could tell a red print was already forming. Before you could open your mouth to come up with a half-hearted defence, a cold voice cut through the room.

“Get your hands off my wife.”

Your mother dropped you instantly, and you turned to see Tim, a little dirty and a lot furious, glaring at your parents from the doorway.

Ever defensive, your mother spat out, “What did you just say to me?”

Tim stalked forward, towering over your mother, “I said ‘get your filthy hands off my fucking wife.” His voice was a low snarl. “Get out of our home. Now. Before I arrest you for assault and harassment.”

Your fathers jaw dropped, “Excuse me-.”

“I said GET. OUT.” Tim’s voice was so full of venom, that even not directed at you, it made you flinch.

Your mother grabbed her purse with a huff, and, with one last glare at you, scurried out of your house, your father following behind her.

Instantly, Tim was in front of you, leading you to the sofa with gentle hands and warm concern.

“Are you okay?” He asked softly, eyes flickering over the palm-shaped mark on your cheek.

You shook your head numbly, unsure what to say. You’d never wanted him to see this, and a few stray tears fell down your cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Tim pulled you against his chest, gently rocking forward and backwards. The soft touch was all it took for you to start sobbing, clutching his shirt in shaking fists. All the while, he rocked you and stroked your hair, whispering comforting words into your ear.

When your tears finally subsided, you pulled back and sniffled.

“Has this happened before?” Tim asked, and even though he tried to soften his voice, he couldn’t quite hide the rage that was clearly racing through him.

Still unable to speak, you just nodded.

Tim cursed under his breath, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? Has this been happening all your life?”

You pulled your knees to your chest and wiped the heel of your palm against your nose. No point in hiding it now, you supposed. You took a shaky breath, and forced yourself to say, “Yes. It has.” Tim glowered. “I don’t know… I didn’t want to tell you. You… you had such an awful childhood, your father was such a monster, and I didn’t want you to think I was trying to one up you. Besides, I grew up so lucky, I mean, you know how loaded my parents are… I was worried… I…” Your voice broke. “No one ever believed me. When I was a kid. Even when I’d go to school with bruises, people would look at my parents and the circles we were in and assume I was just clumsy or deserved it. The only person I ever told laughed in my face. I guess I just… I didn’t want to be that stuck up little rich girl complaining about mommy and daddy being mean.” Your face was wet, and guilt writhed in your stomach. Guilt at lying, guilt at telling the truth, guilt over your parent’s words, but still, you continued to speak. Continued to pour your heart and soul out to your husband.

Tim’s face crumpled in time with his heart as he listened to you tell the whole sordid tale. When you finally stopped speaking, he was silent. After a moment of just staring at you, he just pulled you into another hug.

“I am so, so, sorry, my love,” he whispered, stroking a hand over your back, “I’m sorry that happened to you, I’m sorry you were born to such bastard parents, I’m sorry no one believed you, I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me, I… I’m just sorry. You didn’t deserve that. And they’re wrong. You’re not pathetic. Or a failure. Or anything else they’ve ever said.”

At that, Tim pulled back slightly and looked directly into your eyes. Into your soul. “You are the most important part of my life, Y/n. I am here for anything, anything, you need, and it kills me that you were hurting in silence this whole time. But never again, okay? We’re going to deal with this together – whatever you want to do. I will never let those bastards hurt you again.”

And for maybe the first time, you believed him.

--

FIN.

hope you enjoyed :) i love protective tim

[fluentmoviequoter]

Words to Die By

The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover

-> Part 2: Strikes to Die By

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader

Summary: Seven years after failing to become an LAPD officer, you return to Los Angeles as a literary analyst with the FBI's behavioral analysis unit to catch a serial killer.

Warnings: angst, violence, discussions of autopsies and forensic science, literary references, fluff and banter, improper use of a meat locker

Word Count: 13k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

As the slick black SUV with US government plates parks outside the LAPD Mid-Wilshire station, you try not to reminisce. It would be too easy to remember how excited you were to walk in on your first day after the police academy, too easy to remember the devastation and heartbreak you felt walking through the same doors after surrendering your badge. You open the car door and focus on the current job, keeping your head down as you follow your team into the station that once felt like home. After finding an empty space out of the officers’ way to wait while your boss speaks to the watch commander and captain, you unlock your phone and scroll through the case details you reviewed on the flight, looking for anything you might have missed.

“Can I help you?”

You look up from your phone, the case detail email disappearing as you press the power button and smile at the LAPD officer standing before you.

“Sorry, I’m waiting for the rest of my team,” you explain before brandishing your badge.

“Oh, no worries. This is my first time working in a task force,” she replies. “It’s exciting.”

You nod and subconsciously tug on your sleeves. Officer Chen is obviously a rookie, and her enthusiasm is refreshing.

“Is this your first time in LA?” she asks.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Chen, Bradford wants to see you before roll call,” another officer calls.

“Is Bradford your training officer?” you ask.

“He is. Do you know him?”

You look around, then say, “Tim is on, what? His tenth plain clothes day washout?”

“Eleventh,” she answers, surprised.

“Nice to meet you, Officer Chen.” You offer your hand and say, “I’m number five.”

Chen’s jaw drops before she asks, “And now you’re FBI? How did that happen?”

“Long story… But I’m a literary analyst for the behavioral analysis unit, not exactly a field agent.”

A passing officer stops, then steps backward to look at you. “Are you on Hotchner’s team?”

“I am. I assume you remember him?”

“You know an FBI agent, Officer Lopez?” Chen asks.

“He was responsible for over 100 convictions of corrupt cops six or seven years ago. Five of them were LAPD, and one was our watch commander,” Lopez explains. “Chen, we need to get to roll call.”

You nod to Lucy, then return your attention to an email from Penelope.

“Your phone should be at least twelve inches from your face to limit blue light exposure,” Spencer says as he enters the station. “Sixteen to eighteen inches is preferable.”

“Spencer,” you reply, smiling as you turn toward him. “Penelope used what appears to be 6-point font and then zoomed out. I appreciate the concern for my eye health but take it up with her.”

Spencer frowns and murmurs, “Sounds like a job for Morgan.”

“What’s that, pretty boy?” Derek inquires as if he was summoned by the utterance of his name. “Gettin’ girlie here a date?”

“In Los Angeles?” you ask incredulously. “Hard pass.”

“Right, because the location is the issue with the plan. Not the fact that we’re working a case, and new evidence was discovered this morning,” Hotch deadpans from your side.

“I can multitask, boss man,” Derek defends, tossing his arm over your shoulders.

“Psychologists have determined the human brain isn’t designed for successful multitasking,” Reid begins. “It can cause switch cost, which results when attention and information retainment are suddenly redirected from one task to another, and cognitive efficiency and performance diminish-“

“Says the walking brain with at least fourteen tabs open,” Derek jokes.

“They’re waiting for us,” Hotch reminds. “I mean, only if you’re ready.”

“Your station,” Derek tells you, shaking your shoulders gently as he follows you toward the roll call room.

“… and there is no excuse for failure to communicate,” Sergeant Wade Grey continues as you follow Hotch into the roll call room.

You stand between Hotch and Derek as he speaks and look around the room. Fourteen officers are seated at the tables, listening intently even as their eyes stray to the case board. JJ joins you a moment later, mouthing an apology to Hotch before passing him a folder.

“More evidence?” you whisper.

She nods, then whispers something to Spencer, who furrows his brows and squints at the case board. You know the look, and it increases your concern about the case. Though there have been two notes and a book tied to the previous crime scenes, you’re unsure why  Hotch decided you needed to join them in LA. You could have stayed in Virginia with Penelope, you think, but you trust him and the rest of your team. Turning away from JJ, you fight the urge to peek into Hotch’s open folder as you run your eyes up and down the rows of officers. You recognize Chen and Lopez from this morning, but stop when you see Tim Bradford.

Hotch notices your shoulders stiffen in the split second before you relax, and he taps his elbow against you. You look up at him, and he nods once to reassure you. You’re not alone, and unlike the last time you were in this station, someone else knows the truth of what happened.

“Any questions about the case?” Grey asks. He sighs when someone raises their hand and says, “Yes, Nolan?”

Nolan doesn’t seem concerned with Grey’s lethargy. “What’s the connection between the zoo and the first victim?”

Spencer shifts beside you, and Derek shakes his head in amusement. You can imagine the rambling fighting to get out of Reid, and you smile at Derek rather than laugh.

“I should’ve been clearer. Any questions about our side of the investigation?” Grey amends, and this time the officers stay quiet. “In that case, I’d like to introduce Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner of the FBI, the BAU unit chief, who has brought his team across the country to assist in this case.”

Hotch walks to the front of the room and sets his files on the podium. He fixes an evaluating glare on the officers before him, then nods.

JJ leans toward you and asks, “Remember how intimidating that look used to be?”

“Still makes me stand up a little straighter,” you admit.

“We’re here to help,” Hotch begins. “But that means that we need you to be as committed to solving this case as we are. If you’re not ready for that, you’re free to go.” No one moves, so Hotch says, “Good. Sergeant Grey has briefed me on each of you. You’re good officers, but street smarts and police procedure won’t get this monster off the street.”

“But talking about the suspect’s feelings will?” one of the officers jokes.

Hotch’s eyebrows raise, and his serious look fades into a knowing glare. “You must be Bradford.”

JJ takes your hand, and Derek exhales. They know more about your history in LA than the people in LA do, and you appreciate their friendship and presence.

“Sorry, sir,” Tim replies. “I only meant that there is tangible evidence at these scenes, and it seems to me that concrete proof will help us find this guy faster than dissecting his mind through his habits and words.”

Hotch returns behind the podium and admits, “I understand how our process could seem like a waste of time, and criminal profiling is not an exact science, we’re wrong sometimes, but you know as well as I do that there’s no one right way to solve a crime. The important thing in this situation is to get a killer off the streets before he claims more lives. If our behavioral analysis can assist in that, we’d appreciate your cooperation.”

“I can assure you that you have the LAPD’s complete cooperation,” Sergeant Grey interjects, looking pointedly at Tim. “And anyone unwilling to do so will be removed from this task force.”

Tim crosses his arms across his chest and nods, a position you remember well from your limited days as a rookie. You expected this type of attitude from him and possibly more cops. You truly believe that the BAU can offer insights Tim can’t glean from analyzing a crime scene or going through the processed evidence.

“Do any of you have questions for me or my communications liaison?” Hotch asks.

Several officers ask questions about task force protocol, what your team does, and other run-of-the-mill inquiries about the federal agency and its duties.

“I believe it is time for introductions?” Hotch says, stepping to the side as he welcomes Sergeant Grey back to the front of the room.

“The LAPD has selected fourteen of its best officers-“ He turns away from the room and lowers his voice to tell Hotch, “If you’re against rookies on the team, I’ve got some other officers on standby.”

“If you trust them, they’re welcome to stay.”

Grey nods and turns, then continues, “Officer Lopez, Officer Bishop and her rookie, John Nolan, Officer Janssen…”

You tune out most of the officers’ names, trusting Spencer to fill in any blanks for you, until you hear, “Officer Bradford and his rookie, Lucy Chen.”

You were in Lucy’s position just over seven years ago, and now you’re looking in from the outside. You love your job and appreciate the FBI and the BAU for giving you a home and a rewarding career. Yet, sometimes you’re still plagued by the inevitable wondering, what if?

“Pleasure to meet you all,” Hotch responds. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner, behind you is my team: Special Agents Reid, Morgan, Jareau…” Hotch meets your eyes before introducing you, and you watch him rather than Tim, who turns quickly in his chair and stares wide-eyed at you before controlling his expression and returning to his usual composed demeanor.

“How is a literary analyst helpful?” someone questions softly.

“This unit has taken down more serial criminals than you can name,” Wade snaps. “Show a little respect.”

“We’d like to brief you before the media,” Hotch explains. “If it’s possible to reconvene before tomorrow’s patrol begins, of course.”

“Not a problem. I want all of you back in here fifteen minutes before beginning of shift tomorrow,” Wade tells his officers. “Keep the conversation in this room, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the officers respond as they stand and file out of the door, some whispering together, others leaving quietly and alone.

“I think that went well,” Derek says as Hotch gathers his things.

“Socially speaking, there was a divide and a complete lack of faith in us,” Spencer argues. “Though there is the question of authority and a misunderstanding regarding our purpose and purview.”

“Pretty boy and I are going to go find some coffee.”

As Derek and Spencer leave, and JJ excuses herself to answer a phone call, you’re left alone with your current supervisor and former watch commander.

“It’s good to see you,” Wade says, smiling as he pulls you into a hug.

“You, too,” you respond. “Sorry I haven’t been back as much as I’d like.”

“I understand,” Wade assures. “And it seems that you’ve found your perfect place in the BAU.”

“We like to think so,” Hotch agrees. “Although…”

“Bradford won’t be a problem,” you interrupt.

Hotch tilts his head questioningly, and you add, “He fights back on new things, but he’s a good cop, so he’ll do what’s right in the end.”

Hotch hesitates, then asks, “Do you trust him?”

“With my life.”

“He’s the best I’ve got,” Wade comments. “But if there’s a question about him…”

“He’s Morgan, but more serious,” you tell Hotch. He doesn’t change his stare, so you sigh and promise, “I want him here. There’s no bad blood between us and he’s going to be invaluable in this.”

Hotch nods and looks away from you finally and begins asking Wade about one of the files turned in the night before, which you understand as your cue to leave. After you step out into the bullpen, Derek returns to your side.

“Where’s Spencer?” you ask, looking over his shoulder.

“Telling Officer Chen about the health benefits of doing something boring. How are you?”

“I’m okay. Hotch doesn’t seem to think so.”

Derek gasps and holds your shoulder to exclaim, “You have two overprotective father figures to work for now!”

You consider arguing for less than a second before you realize he’s right. Wade stayed in touch after you left LA. Hotch has never left room for you to wonder how he sees you and his need to protect you. So, you’re working on a case that feels like two different versions of your personality, and parts of your life have combined into one perfect yet terrifying case. And you haven’t even talked to Tim yet.

“I hope our hotel has a hot tub,” you lament.

“Plain clothes day washout number five, huh?” Lucy asks Tim as they patrol Los Angeles.

Tim shakes his head and doesn’t answer. He’s gone seven years without talking about you, only having to relive the heartbreak on your face and the disappointment he felt during his loneliest nights. Tim saw great potential in you, considered you more than a rookie, and taking your badge had affected him in a way he never expected. Now, you’re in the FBI, which is news to him, and you’re working on a case that he hasn’t been able to solve even with ten crime scenes to work with.

“What happened?” Lucy tries.

“None of your business, Chen,” he snaps. “That case, Hotchner’s team, all of it stays in the roll call room for now. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

A bell chimes above your head as you enter your favorite Los Angeles diner. It’s your first night in the city, and since you don’t know how long you’ll be here, you wanted to revisit it while you had a chance. When you mentioned the diner, your team gave you their orders to bring to the hotel, where they’re currently reviewing the autopsy reports. It feels wrong to leave them, but you sigh in the comfort of a place that once provided you a refuge after long days.

“Old habits?” you ask as you approach the counter.

Tim looks up from the laminate and watches you. You don’t meet his gaze but look at the menu while you wait for the waitress to return. This was your favorite diner when you started at the LAPD, and Tim has never given himself time to wonder why he kept coming back even after you left.

“Something like that,” he says. “So, uh, the FBI. That’s incredible.”

You shrug. “Not what I wanted, but I love it.”

Tim nods, unsure what else to say. You’re not the girl you were on day one in the academy, not even the girl who left the station in tears after washing out. Tim still sees you, the woman who fought for what was right never gave up, and was smarter than she ever realized. That’s not the person he saw your last week on patrol, but he knew you were still in there somewhere.

“How long have you been with the BAU?” he inquires.

The waitress returns, and you take the excuse to not answer Tim. You retrieve your phone from your pocket and read a large order from the screen, then pass a shiny, FBI-issued credit card over the counter.

“It’ll be a few minutes, hun,” the waitress informs as she returns the card. “Feel free to have a seat.”

You thank her and slide onto a stool, ensuring you leave an empty seat between you and Tim.

“Failing to become a police officer was one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced,” you confess. “A few months later, Aaron Hotchner knocked on my door. There was a case nearby, a serial rapist who was leaving personalized love letters with every single victim. He found my résumé on a local job board and came to ask for help because of my background. The rest just fell into place, I guess.”

“You get to carry,” Tim points out, gesturing toward the holster on your hip, concealed from everyone else by your shirt. “They don’t let people who just ‘fall into place’ do that.”

“I did everything by the book, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m wondering what changed on plain clothes day,” he responds. “You were on track to be an amazing officer, and then that last week, you just… something changed.”

“I did.”

“There’s more to it.”

“There’s really not,” you insist. “If you don’t want to be on this task force-“

“I do. I wish you could see that you have the potential to lead it.”

“Hotch saved my life. I trust him.” Tim understands the part you don’t say: that you trust him more than yourself.

The waitress returns with two full bags, and you stand as you take them from the counter.

“Goodnight, Tim. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow.”

As you leave, the bell chimes over the door again, and Tim hears your voice in his head, the promise of another chance, but he doesn't miss the fact that you leave every time you see each other.

“What if - and hear me out on this - you just told him the truth,” Derek suggests.

You take a drink from a cheap Styrofoam cup and nod. “You’re right, Derek, why didn’t I think of that?”

“You know, most hotel chains serving breakfast fail to maintain proper culinary heat-“

Hotch raises one finger before Spencer can ruin breakfast for everyone. “Don’t.”

“I agree with Morgan,” JJ says. “There’s clearly questions there, and if you explain what happened, he’ll trust you more.”

“And he can deal with some of the guilt,” Hotch grumbles.

“What guilt?” you inquire, pausing with a cheap metal fork in your hand.

“He clearly blames himself for letting you lose your position,” Hotch explains.

“He knows how good you are, so that final week probably doesn’t make any sense to him,” Derek adds.

“He doesn’t,” you mutter. “He told me last night-“

“You saw him last night?” JJ exclaims.

“I ran into him at the diner.”

“He still goes to your diner?” Derek questions.

“It’s just a diner! But I saw him there and he insisted that there was more to what happened than me changing.”

“And you lied to him?” Hotch responds. “It’s over, you can tell him, you can shout it from the top of the Chinese theater.”

“That would be illegal,” Spencer mumbles.

“And wouldn’t change anything,” you add. “We’re here to work a case, not mend a bridge that has been-“ you scramble for the right word before finishing, “disintegrating for nearly a decade.”

Derek groans as he leans back in his seat, and Hotch finally looks up to say, “If this gets in the way of the case, I’ll have Garcia email him everything he needs to know.”

“I’m cutting holes in all of your quarter-zips tonight,” you threaten in return.

Hotch frowns and mouths, You’ll never find them all.

“Good morning,” Sergeant Grey calls as the door closes behind the twentieth and final member of the task force. “SSA Hotchner is going to fill you all in.”

“Thanks for coming in early,” Hotch begins. “There have been no new developments in the case since yesterday, but my team has created a preliminary profile based on the preexisting evidence and details from the first ten victims.”

Your phone buzzes with an incoming call from Garcia, and you exit the room to answer. “Whatcha got for us, gorgeous?”

“Ooh, does Derek know you’re talking to me like this?” she replies, her keyboard clicking in the background.

“Not like he’s competition,” you say with a playful scoff. “Find anything on the deep dive?”

“Nothing inherently helpful. The prelim suspects are all pretty similar, though one of them did alibi out. Carson Gillery was working remotely from Chicago during the second and third murders. Hotel and airline checks corroborate that.”

“I’ll tell Hotch. Anything else?”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine. Why?”

She stops typing suddenly and then inhales sharply.

“Garcia?” You ask.

The line beeps as she disconnects, and a phone on the desk closest to you begins ringing. A Virginia area code appears on the caller ID, and you stretch across the desk to pick up the receiver.

“Penelope?” you ask hurriedly.

“He’s in the data!” she explains, typing again. “He’s not doing much, but someone is overriding minor coding and there was another line tied into our call. I could hear him breathing; thought you were crying at first, but now I’m running a backward search to find this psycho.”

“None of the prelim suspects would know how to do that,” you point out.

“Uh oh,” Penelope breathes. “I think…  I think he left you a message.”

“What is it?”

“It’s in the seventh victim’s ME report, overwriting the details of the posthumous wounding to the back. It says 2/18/17… It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”

“Henley,” you murmur, trying to connect the dots as you forget the first half of the message.

“There’s more,” Penelope says. “A copy of your one-way ticket to Virginia with an alternate ID that says, ‘thanks for the perfect opening night.’”

“It’s about me?” you whisper.

“I’m going to trace these messages,” Penelope declares. “You tell Hotch about this, and please, please do not try to investigate this on your own.”

“You got it. But can you send me a scan of page 39, no- 38, from the William Ernest Henley book in my office? I need the annotated copy of Invictus.”

“You got it. Tell Morgan and I said hi and I’m wearing-“

You hang up and take a deep breath as you return the receiver to the cradle.

“Agent Hotchner,” you call as you return. “I need a word.”

“Let me finish-“

“There’s been a development,” you interrupt. “An urgent one.”

Hotch sees the look in your eyes and calls Spencer to the front of the room to continue reviewing the patterns in the killings and to discuss the psychological traits and drivers they suspect the killer will have. Derek watches as Hotch and Grey follow you out of the roll call room. Meanwhile, JJ watches Officer Tim Bradford as he manages to conceal his concern but not his interest as he watches you through the glass walls.

“Garcia called with information on the prelim suspects,” you explain. “Someone tapped into the call, and then… whoever it was started manipulating her date on the FBI server. She did say that Carson Gillery alibied out, he was out of state for several of the murders, but whoever this guy is, he is incredibly close to this case.”

“Manipulated the data how?” Hotch asks.

You wring your fingers together as you answer, “He left a message. Garcia thinks it was for me.”

“Left it where?” Grey inquires.

“The seventh victim Mel Houghton’s autopsy report. It was a date and a line from a William Ernest Henley poem.”

“The date?” Hotch presses.

You inhale deeply before saying, “February 18, 2017.”

“The day you lost your position in the LAPD,” Grey remembers. “What does it mean?”

You look toward Hotch, and he shakes his head twice. There isn’t an obvious answer to Grey’s question, but the implication that this case has something to do with you isn’t good.

“He… he also had a picture of my plane ticket to Virginia and added a note, something about ‘thanks for the opening night,’” you add. “Hotch, if you have to take me off this case-“

“We need you,” he interjects. “The literary aspect of this case is progressing.”

“Does that mean we could limit our suspect search?” Wade asks, looking between you and Hotch.

“Not likely,” you reply with a sigh. “Plenty of literature enjoyers can’t be located purely based on that. There’s no evidence he’s educated or active in book clubs, debates, anything.”

“Garcia’s tracing the data changes?” Hotch assumes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we work what we can until she gets back to us.”

“I need to see the novellas left with the victims,” you request. Hotch begins to speak, and you add, “Not the scans, the actual, physical stories left with their bodies.”

“I’ll get someone to go through the evidence with you,” Wade assures. “Any preference?”

You look into the roll call room through the glass sheeting, your eyes drifting past Tim as you decide, “Officer Chen, please.”

Wade nods once, then returns to the podium inside as Spencer concludes his comments on the psychology of the killer’s modus operandi.

“What are you expecting to find?” Hotch asks you.

“I really wish I knew,” you answer softly. “Hotch, what if this is all my fault?”

“The delusions of a killer have nothing to do with you. If something you did as an officer triggered him to start, there is no reason to assume he wouldn’t have started later. He’s clearly reality-challenged, living in a space between this world and the events of his imagination, and that is not on you.”

You nod, rubbing your forehead as you think. “Literature is clearly important to him. If it comes to it, will you let me go with JJ to a press conference?”

Hotch hesitates, and you know he doesn’t like the idea of putting his team in public view, unless absolutely necessary, but he says, “Fine. Only if it gets that far.”

“Hotch? February 2017 had massive storms. Urban flooding, mudslides, wind, snowfall, there was mayhem that week. I mean, a police chase with a DUI driver, a car fell into a sinkhole. I used some of those cases to…” You trail off, remembering all of the things you did wrong.

“Talk to me,” Hotch encourages.

“Any one of the people who had contact with the LAPD that weekend could have been pushed over the edge. He could have been killing for seven years, since whatever happened, but just got bold and brazen enough to make it public.”

Hotch leaves your side for a moment to wave Spencer out. When he joins you and Hotch in the bullpen, Hotch gestures for you to explain your theory.

“I suppose,” Spencer muses. “The killings have progressed minimally since the first victim three months ago. It does point toward a more practiced unsub, someone who has, in their mind, perfected their method. Yes, it’s completely possible.”

“The books,” Hotch points out. “Those are new. Unsolved cases with novellas or poems shoved down victims’ throats would have caught someone’s attention by now.”

“Serial killers gain experience with each new offense,” Spencer explains. “The learning curve is steep because of the logistics it takes to commit a murder. If he’s been killing without being caught, the thrill of killing would empower him to take more chances. In this case, the trophy aspect of his MO could easily have changed, but his idiosyncratic psychological needs remain the same.”

“We don’t have enough people to comb through seven years of cold cases to find similar killings,” you lament.

“We do have the media,” JJ interjects, sliding her phone into her pocket as she approaches. “It’s a long shot, but if we could find one or two, would it be enough to complete a profile?”

“An estimate of how long he’s been at this, with Garcia’s trace and the analysis of the literature at the scene… Yes, we could establish a firm MO and improve the unsub’s psychological profile.”

“Hold on,” Derek urges into his phone as he joins the rest of your team. He looks at you and says, “Give me your phone.”

You pass it to him, and he flips it in his free hand as he listens. He gives you an apologetic look and then drops it.

“Morgan!” Hotch exclaims as Derek brings the heel of his boot down on your phone screen.

“Unless Penelope told you to do that, I’m going to be very mad,” you say.

“Alright, baby girl, tell us all,” Derek requests as he puts his phone on speaker.

“I found our guy, or his IP address at least,” Penelope says.

“And?” Hotch asks. “Where is he?”

“That’s the thing. He’s in an apartment a few miles from the station.”

You recite your previous address and Penelope murmurs, “That’s the one.”

Penelope explains how she traced his data trail before you interrupt to ask, “Is there anything about another cop in it?”

“Uh, there were some numbers,” she answers.

“34381?” you guess. “And 6147?”

“Amongst others, yeah. Do they mean something to you?”

“One is Officer Bradford’s badge number. The other is Sergeant Kenneth Adamson.”

“I’ll run the rest of the numbers against the LAPD database and get back to you.”

“Are all of our phones in need of stomping?” Spencer asks before Penelope hangs up.

“Not yet,” she replies, and then the line clicks.

“Running everything is going to take too long,” you complain. “He’s probably already targeted his next victim. He could be writing the novella for all we know!”

“His system is organized,” Spencer explains. “We can use that. The past victims have been a week or more apart. Even if he does change his timeline because we’re here, he needs time to plan, write, correct?”

“Yes,” you answer. “He could do it overnight if the circumstances called for it.”

“Assuming he’ll take a break between kills, however…”

“We have two days,” Derek concludes. “Let’s hope he’s not too organized, doc.”

“He’s a criminal,” JJ says. “They all get stupid and forgetful.”

“We don’t change anything. He’s changing the rules, pushing himself, but we’re not playing his game,” Hotch says. “And, for the moment, we keep the LAPD connection to ourselves.”

“What if they could help?” JJ argues.

“No.”

“Act like we have a week, and he won’t expect us to be ready to go,” you say. “In that case, I’ll start analyzing the literature.”

“Speaking of which.” JJ pulls a paper from her bag and says, “The homicide detective said CSI found this on a secondary scene analysis.”

You read the scan of the evidence, and your eyes widen as you look up at Derek. “Good thing you came with. He’s building a bomb.”

“Whoa,” Derek says with little intonation in his voice, but his hands raise as he moves his head in surprise. “Explain the progression from writing stories to bombs.”

“Postmodern literature is the most recent literary movement that contains vulgarity in diction and violence. It’s often used as an authentic portrayal of humanity, depicting violence against gender, race, and the human body,” Spencer answers. “Epic poetry was one of the first storytelling forms to depict interpersonal violence.”

Derek rolls his eyes at Spencer’s reply to the rhetorical question, and you add, “The Victorian literary period was marked by violence through the use of suffering and physical dangers as literary themes. The gothic genre aestheticized the darker elements of human life, explored sexual violence, dramatic monologues, and realistic violence like robbery, beheadings, even serial murders.”

“Which affects us how?” Hotch inquires.

“William Ernest Henley was a prominent figure in the later years of the Victorian movement. He sent lines from Invictus to Garcia, and that piece has been the poem of choice for extremists and terrorists to justify their violence in the last few years. There is some hardship beyond our killer’s control, and this is how he’s dealing with it.”

“Still doubting your hypothesis?” Hotch deadpans.

“Wouldn’t he have to stop all of the suffering somehow?” JJ asks.

“Yes. But he hasn’t decided on an endgame yet, we’ll see the signs of that when it comes. The beginning of a plan for a bomb isn’t concerning yet. For now, we continue as planned, but he will likely strike again in 24 to 48 hours.”

“They’re getting concerned,” Derek whispers, waving toward the roll call room.

“I’ll handle them. You have your assignments,” Hotch states. “We reconvene tonight after end of shift.”

“Yes, sir,” you agree with the rest of your team.

As you return to the roll call room between JJ and Derek, you keep your eyes on the front of the room, ignoring how Tim turns to look at you. Hotch gives an acceptable excuse for your team’s private meeting and then provides tasks with Sergeant Wade.

“What about me?” Lucy asks as the other officers exit into the bullpen.

“You’re with me,” you reply, stepping toward her as you smile. “If that’s okay.”

“Yes!” Lucy cheers. She clears her throat and amends, “Yes, of course, I’d love to help.”

“Keep me updated,” Hotch tells you.

“Yes, sir. Oh, and…” You move your fingers in a scissor motion to remind him of your previous threat before concluding, “Spencer has the information you asked for.”

Hotch nods once, and Wade smiles. Suddenly, you’re hit with the feeling of being torn apart, stuck between the life you wanted and the one you have. When the case is solved and the killer is behind bars, you’ll have to leave these people again. At least you’ve finally remembered that planes travel both ways.

“Ten victims,” you say as you pin the last picture to the bulletin board in the office you and Lucy have set up. “Six novellas, a book, two pamphlets, and a bloody poem.”

Lucy’s eyes follow the red thread connecting the victims to their evidence and the order of the killings as you stare at the T.S. Eliot poem from the fifth scene with your hands on your hips.

Plus, a William Ernest Henley poem meant to bring me into the killer’s world, you think.

“Ready?” you ask Lucy.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You laugh and invite her to use your first name, then spread the evidence pictures from the first murder on the metal desk. It isn’t the same as reviewing the physical books and poems, the thick paper holding the twisted ideas of a serial killer left warm from the printer beside the lives he claimed for the sake of his own story. It’s the best you can do for now.

“Janice Davis, our first victim. The killer stapled a San Diego Zoo pamphlet to her chest.” You flip through the case file and add, “Antemortem. Ouch.”

“That looks like a building staple,” Lucy muses, leaning over the picture.

“It is. Your forensics lab determined it’s a Powernail galvanized seven-eighths inch crown staple. Intended purpose is woodworking and flooring, and one side of the staple extends out at an angle, so even if she was conscious long enough to try removing it… well, it would’ve hurt more to take it out.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Unknown,” you read, furrowing your brows. “Manner of death: homicide. But it looks like they couldn’t determine the cause. Any chance ME Daniella Smith is still around?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy confesses. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sorry, you’re good at this, I keep forgetting you’re a rookie.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever told me.”

You smile, then return to the evidence before you. “The next victim, Gregory Hunter, was found with a copy of Orwell’s Animal Farm open beneath his head. The page, as far as I can tell, is irrelevant.”

“Then what’s the point of leaving it there?”

“Hunter was Davis’s boss, and apparently they had been involved a few years prior to working together. Animal Farm presents Orwell’s ideas on power, equality, socialism and corruption.”

“All things the San Diego Zoo has been accused of abusing throughout history,” Lucy adds. “Along with the animals.”

“Precisely. Then it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that our killer was wronged by a failing class structure, abuse of power and control, inequality, or socialism.”

“That’s a lot of options.”

“Which is why we keep looking. Victim number three had a personalized novella…”

“The method of killing has been consistent with every victim. They’re injured, kept alive for three to twelve hours, and then killed. Janice Davis, victim one, was ruled as undetermined cause of death, but there was no evidence of blunt force trauma, gunshot wounds or poisoning, which we’d expect based on the sudden killings of the others,” Spencer explains.

“You can tune him out,” Derek whispers. “When his voice drops an octave, he’s about to ask a question.”

Tim nods, but he wasn’t listening to begin with. His mind keeps drifting to thoughts of you. He watched you talk to your team, has worked with you, and knows the depth of your talent and potential. Yet he continues to wonder how you truly came to work at such an elite division in the FBI and what you’re hiding.

“Do any of you have experience with crime scene investigation?” Spencer asks.

Several officers raise their hands, including Angela. Tim has guarded scenes and looked around on his own time, but he isn’t sure when his unique skills will be required for this case.

“Morgan,” Hotch calls from the doorway. “Take an officer to gather the literary evidence. Someone with a station ID has to sign it out for us.” He looks towards the front of the room and sighs. “And tell Spencer to wrap it up.”

“Doctor Morgan,” Derek calls as he stands. “Perhaps we should move on to the evidence snapshots and physical profile?”

Spencer nods and shifts his attention to the tools and proposed appearance of the killer.

“I’ve got a station ID,” Tim tells Derek. “If you need that evidence now.”

Derek sighs but waves for Tim to join him. He remains quiet while they walk to the evidence lockers, largely because he’s evaluating Tim. Derek knows about your time in Los Angeles, and even if he did encourage you to talk to Tim, he isn’t sure if Tim deserves your time.

“You were military?” Derek asks as they wait for the evidence to be thoroughly signed out and accounted for.

“Army,” Tim responds. “FBI always the goal for you?”

“Oh, nah, I started as a cop up in Chicago. Things just happened.”

“Seems to be a lot of that,” Tim murmurs, remembering your ‘fell into place’ excuse.

“Why be a TO?”

Tim shrugs. He’s never had a good answer for that question, and if he starts thinking, he might get caught up on his fifth washout.

“Special Agent Morgan,” the evidence officer says as he places a large box on the ledge. “Your supervisor has to sign this form upon evidence return.”

“Got it. Thank you.”

Derek picks up the box and steps back, but the officer places another box behind it. Tim takes it without a word and follows Derek to an office with a closed door.

He taps his foot against the door and calls, “Open up, pretty girl, these muscles are just for show!”

You smile as you open the door, and Tim clenches his jaw at the realization that Derek Morgan just called you ‘pretty girl.’

“I fear you’ve mistaken me for Penelope,” you tell him as you hold the door. “Thank you so much.”

Tim nods as he places the box down, and then looks at the case board.

“Oh, Tim,” Lucy says. “Do you know if ME Daniella Smith is still working?”

“She retired,” Tim replies.

You drop your shoulders and nod. “Thanks.”

“I can get her address and phone number, though,” he offers, partially to help and partially because he hates how disappointed you look.

“That would be amazing!” you reply happily. “Lucy, feel free to go with him, move around for a few minutes.”

Lucy follows Tim, and you close the door to talk to Derek. You explain that the literature points toward class structure, abuse of power, or socialism.

“Maybe he should move to Canada instead of killing then,” Derek muses. “Have you told Hotch?”

“Not yet. There’s also the string of violence in the literature. At first, it was metaphorical violence, a symbolic representation of the dangers of power in society, but it’s gotten more blatant, more Victorian in its realism.”

“The novellas?” he guesses.

“I haven’t gotten to read them in their entirety yet, I’ll start that now, but I’d guess he’s outlining his preferred method of violence as well as the reason.”

“Think it will shed some light on the explosives schematics? Which, by the way, are pretty weak. A bomb like that would be hard pressed to flip a Prius, it wouldn’t do major damage unless it was an incredibly confined space.”

“Ask Spencer what he thinks about the space,” you suggest. “The killings have been in relatively open spaces, but he’d know better than me if it means anything.”

“I’ll run it by him if I can get a word in.”

You laugh at Derek’s joke, but he turns serious again to ask, “Are you okay? I know this can’t be easy for you, working a case here after seven years.”

“I’m okay,” you promise. “I’ll let you know if that changes and I need a Morgan hug.”

Derek smiles as he opens the door, and Tim and Lucy return soon after.

“She lives three miles from here and said she’d talk to you,” Lucy relays.

“Let me tell my team.”

Tim raises a hand to stop you as you gather your things and repeats, “She said she’d talk to you. She recognized your name.”

“Oh.” Hotch walks by the door, and you step out quickly to explain, “I found the ME who couldn’t determine Janice Davis’s cause of death. She’s retired, but lives nearby and agreed to talk to me, but only me.”

Hotch weighs his options, but when he sees Tim behind you, he suggests, “Then you should probably take your TO.”

Your eyes widen in shock, but you trust Hotch, so you nod and step back into the office.

“You don’t have to,” you begin as Tim asks, “Ready?”

You fail to find the right words for several moments, then say, “Lucy, do you want to help Agent Morgan review crime scenes for construction and security?”

“Sure! Let me know if you need more help with this stuff when you get back,” she responds. “Good luck!”

“Thanks,” you say, though you think I’ll need it.

“Do you want to drive or should I?” Tim asks once you’re alone.

You lift keys from your pocket and say, “I will. Do you think Smith will be any help?”

“We can hope.”

“Can I address the elephant in the room?” Sergeant Grey asks.

“Be my guest,” Hotch answers, not looking up from his improved profile.

“Bradford isn’t operating at his usual level.”

“She is.”

“Which is why I think there may be more to his side of the story.”

Hotch looks up to propose, “You think he had something to do with Adamson’s misconduct?”

“No,” Wade assures, “nothing like that. But two days of fire-able offenses and not a single correction from her TO? Bradford either didn’t care that she gave up or, for some reason, he wasn’t in a position to.”

“The corruption we found ran deep. There’s a chance he was hoping to get a piece of the takeaway… or he was in a similar position to her.” Hotch reaches for his phone quickly after he speaks and raises it to his ear. “Garcia, I need you to run the badge numbers again. Tell me how many of them had a direct connection to Keith Adamson.”

“One second,” Penelope requests. “Software’s running it now. Oh, the medical examiner, Smith, she resigned less than an hour after the charges against Adamson came in. Thought that was interesting.”

“That’s one connection.”

“Okay, yep, all ten of the badge numbers embedded in the coding have connections to Adamson. Seven subordinates, his captain, and two IA investigators.”

“Thanks, Garcia.” Hotch ends the call and tells Wade, “Whatever Adamson did, it wasn’t just skimming the evidence pile, it pushed our killer over the edge.”

“I remember Janice Davis,” Daniella Smith says as she passes you a mug of hot tea. “She was young, twenty-six, I believe, and had a construction staple in her sternum.”

“Your official report listed the cause of death as indiscernible,” you reply, wrapping your hands around the mug as your thigh presses against Tim’s on the small settee. “Do you remember if you may have had any hypotheses?”

Daniella sighs as she lowers into a chair across from you. “It was asphyxiation. Her mouth was sealed with superglue, and she couldn't get enough air after a few hours of lying horizontally.”

Tim looks at you before demanding, “Why didn’t you put that in the report?”

“I was scared.”

“And you think the people living here weren’t?”

“Tim,” you whisper harshly. You shake your head as Daniella shrinks in her seat. “Why were you scared, Ms. Harris?” She shakes slightly, and you give her a moment to breathe before you ask, “Did someone at the police station ask you to lie?”

She laughs once, a sad sound before she wipes her nose and corrects, “He threatened me if I didn’t.”

“Who?” Tim asks.

“Sergeant Keith Adamson. He was the watch commander at the time. My career, my life, my marriage, he threatened to ruin it all if I didn’t cover up how she was killed.”

“Was there residue?” you inquire. “From the superglue?”

“There were trace amounts, and the lab was able to identify it easily.”

“It was the only death to be covered up, why do you think that is?”

Daniella looks up quickly, her eyes wide as she states, “Because it was an experiment. The others were killed more conventional, faster: a slit throat, hammer to the temple. Her death would have taken time.”

“Was the time of death in your report accurate?” you ask. “Because it was around the same time as the others even with the changed MO.”

“It was,” she explains, “he must have taken her earlier to get a head start.”

“You said it was an experiment,” Tim repeats. “She was victim number one. If it didn’t go well, wouldn’t the others have just been an improved, or changed, MO?”

Daniella frowns, and you lean forward to ask, “How many more were there?”

Tim slams the passenger door as you return to the car. Daniella disappears from the front window, crying as you start the engine.

“The FBI will charge me if this car gets damaged,” you mumble as you shift into reverse.

“Thirty deaths that she knows of!” Tim exclaims. “How could she cover all of those up?”

“Pretty easily. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator.”

“This monster has been at it for years. You were probably on the job for some of his murders, how can you say that?”

“It’s not my place to judge everyone involved in this case, Tim. Not yours either.”

Tim scoffs, but he’s interrupted by your phone ringing. You answer by saying your last name and Hotch’s voice fills the car as he speaks.

“There’s been another murder,” he says. You slap the steering wheel before he continues, “A double murder. I’m sending you the address. Drop Bradford at the station and meet us there.”

“Yes, sir.”

After the call ends, you grit your teeth to keep yourself from yelling. You spent too much time with the retired ME, and two more people are dead now.

“I’m going with you,” Tim states.

“No, you’re not. You heard him, you’re going back to the station.”

“You need me-“

“Actually, we don’t. We have jurisdiction now, Tim,” you snap.

“Do they know about everything you did your last week on the job?” Tim challenges. “How you ignored calls, put yourself, and me, in danger just to let the clearly guilty criminals go? I mean, you let a guy get away with assault and your handcuffs!”

You don’t reply because your mind begins racing. You had forgotten about that specific incident. Your last two days on the job were a blur, just forty-eight hours you have done everything you could to forget.

“Alexander Riley,” you murmur.

“What?” Tim snaps.

“Nothing, Tim. I’m sorry you’re not happy, but you don’t have authorization to join me, and I’m done breaking the rules.”

“Convenient.”

You hit the brakes too hard as you stop outside the back entrance of the station. Tim slams the door again before he walks inside, and you shift into park to call Derek.

“Are you still at the station?” you ask when he answers.

“We’re about to leave,” he replies. “Did you beat us to the scene? You know speed limits still apply to federal agents, right?”

“No, I’m at the station too. I need you to - without raising suspicion - get Hotch and Sergeant Grey out here.”

“Okay,” he agrees slowly. “Why?”

“Because I think I know who the killer is. Bring the novella from the ninth scene, it’s Heralded Angels.”

“You got it.”

You can hear the strain in Derek’s voice, but there’s too much on your mind to dwell on his reaction right now. After Hotch, JJ, Derek, and Spencer join you in the FBI-issued SUV, you follow Sergeant Grey, driving an unmarked car, to the double murder scene.

“You had something for me?” Grey asks as you approach the townhouse.

“I do. Trust me for a few more minutes and I’ll tell you everything?”

Wade nods, and you enter the bloody living room with your team. JJ waits outside, and as you squat beside a bookcase covered in blood splatter, you know you’re right.

“Alexander Riley,” you announce, pushing against your knees to stand. “I think he’s our killer.”

“Why?” Spencer asks. “Wait, who?”

“Alexander Riley is one of the men I should have arrested my last week as a rookie.” You look toward Wade as you continue, “He assaulted a store owner while looting during a flood, and I let him get away. He ran away with my handcuffs, but I didn’t try to stop him because I was sure Sergeant Adamson would have used it against me.”

“Abuse of power,” Hotch deduces.

“Right, and class system. You know, cop doesn’t do what cop is supposed to do. So, he may have taken his escape as a sign that something needed to change.”

“Based on his killings, I’d agree that he saw a wrong that needed to be fixed, but why murder?” Wade asks. “How does that fit his idea of making things right, evening everything?”

“He chose victims he viewed as outliers,” Spencer explains. “The first two victims were romantically involved, and then she got a job in his company.”

“The fifth victim was a single man with adopted children, and he left a copy of T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Hollow Men,’” you add. “He went after people who didn’t fit into our traditional class system or who benefitted from misused power. And, if that isn’t enough… there’s an extra novella in here.”

“What?” Hotch and Wade say, stepping toward you simultaneously.

“It’s a little bloody, but the words cop, dirty, and corrected system are showing up pretty well. My name’s on the first page, and I’d guess it’s on the last, too.”

“He’s going to target you?” Derek translates. “That’s not okay.”

“We need to find him first,” you reply. “He’s not going to press pause until he can get to me, he thinks he has to fix the entire world.”

“I’ll get a BOLO out,” Wade offers.

“Wait, Sergeant Grey,” Hotch calls. “I think this should come from us.” He turns toward you and adds, “It would mean more from you.”

“I’ll do it. Although, some of those cops aren’t going to like hearing that I had something to do with it.”

“Just send ‘em my way,” Derek jokes.

“Our profile is complete,” you begin, looking at the entire task force. “And we’ve used that profile, along with scene evidence, literary analysis, and previous arrest records to identify Alexander Riley as our killer. Sergeant Grey has posted a BOLO, and we’d like to send you out in patrol teams to assist in the search for Riley.”

Tim has his folder open, and you’re sure he’s reading the incident report filed after you let Riley get away.

“Maybe you should get out there and find him instead of sitting in our station and reading,” he snarks, closing his folder.

“Bradford,” Wade begins.

“No, it’s okay,” you assure. “I will be assisting in the search, and I will admit that my incompetence likely played a role in Mr. Riley’s progression from petty thief to serial killer. However, we have reason to believe he was killing in private long before he felt the need to leave his victims in plain view for Los Angeles and all of America to see.”

“Officer Bradford, he listed you by name in the novella left at Liza Renner’s murder,” Hotch interjects. “Do you know why he may have done that?”

“No idea. Sir.”

“I’d appreciate if you would stay and help review the story to find an idea, then.”

You look between Hotch and Tim quickly, but their icy stares make you look away before you continue explaining what the manhunt entails and how the FBI will assist.

“Be safe out there,” you conclude.

As officers stand and leave, Hotch and Wade walk to Tim’s side, and then all three of them exit through a different exit.

“That was fun,” you mumble to Derek.

“On the bright side, no one has been publicly executed in the US since 1936, so it’s unlikely you’ll be burned at the stake,” Spencer says.

“That is bright,” you respond. “Thanks, Reid.”

An officer asks for your assistance and leads you to an observation room. Your eyes widen when you realize Tim and Hotch are on the other side of the glass in an interview room. Rushing into the room, you’re surprised when Hotch invites you to take a seat. As the door closes, Tim clenches his fists and begins to stand.

“Sit down,” Hotch demands, unmoving as Tim rises from his chair. Tim turns, face-to-face with Hotch. “Sit down,” Hotch repeats, quieter yet firmer.

Tim falls back into his seat and crosses his arms to stare at you.

“You can blame me if you want,” you offer. “But it won’t change anything. Twelve people are dead because of me.”

“Then why is my rookie still patrolling the streets of LA looking for the man your team decided did this? Hotch here covering for you again?” Tim challenges.

“Shut up,” Hotch says as he sits beside you, across the Table from Tim.

“Kenneth Adamson,” you say. “Do you have any idea of what he did?”

“Fired you for taking the easy way out when you decided you didn’t want to be a cop anymore?”

“Intimidated me,” you reply. “Got indicted for it, but it was never made public knowledge because ‘he was facing enough personal and professional issues for the widespread results of his corruption.’ Good excuse, right? Tim, I happened to be the person who put cuffs on Alexander Riley and allowed his delusion to take over. I didn’t mean to turn him into a serial killer, but I still feel like I have blood on my hands.”

“Wait,” Tim requests, raising his hand. “Adamson intimidated you?”

“Yes.”

“You could have told me.”

You scoff, and Hotch raises his brows. “Like you would have believed me,” you reply.

Tim leans across the table, ignoring how Hotch moves closer to you, protective and ready to finish this case.

“He intimidated me too,” Tim confesses. “We should have told each other, but we messed up, and I’m sorry for that. Adamson was going to tell IA about something I did in the Army and twist it to get me fired if I didn’t find a way to get you off the force. Then you suddenly stopped trying and I thought… I guess I didn’t think about it, or I would’ve seen it.”

You look at Hotch, who shrugs. There likely isn’t proof that Adamson did to Tim what he did to you, but you have to make a choice. You can believe Tim Bradford or walk away.

“I caught him stealing evidence,” you say. “Skimming money from scenes before CSI got there, pulling jewelry from robbed houses, little things he didn’t think anyone would miss. When I saw him outright lie to a victim who only wanted her late mother’s locket back, I said something. And he was going to make my life a waking hell for it. So, I did what he asked and threw away my career.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apologies, Tim. I want you to help me find Alexander Riley and put cuffs on him before he goes after another innocent person, because there is nothing to stop him from progressing to killing cops he sees as corrupt. We kept it from the other officers because of that, so please don’t make me regret trusting you.”

Tim nods and murmurs another apology. You read his lips as he says it, and when Hotch stands, you’re prepared to accept it.

“One more out of line comment and you’re off this task force, Officer Bradford,” Hotch says as he buttons his blazer.

“Yes, sir. I’ll do everything I can to assist you.”

“Do you know why Riley would have used your name as a cursed wanderer in Liza Renner’s novella?” you ask, standing beside Hotch.

“Cursed wanderer?” Tim repeats.

“Remorseful, unabsolved character tormented by their fate and their actions.”

“He must not remember you well,” Hotch tells Tim.

“He’s not a very good writer,” Spencer mutters as he flips the page of one of Alexander Riley’s novellas.

“Maybe we should find a way to charge him for that too,” Derek grumbles. “I mean, ‘Tim Bradford carried the weight of his sins, heavier than the Kevlar on his chest. Each day he was forced to face the memories of how he’d failed his partner, the only woman he may ever love, but would never deserve.’ That’s awful.”

You and Tim turn to face each other quickly, each wondering if you heard what Derek read correctly.

“Derek, does that- when you read it, does it seem like he’s saying his partner is the only woman he’d ever love? Same person?” you ask.

“Yeah. You.”

“That’s what I got too,” JJ agrees. “There’s characters in the third novella that look exactly like the two of you, but they’re married. Doomed by the narrative to watch each other die, but…”

“Are there characters like that in all of them?” Hotch asks.

The sound of papers flipping precedes several firm answers of “Yes.”

“They always die?” you add. “But he doesn’t know. He sees a relationship that isn’t there.”

Tim doesn’t say anything, but you ignore him as you ask JJ to use her laptop. After signing in to your email, you pull up the scans Penelope sent you from the books in your office.

“In the clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed,” you read. “Black as the pit from pole to pole.”

“Are you gonna explain it or is this like Jeopardy?” Derek questions.

“He doesn’t portray our characters as corrupt,” you cheer. “We’re unfortunate, ‘doomed by the narrative’ players in a bigger game. I need the newest novella, the extra one from the double homicide scene.”

Wade knocks on the open door as you look through the evidence boxes on the table. He glances between you and Bradford before he asks, “Have any of you heard from Lopez and West?”

“They’re revisiting the last scene,” Hotch says. “They haven’t checked in?”

“Not recently.”

Tim looks at you, and when you meet his eyes, he offers, “We’ll find them.”

“Be careful,” Wade implores. “And keep me updated.”

“Can you do me a favor?” you ask.

“Anything,” JJ and Derek answer together.

“Look for any sign of restoration or avenging. It’ll probably be in the first novella, but I need to know if my character in his story is avenged somehow.”

“Revenge is a psychological response to wounds from others,” Spencer says. “Why would he be motivated to retaliate and justify this level of violence for you, if you’re the one who did wrong?”

“I think he may have changed his motives after Keith Adamson was indicted. If you find something, let me know, if not, Hotch probably has a better idea.”

You follow Tim to an unmarked car and ride in the passenger seat like you’ve pressed play after seven long years of having this part of your life on pause. Somehow, it feels better than before.

Tim's radio crackles as he makes the last turn to reach the crime scene.

“07-Adam-07,” Angela radios. “Sergeant Bradford, contact on channel 3.”

Tim changes the dial to channel 5 as he slows on the curb. You point to the dial, and he raises a thumb to tell you it wasn’t an accident.

“07-Adam-19,” he replies. “Go ahead, Lopez.”

“I think we found something that might be helpful to the detectives. Meet me at the scene and see if you agree?”

“I was already on the way. To tell you the truth, I don’t trust the feds. ETA two minutes.”

Tim returns his radio to the dash and then sits back to wait.

“Don’t trust the feds, huh?” you ask, smiling as he rolls his eyes.

“You really think he realized we were just as aggrieved as him?” Tim asks.

“Big word,” you murmur before dodging Tim’s weak backhand. “Why else would he keep us in the grand story he’s trying to write?”

“You said your character died in the new one.”

“All I saw was my name. I made an assumption without enough evidence. It was stupid.”

“Welcome to the club.”

Your phone buzzes, and you shake your head as you read the message from Penelope. “FBI tech guru Garcia hacked into the house’s security system. She’s got cameras inside. Riley has Lopez and West holed up in the master bathroom. My team and your watch commander are watching, ready to breach if this doesn’t go well.”

“You think it will?”

“I think Derek is going to be very mad after I do something reckless. That’s how it usually goes.”

Tim clears his throat awkwardly, then asks, “Are you and Morgan…?”

“No,” you answer with a laugh. “He’s just one of the many protective men I work with.”

“It’s been a minute and a half,” Tim says, changing the subject and breathing a little easier. “Are you ready?”

“I hope so.”

You exit the passenger seat as Tim pops the trunk. He passes you an LAPD bulletproof vest and a standard-issue belt to help you look more like a cop and less like a fed. After pulling the vest over your head, you struggle to get the belt in place beneath it. Tim gently takes it from you, his hands moving carefully around your waist as he clips the tactical buckle and slides the gun holster to its correct position.

“Thanks,” you whisper as he straightens, mere inches from you.

Tim drops his hands away from your sides but doesn’t move away. “Channel 3 is Lopez’s code,” he explains. “She only uses it when something’s wrong.”

Your phone buzzes again, and you turn away from Tim to answer it. “Hello?”

“Riley is armed,” Hotch says. “He’s got Lopez and West in the master bedroom on the ground floor. They’re uninjured, but he’s fidgety.”

“Did Derek ask Spencer about the bomb?”

“He did,” Spencer replies. Hotch’s phone is likely on speaker, and you turn your phone to allow Tim to hear too. “The bomb schematics were for a very closed-in space… like the townhouse you’re about to go into. It’s not incredibly enclosed, but given that Riley has issues with control, it could be a manifestation of claustrophobia. If his anxiety has caused a fear of enclosed spaces, based on the fear of losing control in those spaces, then he may be attempting to overcome that by giving himself power in the situation.”

“Could he be a cleithrophobe?” Tim wonders.

“What is that?” Derek asks, and you can imagine him looking around Wade’s office.

“I haven’t seen evidence of it,” Spencer answers. “He doesn’t seem to mind being closed in; the murders in the townhouse didn’t seem to affect him, but he is clearly concerned with power, control, and the hierarchy of those. It relates more to claustrophobia. Though I wouldn’t advise locking any doors to test it.”

You hang up suddenly and gesture to the townhouse. Tim looks up in time to see the curtain in an upstairs room fall back into place. He takes the lead, walking to the door with purpose and his hand on his gun. You follow him and look around the front porch for any sign that Riley is planning to kill anyone today.

Tim pushes the door open carefully, nodding to tell you it is unlocked before Angela calls his name. The novella with your name in it is still by the bookcase, and you remove it from the evidence bag and slide it under your vest. You trade places with Tim, going up the stairs first as he covers you. At the top of the landing, Alexander Riley steps out into the hallway with a gun strapped around his shoulders.

“You made it,” he says.

“We’re here to help, Riley,” you explain softly, holding your hands where he can see them. “You know that.”

He nods before jerking his head toward the doorway. You walk past him and stop in the center of the bedroom, scanning Angela and Jackson for any wounds. Luckily, they appear to be fine other than the handcuffs secured around their wrists.

“What’s the plan here?” Tim asks. “Not much room for error, Mr. Riley.”

“Give me your gun,” Alexander replies, holding his rifle with one hand as he extends the other toward Tim.

Tim complies, but his glance at you is a clear communication to not surrender your FBI-issued piece.

“Against the wall,” Alexander tells Tim. “You’re right, there isn’t room for error. But I’m prepared. I’ve been preparing since I lost everything.”

Tim sits against the wall, less than a foot from Angela. Alexander turns toward you, and his gaze softens. You were right, it seems. Alexander Riley has a soft spot for you; he thinks you’re like him, wronged by corruption and abused power, and you’re going to work that soft spot until he’s in cuffs.

“Take your vest off,” he requests. “Please.”

You don’t move but look pointedly at his gun before raising your eyes to his face.

“I won’t hurt you.”

Despite your instinct to refuse, to call in the cavalry and help Tim incapacitate the killer before you, there is too much at stake, and the longer you’re compliant, the longer Riley will keep everyone alive. So, you pull the vest over your head, not bothering to catch the novella as it falls to the floor, the blood on the cover contrasting the neutral carpet below your feet.

Back at the station, Hotch clenches his jaw as you open yourself to Riley, and Derek says, “Don’t do it… I might kill her for that.”

“You wrote it, right?” you ask, gesturing toward the stapled manuscript. “You wrote all of them.”

Riley fidgets, then nods.

You step toward him, keeping your expression soft and conveying understanding as you add, “I read some of them. They’re good, Alex. Can I call you Alex, or do you go by something else?”

“Alex is fine,” he replies, whispering your name under his breath like a prayer.

Tim shifts as Alexander’s attention changes slightly, morphing from a fierce protector into someone who wants to be by your side after you’ve been saved. You don’t spare a glance toward Tim, and for a brief moment, he wonders where you learned to do this. Then reality crashes back in like a wave that knocks Tim off his feet, the reminder that he could have taught you if he hadn’t let Keith Adamson get to him.

“In Brightest Day, you wrote a character who was a young cop, naïve and desperate to do the best thing,” you continue. “Who was she?”

“You know who,” Alex mutters.

You smile and ask, “Was I in all of them?”

“Of course.”

“That’s why you went to my old apartment before you sent the message to my friend in the FBI? Because I’m part of this? No, because you’re improving the character, right?”

“You were so far away,” he whispers.

“Alex, did you learn how to code just to talk to me?” you inquire softly.

He nods, then looks to the novella at your feet. The toes of your boots are inches from the paper, and his mouth twitches like he wants you away from it.

“Kick it,” he demands.

“Why? It’s art, it’s part of your soul,” you argue.

“Kick it.”

Tim nods in your peripheral, and you swallow before kicking it toward the door. Alex doesn’t hesitate to shoot the paper. You turn away from the noise, covering your ears even though it’s too late to keep your head from pounding. As the noise fades and your hearing returns, you see the shredded paper surrounding the hole in the floor.

“How does the story end, Alex?” you ask, stepping toward him again. “Are you like the truck drivers in Animal Farm? The cursed wanderer in Render Down you wrote for Liza? Or are you some new character that only cares about usurping the power for yourself?”

“It was never about me!” he replies, louder than you’ve heard him before. He softens his voice to repeat, “Never.”

“She was mine first,” Tim interjects suddenly.

Alex spins on his heel, the barrel of his rifle rising as he faces Tim. You shake your head wildly, desperate to stop him from saying something that will make Alex pull the trigger again. Angela looks down quickly, and you see her gun beneath the bed. As Alex’s chest heaves, his eyes locked unblinking on Tim’s, you move closer to the weapon, to Alex, and to freedom where you all walk out of here alive.

“I was saving her!” Alex roars. “From corruption, from Adamson, from you!”

“Adamson is the only one who hurt her,” Tim argues.

“February 17, 2017. You took your rookie to a noise disturbance call, and when you got there, four stupid young men were looting a flooded store during a break in the storms. She handcuffed one of them, but the rest ran. Then… then you started yelling at her, blaming her for all of it. While you were busy berating her, the other man ran with the handcuffs. I got away, but the power, the corruption, the greed was all getting to be too much. We hurt the owner because she was too worried about not getting insurance money for the water damage to empty out the register.”

“Something changed,” you say from beside Riley.

He doesn’t move away from Tim but stops talking to listen.

“In the first novella, it was you and me, wasn’t it? You wanted to make a new world together, save me from the love you thought would corrupt me.”

“Adamson used you too,” Alex tells Tim. “I made room for you to come with us and this is how you repay me? Chasing me for making things better. You’re back where you started.”

“Maybe now isn’t the time to act,” Jackson West says. “What if the world could’ve healed on its own and the people you killed might have helped?”

“Fool! They’ve gotten to you, too.”

As Alex’s finger slides onto the trigger, he turns toward Jackson. You don’t hesitate to lunge forward, closing the distance between yourself and Alexander. While you tackle him to the floor, he squeezes the trigger, and the shot rings through the now-silent townhouse and seems to echo for hours as your team watches in horror.

Tim pulls the handcuff key from his belt and passes it to Angela before he crawls on his hands and knees to reach you.

“I hope somebody got scans of that novella before he shot it,” you groan as you sit up.

Tim sighs, taking your face in his hands as he wipes blood from your temple.

“Is his writing really that good?” Jackson asks as he stands.

“It’s a little preachy,” you reply with a smile.

Your phone rings, and you swipe the screen to answer, then immediately hang up.

“That was your boss,” Tim points out.

“He can yell at me when he gets here.”

“Alexander Riley has been charged in the deaths of twelve Los Angeles residents,” JJ says at the press conference the morning after your encounter with Alex. “His victims include Janice Davis, Gregory Hunter, Bryce Keller, Hank Sheller, Peter Bristol, Liza Renner, Mel Houghton, Destiny Crest, Angelica Thomson, Alissa Alvarez, and Jack and Cassidy Wilson. Nearly three dozen cold cases are now being reopened, and the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit supports the LAPD’s claim that Riley could have committed these crimes as well. I’ll welcome any questions at this time.”

You scrunch your nose from the side, resisting the urge to remove the bandage on your forehead. Tim stands beside you, watching you.

Tim notices that the bandage is loose but doesn’t move before Hotch warns, “Don’t do anything in the public view that you don’t want to get out and give Riley a chance at walking.”

When the conference ends, Derek sighs and walks past Hotch to return to the hotel and pack. As he approaches you, he smiles and says, “And you didn’t want to come because I can’t help, and LA is too sunny.”

You try to punch Derek for his poor impression of you but miss as he breaks into a jog. Shaking your head, you turn to Tim and prepare a joke about how you don’t sound like that. Tim’s serious expression stops you, though.

“You didn’t think you could help?” he asks. “You were going to be an amazing cop, and I regret playing a part in taking that opportunity from you.”

You shrug and respond, “I like the FBI, and I got to tackle a murderer, so it all worked out.”

“Yeah,” Lucy interrupts, walking to your side. “But now you have to go back to Virginia.”

“Thank you,” Wade says, stopping at your side. “Come back soon, okay?”

You smile as he hands you a paper. As you read it, you sigh, then shove it into your pocket. The email came in this morning telling all active FBI agents about the new tactical unit, one which will work closely with the BAU. They’re actively recruiting, but if you tell Tim, you’re asking him to choose between you and the job again, and you can’t do that to him. Asking Tim to leave LA would be cruel, you think, so you force a smile onto your face.

“Thank you for everything,” you tell him. “Especially the part where you saved my life and the apology. I’ll try not to stay gone so long this time.”

Tim nods, and you smile at Lucy before following your team. He watches you walk away, ignores Lucy’s encouragement for him to chase you, and waits until you leave to whisper what he wants to say. But Tim lost his chance again. Worse, he lost you again.

Two Weeks Later

“Which one of you wants to die first?” the armed suspect asks, swinging his curved meat hook between you and Spencer.

“Probably you, right?” you whisper. “You know, my blood’ll be on it if he kills me first.”

“The mean value of Staphylococcus aureus in raw meat is 3.84 in a butcher shop,” Spencer replies. “I don’t know where that thing has been. At least your blood has been relatively well contained. And any amount of water on that thing increases the number of bacterial specimens transferred from the meat surface.”

The metal door of the meat locker blows open suddenly, and when the butcher before you turns to see what caused the noise, two men in tactical uniforms subdue him and confiscate the meat hook. Spencer rushes out of the facility, and you watch as the new FBI team takes your suspect into custody.

“I could have done that,” you complain.

“Sure you could, boot,” one of the men says, his voice muffled by the helmet.

You look toward him with your eyebrows raised. He takes his helmet off, and your jaw drops. Tim Bradford.

Smiling, you step toward him with questions racing in your mind, but he extends a gloved hand, holding it against your waist to stop you as he whispers, “Morgan has cameras everywhere.”

As you walk into the BAU bullpen together, Hotch looks up from a paper. He looks at you, then Tim, then back to you, and smiles. With wide eyes, you hide behind Tim’s shoulder, unsure what a Hotch smile could mean in this particular circumstance.

“We’re wheels up to Los Angeles in forty-five,” Hotch says.

“Why?” you ask, stepping out from behind Tim.

“There’s a domestic terrorist leaving Shakespeare at foreign-owned businesses hours before they’re bombed or become mass murder scenes.”

You nod, but before you can speak, Derek calls, “Bring Bradford! We could use the Army experience.”

Hotch narrows his eyes at Tim, then shrugs and agrees.

“Good, good,” you mumble, wrapping your hands around Tim’s arms. “I’ll show him the ropes then and we’ll be back in thirty.”

“Please do.”

You quickly forget the ropes as you drag Tim into Penelope’s empty office. He smiles and prepares to ask what this has to do with terrorism, but you slide your hands onto his jaw and kiss Tim. Finally. Tim's hands meet your waist, and he pulls you closer as he kisses you, both of you melting into one another and getting lost in the moment you’ve waited so long for. When you pull back, Tim keeps you close, smiling like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time, though he’s known your heart and potential for nearly a decade.

A quiet gasp draws your attention, and you both look to the door as Penelope says, “I’m telling Chocolate Thunder!”

[writingsonsaturn]

Tim having a younger girlfriend who gets princess treatment from him, she very obviously in love with Tim, and nobody at the station believes he has a girlfriend, so one day she shows up and work and everyone gets to see and meet her and see just how much she has Tim wrapped around her finger <3

Sorry if it doesn't make sense

puppy love - tim bradford

{ masterlist }

🪐: hopefully this lives up to what you were thinking!! i did my best to capture all the main elements that you wanted in the story <33

word count: 1039

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

Tim was notorious for being a hardass, his rough demeanor and strict ways of teaching made him seem like a total douchebag, for lack of a better word.

However, for you, he was a ball of sunshine, just don't let anyone else know that. 

Tim was awoken to the deafening sound of his alarm clock, he looked over at the red numbers, the clock reading “6:00am”, he sighed and reached a hand over to turn the blaring sound off. He turned over at the movement of your sleeping body, his hand now brushing through your hair with a small smile on his lips, waking up wasn't so bad when he got to see your face every morning.

You woke up gently at the new warmth that was on your head, “do you have to leave today?” you whispered with annoyance, one eye looking at him while the other stayed shut hoping to retain some sleep “unfortunately i do, baby, but i'll be home in time for our date” he responds, leaning over and kissing your forehead. 

He gets out of bed and heads for the closet putting on his uniform, once he’s done getting ready he reaches for his duty belt and gun that he keeps in his nightstand. Finally he leans over to give you one last kiss goodbye, “i love you, i’ll text you on break” you felt his lips move, “i love you too, be safe and come home to me” you respond as he walks out of the room gently shutting the door.

You shortly go back to sleep to get extra shuteye before having to go to your 9:00 am psychology class.

===

Tim made it to work early, going into the locker room and putting his duffle bag full of extra clothes and little snacks that you had snuck in there “just in case”, once he left the locker room he made his way to the debriefing room. “Hey Tim, you still owe me the 13 bucks for that burrito i bought you last week” Angela points out, while walking in behind him “ah right” he groans pulling out his wallet simply forgetting the little photo he kept of you in there.

The photo fell on the ground as Tim pulled out the cash, Angela reached down holding the picture “who is that?” she wonders while looking at the piece of paper “my girlfriend” he responds while holding out the $13, “you? You have a girlfriend?” she jokes “yeah, and i'm a millionaire” she finished sarcastically and walked away to sit down in her seat.

Tim just silently rolled his eyes and put your photo back in the safety of his wallet, after Grey gave his briefing, Angela and Nyla both started talking about Tim’s “girlfriend” the others overheard and suddenly everyone knew about Tim’s private life. 

“Tim has a girlfriend?” Lucy questioned, while walking over the group and grinning. “That’s what he claims, when he was paying me back a photo slipped out of his wallet and when i asked who it was he said it was his girlfriend, but i don't know who would torture themselves like that” she explained, Nolan had his eyebrows raised “come on guys, Tim can’t be that bad” Nolan continued “he probably just doesn't like us” he smiled making the others laugh. 

“Okay! Are you guys ready to stop being a bunch of highschoolers and gossiping about my love life so we can, I don't know, do our job?” Tim dead panned, they all quietly snickered, and some started getting ready to head out.

Tim heard the faint call of his name, and fast feet, “Tim! you forgot your lunch!” you spoke quickly while softly jogging towards him. “That’s what i forgot, thank you baby” Tim mentally smacked himself for forgetting the meal you had prepared for him the night before. You smiled at him, rushing as you had to get back to the campus as you had a final in 45 minutes.

Everyone looked slightly gobsmacked, realizing that Tim was in fact not lying about having a girlfriend, Angela came up to the love sick couple, “so you’re the pretty lady Tim keeps in his wallet” she spoke with playfulness, “you must be Angela! Tim talks about you all the time, im (Y/N)” you introduced yourself with a big smile. Tim smiled at you with all the love in the world, looking at you while you introduced yourself to his friends and colleagues. 

“As much as i would absolutely love talking to you guys more, i have a really important test i have to go take” you explained with haste, everyone was extremely understanding and wished you good lucks, “One last thing, Tim, before you come home will you please pick up milk from the store? I used it all this morning” everyone looked at Tim awaiting his response “Yes ma’am” he complied, you kissed his cheek and gave everyone a last goodbye before leaving.

“Man she has you utterly whipped” Aaron spoke, while shaking his head, “yeah, you are so done for sir” Celina giggled. Tim looked at both of them with a stern face immediately making them shut up and get back to doing whatever they were doing. 

“I'm glad you found someone Tim, you deserve a good person” Lucy quietly mentioned, Tim gave a silent nod of acknowledgement letting Lucy know that what she said meant a lot to him as she left and continued on with her duties.

Tim carried on with his day, doing paperwork, and counting the minutes until he came home to you.

Once he got off of work, he made sure he picked up milk and even got you you're favorite snack, as soon as he got home you two made dinner together and sat at the kitchen table, you told him how you’re very sure you passed your final with flying colors, and he told you about the mountains of paperwork that made him wish he was in bed watching a stupid reality show with you instead. 

When it was time for bed you and Tim continued to talk about random thoughts, and your futures together before you both drifted into a peaceful sleep.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Break In (Part 1)

Summary: Someone breaks in while reader is home alone but her boyfriend isn't too happy when he finds out she called him first...

Pairing: Tim Bradford x reader

Word Count: 1,800ish

Warnings: language, break-in

A/N: My first Tim fic! If you're a fan of The Rookie, check it out and let me know what you think!

Your eyes were closed, music quietly playing through your bluetooth speaker, warm bubbly water surrounding you. It was Friday night and while you would have loved to have been spending it curled up in your boyfriend’s lap while he tried and failed once again to get you interested in the baseball you’d have been inevitably watching…a self-care night was in full swing while he worked a double.

*NYSNC came over the speakers as you sunk lower into the water, smirking as you wondered what you’d have to do to get Tim to take a bubble bath. Probably a back massage or the promise of-

Something crashed outside the shut door, your eyebrow raising. You turned off the speaker, listening intently, a quiet creak of the floorboards at the end of the hallway. Your heart skipped a beat. 

Someone was in the house. No, someone had broken into your house. While you were very naked in a tub with no way to defend yourself.

Don’t freeze up.

Some voice in your head had you moving without thinking. You stepped onto the towel on the floor, not caring about the water you splashed everywhere. You tugged the robe on the back of the door on, quietly locking the door. The floor creaked again, farther away this time, your pulse sharp, painful. You looked around, flipping off the window. Sure, you maybe could have crammed your body through but you really didn’t feel like cutting yourself up before falling fifteen feet to your driveway below.

You snatched your phone and wide paddle hairbrush off the counter, pressing your back against the door. Maybe it wouldn’t do much but at least you’d get one good crack in if somebody came inside.

With wet, shaky fingers you hit the number you’d last dialed and held it to your ear. It rang and rang and rang and rang before going to voicemail.

“Tim Bradford. Leave a message.” You re-dialed, heart hammering as another crash, this time glass, echoed throughout the house. You turned off the bathroom light, gripping the phone tight. “Tim Bradford. Leave a message.”

“Pick up the damn phone,” you mumbled, squeezing your eyes tight when it went to voicemail a third time. Something broke outside and you cancelled the next call, instead hitting 911 and hoping the cops got there before whoever the hell was in your house found you.

Tim POV

“You’re welcome, ma’am.” I gave her a nod before jogging down her front steps and back towards the shop. A gust of cold wind whipped across the yard, unusual for this time of year. I’d have to throw on my jacket tonight.

“...code 3 at 4192 Sunset Ridge,” crackled over the radio on my hip. I froze for only a moment, ripping my radio off my belt as I ran to the shop and slid behind the wheel.

“7 Adam 15, can you repeat that…” I trailed off as I saw my phone on the dash, four missed calls from Y/N appearing.

“There’s a code 3 at 4192 Sunset Ridge. Home owner reported a B&E. Suspect is inside. Home owner is unable to leave the-”

“Fuck,” I said, hitting the gas, dialing with one hand. “Y/N, pick up the damn phone.”

“Hi. You’ve reached Y/N. Please leave your name and-”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I slammed the gas, blowing through an intersection. “Be okay, please be okay.”

Reader POV

“I’m not in trouble am I?” you asked after giving your statement seven minutes later, the officer taking your statement giving you a reassuring smile. 

“Oh no. You acted in self-defense,” he said, screeching tires outside on the street making you both turn your heads towards the open front door. “Stay there a second.”

He stepped outside, allowing you to follow. You peaked your head around him when you heard some sort of commotion. You stepped on the front stoop beside the officer, the man mid run across your front lawn coming up short, staring at you.

“Sergeant? What-” The officer was ignored as Tim walked quickly over and up the steps, breathing hard. 

“Are you okay?” he asked loudly and a little harsh. You glanced at the officer and nodded. Tim pinched the bridge of his nose, one hand on his hip. “If someone breaks in your damn house, you call 911. Immediately. Not me. 911. Children know that for fucks sake.”

“Well fuck you,” you shot back, flipping him off, turning to the officer. “I want this asshole off my damn property.”

“You’re mad at me?” Tim scoffed, the officer trying to back away but you grabbed his arm. 

“I want this insensitive ass gone. Now,” you growled. Tim shot the officer a look, the man shrugging you off.

“Just a wild guess but are you and Sergeant Bradford by chance dating?” he asked calmly. 

“Nolan, leave before I demote you.” The officer scurried away, leaving the two of you glaring at one another. “Why are you mad at me?”

“Why are you yelling at me for calling my cop boyfriend who does patrol in my neighborhood? It was less than a minute before I called 911. Forgive me for not being one of your trained boots and instead hoping my boyfriend would, oh I don’t know, make me feel better when I’m scared shitless right now.”

You stormed inside, going to the kitchen and getting a beer from the fridge.

A gentle hand grasped your wrist, setting the bottle down on the counter. You frowned and turned your head, Tim pulling you into his chest. “Bradford-“

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

“You already asked me that.”

“Y/N,” he sighed. You shrugged, burying your face in his shoulder.

“I smacked a guy with my hairbrush and broke his nose…and then I kicked him in the balls and might have bruised his dick…and I don’t feel safe here.”

“That is…impressive and you are staying at my place tonight with me.”

You were about to argue that being alone at his place wasn’t any better but it finally registered what he said. You leaned back and stared up at him. “But you’re working.”

“Just trust me.”

Forty minutes later you were on Tim’s couch in one of his shirts and a pair of pajama shorts. He was talking on the phone before it went quiet and you were greeted to him walking out of the hall in a pair of sweatpants and nothing more. He slipped a smile on his face and took a seat on the couch beside you. 

“Are you in trouble because you left work early?” you mumbled, flicking your finger over a thread that was coming loose on one of his decorative pillows. He sighed, your head turning away when you felt strong arms wrap around your middle and pull you into his side. “Heaven forbid the great Tim Bradford get a mark on his perfect record. I’m fine. Just go back to work.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re fine but I’m not.” You scrunched up your face but didn’t turn to look back at him. A finger grazed over your cheek, his forehead resting against the back of yours, warm breath fanning over your hair. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. I am. But you know I’m…working on my communication skills. I panicked and that’s not something I can do in my job, even when I’m terrified, I have to keep that in check.”

“So what does that mean? You need a smarter girlfriend who calls 911 first?” you said, closing your eyes when he tensed. “Sorry, that was bitchy.”

“All I’m saying is I’m not in the right headspace to go back to work and be safe and you always tell me be safe at work so I’m just doing as told.” You closed your eyes as he kept both arms around you, sliding you into his lap and against his chest. “I’m not picking a fight. I just want to know why you called me first?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I thought you could get there faster since you were working or you could tell me what to do but I mean, it was like thirty seconds at most before I stopped trying you. You made me feel like a moron in front of people you work with. People who apparently don’t even know who I am after dating for six months.”

“Can you forgive me?” You rested your head on his shoulder, turning into it. He tucked your head under his chin, his skin warm and flush from his shower.

“Yeah. Don’t treat me like that again and I won’t call you in emergencies.” 

“Uh, that is not what I want. You absolutely call me, just call the authorities first.” You threw your head back, looking up at him with a frown. His smile was more teasing now, eyes gentler. “Got all that?”

“You’re annoying,” you grumbled, unwrapping your arms from yourself, giving his body a good squeeze. “But I forgive you.”

“Great. Tomorrow we’ll sign you up for a self-defense class.” You spun out of his hold, Tim holding up his hands as you glared. “I’m joking.”

“Are you? Because I already broke one man’s dick tonight,” you said. He glanced down to where your hand was resting on his stomach, the gears turning in his head. 

“Yeah, but you like my dick. You wouldn’t-” He chocked on his words when you slid your hand down over him. He coughed, swallowing once. “No class, unless you ever wanted to, but that’s totally your call. Honey.”

“Smart boy,” you said, patting his dick lightly and settling back in. He was quiet as he turned on his baseball game and tugged a blanket off the back of the couch over the two of you. You half-watched the game, your mind drifting back to the break-in every few moments. 

“How many square feet is your house again?” he asked out of the blue. You rattled off a number, Tim humming. 

“Why?” 

“Because you can threaten my dick all you want but I am installing a security system for you tomorrow.” You spotted him typing on his phone, adding two more motion sensors to the cart for whatever system he was on. You smiled, sitting up and interrupting his order to cup his cheeks and kiss him. 

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For a second I thought you were going to ask me to move in with you.”

“Eventually,” he countered, tucking the blanket around you further. “But I don’t want to stick a band-aid on this either. Anyone capable of breaking a dick should be confident enough to sleep alone…with a brand new alarm system.”

“But still with frequent sleepovers.”

“Well, that’s just a given.” You sunk back down, starting to finally relax as head rested against yours. “You can sleep. I’ll be right here.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

A/N: Read Part 2 here!

[pencil-n-pen]

──────BROKEN DOWN AND HUNGRY FOR YOUR LOVE ───

⋆౨ৎ˚˖ ࣪

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touchstarved ! rookie! reader x training officer! tim

summary: Tim had said ‘no more rookies’ after Lucy, but well. Things don’t always go according to plan. Just like you never thought you’d be staring at your training officer’s arms, wondering how they feel wrapped around you.

cw: daddy issues (seriously this is a tim x reader like. don’t we all have daddy issues) mild depression, descriptions of child death and abuse (it’s one scene and pretty easily skippable but yk police call stuff) tbh could be read as platonic this isn’t super romantic i just want tim to hold me i don’t care how he does it

a/n: in this universe chenford never happened even tho i ship it with every cell in my body. also im only like halfway through season two so take my depiction of characters and events with a grain of salt. buckle up this one’s LOOOOOONGGG

title taken from Lover You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley (jeff buckley i miss u)

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Tim Bradford has really nice hands.

This is, undoubtedly, not at all something you should be noticing about your training officer. Probably the most strict, unpredictable, unrelenting, high-key-wants-you-to-fail training officer in the LAPD.

And yet.

Here you are, noticing.

His arms are really nice too. The chords of muscle flex in a particular way while he drives. Especially when turning or when he’s conducting a car chase and his hands go white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

You think to yourself that his hands are probably warm. Tim seems like the kind of man to run hot.

Tim also makes sure that you understand how much he doesn’t like you.

You get it. Kind of. He’d been on his way to becoming a sergeant when it’d been decided that during the coarse of his career, not enough of his officers actually made it past being a rookie.

“One last go,” The captain had said on your first day, “Should be easy. This rookie’s the most self-sufficient thing since Officer West. If she doesn’t make the cut, I want to know why.”

So yeah. You’re pretty sure Tim tuned out the conversation after hearing ‘one last go’.

Additionally, you two have… clashing personalities. You’ve always prided yourself on being self-sufficient- on not needing anyone else. But Tim makes it his mission every single day to remind you of all the million different ways you need to rely on your partner and need them— need him.

It’s annoying on a good day and humbling on a bad one.

And then there’s the matter of Lucy Chen. One of the few rookies to survive the Tim Tests and actually make it past rookie, all the while gaining his respect and friendship.

You don’t even try to hope to reach what she accomplished. Lucy Chen is an inspiration, a pipe dream, and an unreachable standard wrapped up in blue. It’s clear that Tim is proud of the cop she’s become. Proud of his work.

You’re not sure he could ever be proud of you.

But you didn’t raise yourself to be a quitter. So you get up everyday and take the Tim Tests in stride. You work and learn and learn and work and pretend the lack of relationship or bond you have with your fellow rookies doesn’t bother you.

You pretend you don’t dream of being held by warm arms and wake up in the same position, alone and cold.

You pretend the heated blanket you bought during the Academy with your meager funds feels just like human warmth. You pretend it’s enough.

And you do what you always do: you manage.

—

Like with any job, there’s good days, and there’s bad days. You try not to dwell on the bad days, but you usually end up doing so anyways, usually in your silent, empty apartment as you try to fall asleep.

Your shift today is only half over, and you’ve already lost a suspect during a chase —Tim ended up catching her, and the look he shot you as he cuffed him was nothing short of fiery— you accidentally tampered with evidence —in your defense, you weren’t aware that piggy banks were used to move drugs, but accidentally dropping it made you want to crawl into a hole and die— and the cherry on top was the suspect you apprehended today, who, in her desperation to get away from you and jail, kicked you in the leg while she was on the ground. With her very long, and very skinny heel.

‘I got stabbed in the leg with a stripper’s heel’ isn’t a sentence you ever thought you’d say, but here you are. The wound isn’t that bad, thankfully. Just all the usual pain that comes from being stabbed with a fairly blunt object.

You sit in an uncomfortable hospital chair in the waiting room, elbow digging into the hard, wooden armrest and holding your head up by your forehead, while your other arm presses on the still sluggishly bleeding wound on your lower, mid thigh, leg stretched out in front of you.

You’re tired.

Recently, the bad days have outweighed the good ones. You knew this would be the case when you signed up to be a cop. You knew your apartment would feel empty and cold, but you thought that maybe, maybe, you’d make a few friends in your coworkers and it wouldn’t feel so unbearable.

But it turns out there isn’t enough time to make friends when you’re busy trying to get the highest scores in the Academy. And by the time you graduated, you’d been written off as a stuck-up teachers pet. Tolerated by the other rookies at best, occasionally sneered at and mocked at worst.

No fellow rookies, no friendly coworker, no nice neighbors in your apartment. Your training officer doesn’t like you, and the watch commander regularly enjoys singling you out for rookie-typical ridicule.

You’re tired.

The wound on your leg hurts like a bitch, already bruised to hell and back in that way that blunt force injuries usually do. Your pants are dark and sticky with blood, and the hand that’s applying pressure is uncomfortably tacky as you bleed, clot, and dry, over and over again.

It’s shitty. You feel shitty.

The fluorescent overhead lights are making your head pound and there’s so much noise in the waiting room, overlapping and, for lack of a better term, stabbing your eardrums in a pounding beat, and the pain is starting to make you a little nauseous, or maybe that’s the smell of anti-septic, and you fucked up so badly today, and oh god what if you get sepsis or a staff infection, that heel was so dirty, who knows where it’s been, and why won’t you just stop bleeding, and—

“Boot.”

—you haven’t called your mom in ages, she deserves better than that, and god your leg really hurts, and you don’t want to go home after this because—

“Rookie.”

—you’re most definitely being sent home, you got stabbed with a fucking heel for christ’s sake, and unlike after a normal shift you won’t have the exhaustion to just send you straight to bed, chores be damned, your apartment is so, so so quiet and you hate it—

“Hey!”

Snapping fingers in front of your face and Tim’s shout jolts you from your pain-slash-panic-induced spiral, and you reflexively clench your fists, then hiss in pain as your grip tightens over the wound.

He’s crouched in front of you, dark, steady eyes scrutinizing your face.

“Sorry,” you huff, face hot with embarrassment. “It’s, um, it’s loud in here.”

He just nods once, looking rather unimpressed. You resist the urge to fidget.

“You good to stay here while I go back out?”

The thought of waiting in the ER alone, and then more than likely catching an Uber to the station and then ignoring possible doctors orders to drive yourself home from there is… less than pleasant.

But if it has to be done, then it has to be done.

“Yeah,” You say easily, the lie slipping right off your tongue. “Yeah, yeah I’ll be good.”

Your injury had already been called in, so Grey wasn’t expecting you back at the station. Tim would go back on shift and you’d take care of yourself like you always do. You’ll be fine eventually. You always are.

You expect Tim to take the easy out. You’ve handed it to him on a silver platter. Express permission to not have to deal with you anymore today.

He sighs, unexpectedly, then stands, and you look down so you don’t have to watch him walk away, and wait to hear the sound of his retreating footsteps.

They don’t come.

The chair next to you creaks as someone sits down in it.

As Tim sits down in it.

You blink, looking up at him. “Officer Bradford?”

He’s crossed his arms across his chest, sparing you a small glance. “What?”

You look down at your lap. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls out his phone, clearly texting someone —probably Officer Lopez— and pretty much ignores you as you wait to be called back.

His presence is enough, though. It chases away some of that creeping panic and chill in your chest. You relax in increments. Your posture slouches, your hand unclenches, and you feel like you can take a breath without throwing up.

Eventually, your name gets called, and maybe you just look especially pathetic as your stiffly and shakily climb to your feet and begin ambling towards the indicated trauma room, but you hear another annoyed sigh, and then Tim’s mumbling “Here,” and then your arm is around his shoulders and his arm snakes behind your back and just above your waist.

And fuck.

If you thought that having him near you was something, having the arms of the man you’ve literally dreamt about doing nearly this exact same thing is… it’s a drug.

Your skin is on fire where’s he’s quite literally holding you together as you awkwardly shuffle across the waiting room. His hands are warm even through the under shirt and your uniform shirt. The rush of chemicals in your head is dizzying at the contact, your brain startlingly aware of each and every place the two of you are connected.

To him, it’s nothing. To you, it’s everything.

If this is what hard drugs feel like, you sympathize with the addicts. All it takes is his arm around you, safe and steadying, and you’re gone. Hooked.

You try your best to file the feeling away in your head, to commit it to memory, so later, when those bad days have their cold nights, you can take it out and remember it. Remember what felt like to be even half wrapped like this. Supported and steadied.

It’s an uncharacteristic show of care on Tim’s part. He’s not exactly a touchy-feely kind of guy. He’s more like the ‘deal with it or quit’ kind of guy.

But he’s helping you here, now. More than he knows.

You don’t comment on any of this, of course, because you don’t want to draw attention to how much you’re leaning into his touch.

You hope he writes it off as needing help walking.

—

The first night after the stabbing —Tim does not let you drive yourself home, though looks vaguely impressed that you were completely willing, and instead drops you off and has Officer Lopez drive your car back to your place— is great. You sleep clear through the night without waking up once. The memory of Tim holding you up, touching you, is fresh in your mind. Sleeping is easy. You arrive to work for once not faking your enthusiasm under layers of professionalism. You actually, genuinely feel okay.

As the weeks progress though, you start flagging.

By the time a month has gone by, you’re downright miserable. You didn’t realize just how empty your chest could feel after actually feeling how warm and full it could be.

This, of course, means doubling over on professionalism, because there’s absolutely no way that anyone can know how much you’re starting to fracture, bit by bit. You’re strong, put-together, and self-sufficient. You take Tim’s training in stride and you never complain. You don’t rise to the bait when you get singled out for hazing, and laugh when you become the subject of a rookie prank.

You do not stare at Tim’s arms or hands out of the corner of your eye when he’s not looking, you do not imagine the big pillow you hold at night is him, and most importantly you do not even entertain the fantasy in which Tim holds you, really holds you, and you don’t have to keep it all together anymore.

It’s not realistic. You’re always going to hold everything together. You always have and you always will.

But sometimes, every now and then, you get something well and truly right, and Tim says “Good job, boot.” And he means it. Gets that crinkle near his eyes and that twitch in his jaw when he’s trying not to look impressed or pleased. And it chases away the empty, just for a little bit. Makes how hard he pushes you just a little more worth it, each time.

It’s starting to get to you, though. Has been for awhile. Because it’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it, to think these things about your training officer? Someone who would never, ever do the things you want him to do? As trivial and stupid and childish as they are?

And look. You’re not stupid. You know exactly why you’ve fixated on Tim Bradford specifically. You’re well versed in the art of “intellectualizing your feelings so you don’t have to feel them” and your want of your training officer’s touch is no mystery. He checks all your boxes- Brooding, emotionally unavailable, harsh, attractive, and more importantly, in a position of power over you. So you get it. Daddy issues, your emotional needs not being met growing up, blah blah blah. It’s whatever.

What’s not whatever is your inability to stop obsessing over it. Him. You need to get a grip.

You want to become a detective. And, not to mention, you’ve worked incredibly hard to be a damn good cop.

But here you are, sitting in the shop with Tim, spacing out when you should be paying attention because you saw one of your old friends post the anniversary for her and her boyfriend last night and now you can’t stop thinking about how she probably look at every couple and wonder how it feels to have someone around, constantly, to soothe the near permanent ache in your chest and itch under your skin.

She probably doesn’t have the ache or itch at all.

“Boot!” Tim barks, voice sudden and loud. “Where are we?”

You jolt in place. “Uh—“

Tim slams on the brakes, your seatbelt snapping against your chest. “I’ve been shot. I’m dead. Where were you just now?”

You scramble for an answer. “I was—“

“Your head wasn’t here,” He jams a finger onto the center console. “And in this line of work, that means you’re dead. It means people die on your watch.”

He starts the car, and without the crackling of dispatch over the radio, it’s awhile before he speaks again.

“What’s wrong?”

The words sound so foreign coming from Officer Bradford that you pause.

“Is that a trick question? Is the answer…um… I should focus more…?”

“Well, yes, and no,” He responds, face set in a slight grimace, “Yes, you need to focus more, but no, that wasn’t a trick question.”

When you don’t immediately respond —what are you supposed to say to that?— he keeps going.

“You’re spacey. You don’t get spacey. But you’ve been all over the place lately, so something’s up.”

“Nothing’s—“

He levels you with a Look.

Now it’s your turn to sigh.

One of the main reasons you didn’t get along with other students at the Academy was your unwillingness to sacrifice your career for a social life. You didn’t tell anybody your sob story— didn’t need the pity, didn’t care what they thought.

And you don’t really want to tell Tim either, but for a different reason. An opposite one, really. You do care what he thinks. A lot. And you don’t want to sound whiny or sensitive or any less of a capable cop. You need to prove to him that you can do this.

But Tim also has the best bullshit sensor of anyone you know, and will immediately see through you if you try to lie.

“I moved to California right before I started at the Academy. I was focused and career driven. And I’ve never really been social. It just, uh, kind of hit me, I guess. That my family is a thousand miles away.”

“What, you don’t have any friends from the Academy?”

His confidence in your social skills is nice, if not very misguided.

You shrug. “I gave up everything to move here. I thought that if I went out to bars and parties, I’d lose focus and fail. I couldn’t, and still can’t afford to.”

Tim’s saved from responding by a call close to your location crackling out from dispatch. And thank god for that. You’re sure as hell not itching to restart the conversation, and besides. Tim wants you to get your head in the game, so you do. Complete and utter focus on the call.

It goes well. But Tim doesn’t say anything as you climb back in the shop, not even a not-displeased hum.

“That’s stupid, you know.”

You look up from where you were checking something in the system. “What?”

“This thing you’re doing. You’re not even living. You’re just going to work and then going home. Your performance is shitty because you feel shitty.”

You gape for a second before rushing to respond. “My performance isn’t—“

“Yeah, it is. Don’t argue me on this, boot. You’re drowning, is what you’re doing. You have no work life balance. You’re going to burn out, and then you wash out.”

He turns to you, eyes bright and jaw set. “And you better not wash out, because you’re my last rookie and I need you to win.”

Right. Yes. Of course. Tim needs you to win, so he needs you to get focused, and get real.

The smile you give him is perfectly practiced and hollow. You ignore the nausea churning in your chest.

“Don’t worry. I don’t do anything other than win.”

—

Even though it’s most definitely stupid and insane, you ignore Tim’s advice. Since when have you had the energy to do things outside of work but rot in bed? And besides. Going out would mean losing precious sleeping hours, which are already hard enough to come by as it is. You don’t need to make your energy levels any worse than they already are by adding going to bed late on top of incredibly fitful sleep.

So it’s fine. You’re handling it.

—

You’re not handling it.

You’re exhausted. All the time. The more tired you are, the more you have to work to make sure your performance at work isn’t suffering. Which makes you more tired.

And you just… can’t sleep. You toss and turn all night, wake up a million times, and usually end up reliving your worst cases with added bonuses, like Tim being injured, and then berating you for it, and then the watch commander calls you into his office and fires you.

And then there’s the guilt. The sickening, nauseating guilt that follows you day after day, choking and clogging your throat because you know you’re better than this. You’re better than this. But you’re not getting better.

You should’ve taken Tim’s advice, maybe. Should’ve heard it two, three, maybe four months ago and extended yourself to other people and tried going out, making a routine of trying new things other than sleeping, watching tv, or working, but it’s too late now and you’re just so fucking tired.

And alone.

Really, really, alone.

When you finally lose it, it’s because of a call. A bad one. A really bad one.

It’s a little girl. No older than nine or ten. Her mother had reported her missing when she’d come home from work and her daughter and her husband were missing. At first, the report hadn’t been taken seriously, but the mother begged and pleaded. It was Lucy who’d pulled up the woman’s husband and found several previous charges for domestic violence and abuse that dispatch had sent multiple units after the child.

Whom you found. Locked in a car.

You were the one to break the window. You were the one to get her out.

You were the one who had to call an RA unit for a nine year old girl, not conscious, not breathing.

Tim pulled you away from the scene. From her. Kept a hand on your shoulder and steered you towards the shop, and you were shaking. Are shaking. You’re in the shop. You can’t get your hands to stop shaking.

Tim is uncharacteristically silent. He doesn’t start the car. You can see him watching you out of the corner of your eye. You need to stop shaking. You need to get it together.

It’s just. That was you. Could’ve been you. Almost was you, once or twice.

You spent a lot of time in locked cars growing up.

“Boot,” Tim says softly, too softly, he’s babying you, “You need to take a minute.”

“No, no,” The first no is shaky and the second is no better but you need to be fine, “I’m fine, I’ll be fine. I need to adapt, need to get used to this kind of thing.”

He makes a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat. “No you don’t. Becoming desensitized to this kind of thing isn’t what you want to happen. Trust me.”

You breath is starting to hitch a little, and your eyes are beginning to burn. Why can’t you stop shaking? It happened so long ago.

“I’m fine. I’m— It’s okay. We should get back on the road.”

Your voice wobbles at the end. You clench your jaw, steel yourself against the onslaught of emotions and will yourself to just get a fucking grip.

“Hey,” Tim starts, voice that lower, gentle tone he sometimes uses on victims, and that’s messed up, because you’re not a victim, just dramatic, “It’s okay to not be okay after something like that.”

“I’m fine!” You snap, “I survived. She didn’t.”

Oh.

You feel the first few tears begin falling, and immediately scrub them off your face as fast and as hard as you can.

“I’m sorry,” You half-whisper, mortified at the action of crying and snapping at him. “I’m sorry, this is, this is really unprofessional—“

You hunch, pressing the heels of your hands so hard into your eyes starbursts of color are whirling behind them.

Tim doesn’t say anything, which only adds to your mounting anxiety, until you hear the semi-familar sound of him typing on his phone, and then a steady tik. Tik. Tik.

You look up, your eyes already puffy.

Tim sets his phone down on the console between the two of you.

“That timer is set for ten minutes. For ten minutes, you are not going to be fine. Ten minutes while we drive. Got that?”

You sniffle pathetically. “Ten minutes is a long time to put up with me crying.”

He shrugs. “If I give you your ten minutes, and you get this out, then you’ll be more focused on the job. Seems like a fair trade off to me.”

You’re not expecting the firm hand to land on your shoulder.

“This was your first d-o-a. Even the best cops are shaken after something like that. It changes you. That is not something be ashamed of.”

You let yourself lean into the touch, ever so slightly. The tears start falling easier after that, and, still not entirely comfortable with crying in front of your TO, you cover your face with your hands.

The crying bit is over in only a few minutes. The rest of the time on the timer is spent staring down at your lap and trying to calm yourself down, and when that doesn’t work, you pull out your phone and soothe yourself by organizing one of your Pinterest boards. Ah, the peace that comes from setting arbitrary rules that affect no one and organizing pictures based on these rules. Bliss.

Tim only removes his hand after you stop crying, which. You try your best to memorize the touch —no matter how mortifying the circumstances— and try your best not to think about how it almost seems like starting to catch onto the messier parts about yourself you’d like to keep hidden.

—

Sometimes it’s hard not to feel well and truly and completely alone.

You know you’re not. Not really. Not if you tried harder, extended yourself more. Made an effort to get out there. But you don’t have any energy for efforts. You don’t have anything left to give.

Tim’s touch and approval and just there-ness haunt you on your off days and are, if you’re being embarrassingly and horrifyingly honest, the only thing you really look forward to anymore.

You like your job. You do. But you’re tired. And how many times can you say that? Can you think that?

I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired.

Please, someone, put me down, let me go, give me a minute, I’m tired.

So it’s not really surprising when you get sick.

You’ve been running yourself absolutely ragged, day in and day out, and when you wake, feeling like death warmed over, you don’t even groan. It makes your throat hurt.

Your head pounds with pressure from your sinuses and your hands shake as you put on your uniform in the locker room. Your slow-and-unsteady gait gathers a few looks as you make your way into the, surprisingly empty, roll call room.

Is it really empty if one person is in it? Tim’s in it. He’s leaned up against the front desk, where you usually sit with the other rookies. Only time you’re really ever near them. He looks mad. Why’s he mad?

“Boot,” He starts, voice low, and that’s never a good sign, “Is there a reason you decided not to show up to roll call today?”

You blink, thoughts going about as fast as a fish in frozen water, “But it’s not time for roll call yet.”

It’s not. You woke up when your alarm went off, took cold medicine (probably more than you’re supposed to, and the wrong combination of them, but who cares) and drove to the precinct. Same as you always do. Minus the cold medicine.

Tim frowns. He’s always frowning. He frowns deeper. “You’re over an hour late.”

That…doesn’t make any sense. How’d you lose an hour of time? Did you fall asleep somewhere along the way? You don’t remember falling asleep. You’re not missing any memories, no blank spots, no black outs.

“Boot!” He barks, and you flinch and the noise, pressing a hand to your forehead as if that’ll help the sharp stab of pain in your head that accompanies his raised voice.

Tim is downright glaring at you now. “Are you hungover?”

“No!” You reply indignantly, then instantly regret it due to the burn you now feel in your throat, “I’m just like. Kind of sick.”

Did that come out convincing enough? You’re sure you can still work. You worked through every cold and flu and fever back at the Academy. You can totally do this, right?

Tim pushes off the table and stalks towards you. arms crossed. He uncrosses them as he gets closer and—

Oh. That’s nice. His hand’s cool.

Your eyes flutter shut, unbidden, as the cool skin of the back of his hand presses to your forehead. If your eyes were open, you’d be able to see that his frown has taken on a concerned brow furrow to accompany it, but you’re too busy enjoying the simple contact to notice. Or keep your eyes open.

He takes his hand away with a sigh, and you stumble forward a little.

“You feel like you’re on fire. Jesus- did you drive here?”

You nod, to avoid angering your throat, and end up angering your headache instead.

“Yeah, you’re going home.”

Panic stabs you in the chest.

“No!” You rasp, “I’m fine. I’m a rookie, it’s my job to keep working no matter what—“

“It’s also,” Tim interrupts, “Your job to take care of yourself, but you’re shit at that, which is why you’re sick in the first place. So I’m going to drive you home and make sure you’re not going to die by yourself while you’re sick.”

You shake your head. “I used to work through being sick all the time at the Academy, I can do it.”

“And you were stupid for doing that too. The key difference here is that you’re not responsible for peoples lives at the Academy. I’m not going to get shot today because you’re too hopped up on cold medicine to cover me.”

“But—“

“I’m sorry,” He growls, “Were you under the impression that you have any sort of say in this decision?”

You close your mouth.

“That’s what I thought. Go wait at my desk while I clear this with the watch commander.”

You trudge solemnly to his desk, head and vision swimming. Great. Now Tim’s upset at you and you feel awful. Why is everything so terrible?

You slump into the chair at his desk, dropping your head onto your arms and allowing your eyes to close. The walk from the briefing room to Tim’s desk exhausted you. And your uniform feels extra uncomfortable.

You just want to be at home, not sick, and maybe sleeping restfully for the first time since becoming a cop. Maybe you’re not cut out to be a cop. Maybe you should quit. Maybe—

Someone gently shakes your shoulder, and your straighten, blinking blearily.

“Come on, up we go.”

A strong arm hooks under yours and carefully hauls you up, and let out a small whine at the movement. Tim’s desk is comfortable. And smells vaguely like him.

“Don’t give me that. I’m taking you home. We need to go get your stuff from the locker room.”

You whine again, as if the noise will somehow convey everything you’re feeling at the moment.

I don’t want to leave the temporary and fake saftey of Tim’s desk. I don’t want to go home cause my home is empty and I’m sick. I’m extra miserable because I’m sick. My brain isn’t working and I don’t remember what locker I put my stuff in. I don’t even know if I brought my stuff. Is it somehow possible for my technical-boss to take me to his house instead and tuck me into his bed that smells like him and has him in it so I can sleep next to another human being and feel safe for even twenty minutes?

Of course, none of this is relayed to Tim, who’s currently half holding half dragging you over to the locker rooms, grip firm but not unkind.

After assuring you that no one else is even going to be in the locker room because you’re now over an hour into your shift, he goes with you and helps you find and take your stuff. In your sick daze, you did manage to bring your bag and water bottle, but neglected to put any water in your water bottle or put your wallet in your bag.

Tim just mutters an “Alright, come on,” once your stuff has been acquired, and escorts you out to the parking lot.

Two things occur to you.

One, Tim is no longer dressed in his uniform. Instead, he now sports jeans and a dark gray henley.

Two, you’re both headed towards the personal parking lot.

If Tim isn’t in work clothes anymore, and he’s taking you towards his car, that means he’s not just dropping you off at your house.

He is, presumably, going to look after you. Because you’re sick.

He ushers you into the passenger seat, going so far as to help you up and grab the seatbelt for you. He leans over you when he does it, and there’s a second where he’s pressed against you and it’s so nice and you kind of want to live in the moment forever but you can’t because you’re sick and he’s mad at you and he shouldn’t have to deal with this and you should’ve been better.

You sniffle just as he starts the car, momentarily thankful for the engine turning over hiding the sound, but unfortunately, the second the tears start, they don’t stop.

Tim notices immediately, because of course he does.

“What’s wrong?”

You hiccup a half-sob. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called out.”

“Yeah, you should have.”

You sniff again, harder, cause now your nose is running. “I thought I could do it. I thought I could handle it.”

He eases the car out of the parking space. “Having a brain-cooking fever isn’t really something you can just handle.”

He eyes the fat tears rolling down your cheeks and you see the muscles in his jaw work.

“Why didn’t just call out sick?”

“I don’t like calling out. I wanna be a model employee. Model officer. Wanna be reliable. I wanna be—“

You swallow, voice hoarse and wobbly. “I just wanna be good.”

The car is silent for awhile. A long while. Tim doesn’t respond, and with your nerves now thoroughly fried and your immune system making a minor attempt on your life, you’re pretty sure you fall asleep.

You wake to Tim shaking you, albeit gently, and helping you out of the car. He instructs you to leave your bag and to go inside and change.

He really doesn’t have to tell you twice. You feel awful. So bad. Terrible. Horrible.

Changing clothes only serves to exhaust you further, so you trudge out to the living room and collapse onto your couch, shivering. There’s a blanket only a few feet away, but it’s just so far.

You hear your front door open and the sound of heavy-footsteps, and then there’s the creak of your shitty fridge opening and a few mumbled curses.

You ignore the noises behind you and dedicate all of your energy to grabbing the remote off the coffee table and finding something you don’t have to think about watching. Maybe Criminal Minds. Or Bluey.

“I,” Tim starts, then annoyedly snatches the blanket off the end of the coach and drags it up over you, “Am going to the store, because your fridge looks like it hasn’t been used since the eighteen-hundreds. Don’t die while I’m gone.”

“Okay,” You say, but your voice is hoarse and muffled by the blanket so it comes out more like, “Mmomhay.”

You end up watching Jurassic Park, because nothing makes you feel better like dinosaurs and people getting eaten by them. Classic.

Tim does return at some point, right about when you’re thinking of just binge watching every single Jurassic Park/World movie, and starts making noise in your kitchen. Which you also ignore.

You’re doing a lot of ignoring today.

It’s easy though, is the thing. Tim is cooking something, if the sounds of grocery bags and pots and pans and chopping are anything to go off, and he’s handled you and his’s shifts, so there’s no work to worry about, and you’re really honestly too sick to think about any other things that need to be done.

Tim’s taking care of it. So you don’t have to worry, cause he’s cooking something, and people are getting eaten by dinosaurs on the tv in front of you, so maybe everything will be okay for the time being.

The okay feeling comes to a swift and brutal end when Tim comes around the edge of the couch and tells you to sit up.

“M’ comfy,” You mumble, indignant.

He rolls his eyes, ever exasperated. “You can’t eat soup while laying down.”

“Watch me.”

“No. Come on, sit up.”

You whine as he pulls you forward, stuffing pillows behind you so you don’t actually have to put effort in to staying upright. He then places a tray you didn’t know you owned (maybe he bought it?) on your lap and places a small bowl of soup and a sleeve of saltines.

Your eyes begin to burn with unshed tears again.

Tim groans. “It’s just soup, Boot.”

You sniff harshly. “No one’s made me soup before.”

He sigh’s long-sufferingly, but his vocal exasperation is undermined by the careful way he dabs at the tears on your cheeks.

“Thought you liked your mom.” Tim says, a question hidden in his voice.

“I do. But we were really poor, so she couldn’t really afford to take time off work because I was sick. And I got sick pretty often so,” You pick up your spoon with shaky fingers. “I got good at taking care of myself.”

“Yeah?” Tim says, opening the package of saltines for you, “Then where’d all that skill go?”

He clearly means it as a joke, but you still can’t help the small stab of guilt in your chest.

You set the spoon back down. “I’m just really tired.”

He doesn’t sigh again, but he does purse his lips in that way he does when he’s upset about something and can’t quite decide how to show it.

When he moves, it surprises you. He takes the soup off your lap, moves the tray to the little coffee table by your couch. Turns the TV volume up. Loud enough to hear the audible crunch of the Spinosaurus battling the T. Rex.

Then, he reaches forward and just. Reaches his arms around your waist and back and pulls you forward, then borderline man-handles you into a comfortable position with your legs now where your head used to be, and your had pillowed on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you just that much closer.

You couldn’t have stopped yourself from melting into the embrace even if you weren’t hopped up on cold medicine.

After a few minutes of mindlessly watching a Spinosaurus go on a rampage, he speaks again.

“You wanna know what I think?”

You nod into his arm, face smushed.

“I think you got really good at making people not worry about you. You probably had to.”

For a brief second, you think about hunger, and sickness, and locked cars.

“And I think that in my haste to get through this training period and make it to Sergeant, I didn’t bother looking deeper to find out if you were lying or not.”

You shift in place, now a little uncomfortable as the conversation has switched over to you. “It’s not really your responsibility.”

“It is,” Tim says easily, tone-matter-of-fact. “You’re my rookie. And it shouldn’t have taken me this long to learn what kind of training and support you needed.”

You sit up at his words. Which is a huge mistake, because then you get really dizzy and nauseous and there are weird stars dancing across your vision.

“You—“ You pause, taking a deep breath, “This is police work. I shouldn’t have to be coddled every step of the way.”

“Lay back down,” He tugs you down by your waist. “You aren’t coddled every step of the way. You’re a capable cop. You’re good at your job. I’m not holding your hand. I’m giving you what you need.”

You sink lower on the couch, trying to hide your face from this mortifying experience. Unfortunately the closest thing to hide your face in is Tim’s side.

Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers.

He rubs your back consolingly. It only feels a little patronizing.

“But,” He continues, “I don’t know what you need if you don’t tell me.”

“I don’t want to bother you with that. You’re my T.O.”

“And you’re my rookie,” Tim continues smoothly, “I can’t send my rookie out on the streets if any criminal can get to her through a hug.”

“Hey,” You grumble, “That’s mean.”

“No it’s not.”

You pull your face away from his side and go back to facing the TV.

“But what if I need this a lot? What if my brain gets… screwy when I’m alone for awhile, and this is what fixes it?”

“Then I’d say it was a fairly normal reaction and need.” Tim shrugs.

You look up at him questioningly.

“Look. I didn’t have a great dad either. It’s not…” He trails off, jaw working. “Bad things happened to you. You dealt with them the only way you knew how. But now you need a little extra help. That’s all.”

“That sounds like something Lucy would say.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “How could you tell?”

The conversation lulls into a gentle silence. Tim continues trailing his hand up and down your side. Up and down, up and down, up and down. And occasionally pause to rub, knead, or scratch. All of which you lean into with equal amounts of shame and enjoyment.

“You’re like a cat,” He mumbles, eyes trained on the still rampaging Spinosaurus, “Can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before.”

You don’t have it in you to do anything more than make a non-committal hum.

A couple beats pass.

“Thank you.”

Tim’s hand trails a little higher on the next pass, his large palm curling up over your shoulder and to the back of your neck.

“For what?”

⋆౨ৎ˚˖ ࣪

masterlist | kofi

taglist:

@wowzabowza69 @4kirstein @marvel-z0mbie @mca-attack21 @winchesterkenzie @daithideolishmer18 @entoxicant @scarlet-issilly

[quinnsdesk]

Praise

tim bradford x rookie!fem!reader

synopsis: you tried your best to stay away from him, but he’s magnetic—especially the way he talks. his praise seeps into your skin, makes your knees weak, your mind hazy. he’s your t.o., and falling for him is the one rule you swore you wouldn’t break. but when he shows up unannounced one night, catching you mid-self-love, the tension finally snaps. turns out, he’s known about your praise kink all along—and he’s more than willing to use it to his advantage.

source of my filthy thoughts: @sleepymissy

content warnings: mdni, age gap, hand jobs, fingering, car sex, sir kink if you squeeze your eyes, masturbation (f), no use of y/n, praise kink

word count: 5.2k

You never really planned for it to go this way. Joining the LAPD felt like the next logical step, structured, demanding, noble. You weren’t naive; you expected the long nights, the stress, the near-impossible standards. But you also expected to get through it. Fast. Efficient. Professional. Your time as a rookie was supposed to be a means to an end. Get in, learn the ropes, prove yourself, and move forward.

But it didn’t go that way. It couldn’t. Not with him.

Sergeant Tim Bradford.

It wasn’t supposed to be him. Normally, sergeants didn’t train rookies, didn’t spend their days walking the fine line between mentor and ghost. But Grey had made the call, and when Grey made a call, people listened.

You didn’t complain. You knew enough to know Smitty wasn’t the right fit, not for someone who gave a damn. Grey knew that too. He wanted someone who’d push you, who’d treat the badge like the weight it really was. So, you got Bradford.

At first, it was exactly what you expected, hard lines and colder silences. He didn’t bother learning your favorite coffee order. He didn’t make jokes to cut the tension. He called you boot, always with that tone: firm, clipped, unreadable.

You responded in kind. Perfect posture. Precise reports. No questions unless they mattered. You spent your days buried in protocol and your nights second-guessing every mistake you made.

Let's be honest, you didn't do it to be a successful officer at the LAPD, or to make it to P2 in an instant. You did it for him. To earn his validation.

"Did you see that, boot?"

Tim’s voice cut through your thoughts like a switchblade, sharp and immediate. You blinked, pulled out of whatever haze you'd drifted into, and looked over at him.

"Hm?"

He didn’t glance your way. His gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead. Stern, focused, unreadable. One hand gripped the steering wheel at twelve o'clock, the other rested casually on his thigh, fingers drumming once, then going still. Calm. Controlled. Very Tim Bradford.

"Be alert. This job isn't for slacking off," he said, voice low, no-nonsense, commanding. Like always. His eyes didn’t move from the car ahead, parked in front of the corner shop. “That car just ran a stop sign. What do we do, boot?”

Your brain scrambled to catch up, but not from nerves. Not anymore. It was the voice, that particular rasp in his tone that made everything sound like a challenge and a warning all at once. Rough around the edges, in a hot, infuriating way that made it hard to tell if your heart was racing from adrenaline or something more dangerous.

“Uh,” you cleared your throat, adjusting in your seat. “We initiate a stop and warn the driver.”

Tim gave a single nod. “Good. Do it.”

Just like that, back to business.

Once the sirens went off, the driver slowly pulled over to the curb. You hopped out of the shop alongside Tim, heart already picking up pace at the sudden escalation, but his face remained unreadable, stone-carved and stoic, like always.

“You be contact, I’ll be cover,” Tim instructed calmly, his voice low but firm, the quiet authority in it grounding you as the two of you stepped out of the shop.

You gave a sharp nod, steadying yourself with a breath as your fingers brushed your holster, the familiar cool of the grip a silent reassurance. Tim moved to the rear flank, his eyes scanning the perimeter like a hawk, while you approached the driver’s side window of the idling Buick.

"Sir, you know you ran that stop sign?" Your voice was firmer than usual. Not quite Tim-level serious, but enough to command attention. You barely recognized the version of yourself standing here, composed, assertive, the echo of Tim’s influence in every word.

The man in the car, early thirties maybe, leaned toward the window, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know, but I mean—c’mon, is it really that deep? Don’t you guys have real criminals to catch?”

You didn’t flinch. Neither did Tim, whose stance from behind radiated alert tension. You could feel it even without looking.

"Sir, step out of the vehicle," you ordered evenly.

His face shifted. The casual charm drained quickly, like a mask that no longer served its purpose. For a second, his jaw tensed, hesitation flickering in his eyes as if weighing the odds. You didn’t back down. You couldn’t.

"Now, sir." Your voice dropped slightly, lower, firmer, deliberate.

There was a long pause. Then, with a huff, he lifted both hands and opened the door, stepping out slowly, his movements exaggerated in mock compliance. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, clearly irritated. “Didn’t think we were doing all this over a stop sign.”

But this wasn’t about the stop sign. Not anymore.

Tim moved in closer, standing just behind the man, one hand resting near his own holster. He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. The presence alone was enough to silence the air around you.

“Hands where we can see them,” Tim instructed coolly.

The man obeyed, though there was something tight in his posture now. Not just annoyance maybe nervous energy. His eyes flicked between the two of you, calculating. Your gut clenched.

You caught it before Tim did. The twitch of his fingers toward his jacket pocket. Small, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

"Don’t," you said quickly, your voice slicing through the air.

Tim moved in a blink, one hand clamping on the man's wrist, the other reaching for the back of his neck to guide him down onto the hood. It was quick, professional, controlled.

“Why don’t we take a look at what you were so eager to reach for?” Tim muttered, glancing your way as he patted down the man’s pockets.

You stepped in and retrieved a folded piece of paper from the inner jacket pocket, no weapon, but your eyes scanned the page quickly. Addresses. Names. Cash totals.

Tim looked over your shoulder and exhaled through his nose. “Looks like we found ourselves a runner. This guy’s not just ignoring stop signs.”

The man didn’t say anything, just glared at the pavement like it betrayed him.

Tim cuffed him and looked at you as he handed off the evidence. “Nice catch, Boot,” he said, almost offhand, like the words tasted unfamiliar in his mouth. Except you heard it. You felt it. The rare praise wrapped in his usual gravel voice, a sliver of something softer hidden underneath all that grit.

And just like that, your heart sank. Did Tim just—compliment you?

Blood shot to your cheeks. You looked away quickly, the heat crawling up your neck betraying any attempt at pretending you were unaffected.

“Thanks,” you replied, a little too quickly, a little too eagerly. You sounded like a golden retriever desperate for another pat on the head. Internally, you winced.

And of course, he noticed. He just smirked, pulling open the back door of the squad car and guiding the suspect in, refusing to bring up the elephant in the room.

__________

It only got worse after that. Or better, depending on how your heart and hormones were behaving that day.

It was firearm training today. He stood behind you, arms crossed, while you attempted to correct your stance at the range.

“You're standing like a flamingo. Plant your feet.”

You adjusted.

“Still a flamingo. A tense one. Breathe, Boot.”

You sighed and reset.

“Focus. Listen to your breathing, yeah?...” His voice dropped lower, raspier, too close to your ear now. He placed his hands over yours, helping you position yourself correctly, a jolt of electricity shooting through you. “That’s it. Doing so good, Boot.” He was devious, he knew exactly what he was doing, the way his words rolled of his tongue. You bit your lip, highly frustrated as he pulled away for you to take your shot.

"Attagirl." He smirked as you got a chest shot, just to the right of the metal suspects supposed heart. You gulped before turning to him, your chest heaving as you felt every fiber in your being catch on fire.

"I'll see you tonight?" Tim's eyes didn't leave yours as you tidied yourself up in the armory. You had forgotten that he, Nyla, Nolan and you agreed to go to a pub tonight. You didn't look up at him, you were too embarrassed, how could he make you feel like this. "I uh- I don't have a ride." You chewed on the flesh of your bottom lip before finally looking up at him.

He looked... different. His eyes were darker, maybe he was tired. "I'll give you a ride." Your eyes widened at his offer. "Oh no, I couldn't" You tried to avoid eye contact with him, but he was just so damn magnetic. "Don't be silly, it's out of my way, I'll pick you up at 9." Before you could reply, before you could even argue, he walked off. Like the asshole he is.

__________

It was currently 8:21 p.m. You were basically ready, all that was left was for you to put on your shirt. Only problem is that you can't decide which one to choose.

Red Satin Cowl Neck Blouse or Black Sheer Long-Sleeve Blouse with a slutty deep V neckline.

You looked at yourself in your mirror, your hair at your favorite length and your lacy, blue bra making your cleavage look hot. If only Tim saw you like this, he'd lose his mind.

It wasn't ten minutes before you were on your back on your bed, jeans discarded on the floor, your fingers running up and down your folds making your chest heave as a huff erupted from your throat.

"Sir..." You whined, throwing your head back as your pumped two fingers in and out of your throbbing cunt. "That's it, my perfect girl." He wasn't there but it was like you could hear him, feel him, his fingers, teasing that sweet spongy spot that sent shivers down your spine. "Fuck I'm so close, sir. Just like that..." Suddenly, before you could reach that long awaited orgasm, there was a knock on the door. And then again.

There's only one person you know that was impatient.

You got up quickly, glancing at your phone before throwing on your jeans, not having time to choose a blouse just yet. Tim was 15 minutes early.

"Hey sorry I'm early but-" He didn't finish his sentence because when he looked at you, he almost lost his mind.

Tim's a cop, he's not dumb. He's also a man, a much older man, who's been with women, and he knows what women look like frustrated and turned on. The way your nipples peaked out of your bra, your pupils dilated, your chest heaving as your hair was pretty much a mess.

"Come in." You choked before stepping aside and letting him in. "Let me just get my- uh- my shirt." This was so embarrassing for you.

He stood in your living room, quiet, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, shoulders tense like he was trying to keep something buried. The air felt heavier. Almost like whatever he was thinking, it wasn't something he’d ever let himself say out loud.

You rushed back to your room. This wasn’t a date. You told yourself that twice. Three times. Still, your hands hovered over two shirts like your entire evening depended on this exact decision. One red—soft and sweet, something a girl-next-door might wear. The other, black—tighter, lower, riskier.

Your bare feet padded softly back into the living room, fabric draped over each arm. He didn’t move when you walked in. Just turned his head slightly, his eyes finding yours with the kind of attention that made your breath hitch.

"Sir, which should I wear?" you asked, your tone playfully teasing, dipping into dangerous territory. It was toeing the line, hell, it was crossing it, but with Tim, it never really felt like a line existed. There was only silence and tension and whatever was simmering beneath his controlled surface.

You held each shirt against your chest, watching his eyes as they moved but not to your face, not immediately—but lower. A flicker of something darkened his gaze, then vanished just as fast.

At the academy you'd learnt how to read suspects. Observe the twitch of a brow, the clench of a jaw, the way people gave themselves away when they thought no one was watching.

But Tim Bradford? Tim was unreadable. He might as well have been carved from stone.

Still, something in the way he swallowed gave him away.

"The black one," he said finally, voice low, almost casual. But you heard the weight behind it. Saw the way his jaw flexed as he quickly looked away.

You smirked internally. The sluttier option. The one that hugged your curves like it was painted on, that dipped just low enough to make people stare, to make Tim stare, if he ever let himself.

You let the red one fall to the couch and pulled the black one over your head right there in front of him. He didn’t flinch, didn’t turn around, didn’t even blink, but you knew he saw everything. The smooth slide of fabric against skin, the way your body filled out every inch of it. You didn’t do it for his reaction. Not entirely.

It was a challenge. A dare. Say something, Tim.

He didn’t.

But he did look.

The silence stretched between you as you straightened the hem, your hands smoothing over the soft material. It clung to your chest, the swell of your breasts prominent even in the dim light, the curve of your hips drawing a silent trail for his eyes to follow.

Still composed, still quiet, Tim’s tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip before he caught himself and looked away, as if watching you in that shirt might be the thing that snapped him in half.

"You look good." He almost smiled. His jaw was tense as you nodded in appreciation, deep down you were screaming internally. Your T.O juts told you that you looked good.

"Ready?" He asked as you grabbed your purse and keys. It felt as if you were a couple, getting ready to go out for a date, you let your delusions get the best of you as his hand brushed your lower back guiding you out of the door.

__________

In the car it was quiet, dangerously quiet. You both felt as if you were drowning in silence. The pub wasn't far, maybe 20 minutes, but to you it felt like eternity. You never wanted to leave.

"So, what are you thinking?" You asked, breaking the painfully awkward silence. "I'm thinking about you." You blushed; his eyes didn't leave the road as the words left his lips. "Oh?"

'Oh?' Is that really all you can say?

"I'm thinking about how I came to your apartment to find you heaving, your pupils dilated, shirtless." The words felt like a drug, you wanted to hear his sultry, raspy voice forever. "What were you doing before I got there, Boot?" You gulped, he knew already, he just wanted confirmation. You were driving through a quiet area as he pulled over in an alleyway. "T-touching myself." You squeaked, knowing how wrong and vile this is.

"Show me." Your eyes widened as he looked at you through hooded eyes. "Show me how good you can be for me." He ran his tongue over his lips as you bucked your hips to hastily pull down your jeans and panties. "Pretty girl." He groaned with a strained voice as he watched you rub your clit. "You like that? You like being such a good girl for me?"

You nodded, vigorously as he palmed his crotch, his eyes not leaving yours. "Atta girl." He smirked as you arched your back from the stimulation. "Sir..." You whined.

You couldn't bring yourself to say his name. And Tim loved that fact. The way the word rolled off your tongue drove him just as insane. "Yes, doll?" You rolled your eyes back to the nickname. A little 'hmph' leaving your lips as he slowly reached over to swat your hand away. Taking control, slowly pushing two fingers inside of you. "Aw you're doing so good for me, my perfect girl." Your eyes didn't leave his as he looked at you in awe.

He curled his fingers, brushing over that spongy spot that sent you into oblivion before slowly pulling back out and repeating the process. "This is so wrong." You mutter, looking down at the way his fingers disappeared inside of you. "Do you want me to stop, sweetheart?" You choked at the pet-name before not replying, no way in hell would you want him to stop. He took your silence as a no before shaking his head with a slight chuckle. "That's it, taking my fingers so well, baby."

Your legs began to shake, the ever-familiar coil forming in your belly. "Sir..." You whined as he huffed, the way you address him making it harder for him to keep his composure. "Good girl, gonna cum on my fingers?" He coos making you whine even louder. His eyes were no longer looking at your gorgeous facial expressions but at your shirt, the one he chose. The one that make your breasts look like a meal, he's watching the way your chest is rising and falling, the way your nipples are begging for attention.

You grip his shoulder as he doesn't slow down, pushing you over the edge, he was ruthless, and you loved every second of it as he gave you one of the most mind-boggling orgasms of your life. "Pretty girl." He'd whisper in your ear as a sound unfamiliar ripped through the thick air.

Tim's phone rang. It was John. Probably looking for them.

He didn't pull his fingers out, but he answered.

"Hello?" You couldn't believe it; he acted as if he wasn't knuckle deep inside his rookie. You weren't able to hear John speaking through the phone; you were basically high on Tim's fingers. You glanced at him to see him mouth 'Be quiet.' You hadn't realized how loud your huffing and puffing really was.

"Yeah no, we're running a bit late, sorry John." He lied. You felt a pang in your chest; these conflicting feelings were too much for you. On one hand you hated the thought of lying to one of your best friends and on the other hand Tim's fingers felt like heaven. "Yeah, okay will do, bye." He hung up before pulling his fingers out of you, you moaned at the loss on contact. "Fix yourself up Boot, they're waiting for us." You tried your best to catch your breath, scrambling to get your panties. "You did so good." He finally added while turning on the car's ignition.

__________

You were quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that made John squint at you from across the table, his beer halfway to his lips. You avoided his gaze, hoping the dim lights and general buzz of alcohol would keep suspicion at bay. Your body was still thrumming, still coasting the edge of that high Tim had just pulled you from. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, like you could trap the ghost of his touch between them.

Your hair was ruffled, your lipstick faded at the corners, and the collar of your blouse slightly askew from where his hands had been, they were rough, possessive, and just careful enough to keep your secret intact. You gave a weak smile to Lucy as she passed you another drink, nodding like you were fine, like your insides weren’t still fluttering like they’d been rewired.

And then there was Tim.

He sat across from you, legs wide, whiskey glass nestled between two fingers, relaxed and smug in a way only you could recognize. He barely looked at you, at least not in a way anyone else would notice. But you felt his eyes. Quick flicks. Sharp glances. They landed on you like brushstrokes on canvas he was assessing, admiring, satisfied. Like he’d made something beautiful and now he was watching it unravel under the heat of his gaze.

You looked this wrecked because of him and he loved it. His jaw ticked just slightly as his mouth curled into something too smug to be innocent. Like he was cataloguing the way your legs crossed tighter, the way your fingers trembled when you reached for your glass, the way you still couldn’t quite meet his eyes without remembering the way he had looked at you when your back hit the wall ten minutes ago.

And you knew what he was thinking.

Good girl.

He hadn’t said it out loud, not here, not now, but the energy was the same. That confident, unbothered, dominant energy that had you unraveling in a locked supply closet two floors up. He was across the table now, acting like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just pulled a shameless, breathless mess from you.

You shifted in your seat, catching his smirk as he took another sip.

Fucker.

The laughter echoed through the group as Lucy launched into a story about one of her patrol shifts. You tried to focus, you really did, but Tim caught your eye again, this time with a slight tilt of his head and the kind of look that said it's time.

You swallowed, setting your drink down as casually as possible and standing up, brushing invisible lint from your pants like you weren’t trying to gather yourself. “Hey, I think I’m gonna head out,” you said, your voice soft, even.

“You okay?” Lucy asked, concern laced through the haze of her buzz.

“Yeah, just tired. Long shift tomorrow,” you lied smoothly, giving her a quick hug.

Tim stood too, stretching slightly, keys already in hand. “I’ll give her a lift.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, but it carried a weight only you felt.

John raised a brow, barely hiding his suspicion. “You two live in opposite directions.”

Tim shrugged. “I gave her a lift here, makes sense that I take her home. So she's safe."

You smiled tightly, heart thudding as you waved to the rest of the group. “Night, guys. See you tomorrow.”

More goodbyes followed.

As you and Tim walked away from the group, the night air cooled your flushed skin, grounding you just a little. His hand grazed the small of your back—not quite a touch, but a reminder.

The car ride started in silence, the kind that crackled with unspoken things. The kind that made your skin feel too tight and your thoughts too loud. Tim climbed in on the driver’s side, his movements fluid, practiced, his one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his muscular thigh.

You stared out the window, pretending the streetlights were more interesting than the heat still radiating off your skin. But you could feel him looking. Not full-on staring but glancing every so often, like he was still admiring the mess he’d made of you. Like he hadn’t quite come down from it either.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he said finally, his voice a low murmur, like he didn’t want to break the fragile bubble around you.

You turned your head slowly, meeting his eyes in the dim light of the dashboard. “So are you.”

He smiled, slow and deliberate, one of those grins that made your stomach clench and your thighs press tighter. “I like you better this way,” he said. “All quiet. Flushed. Still thinking about what I did to you.”

You weren't drunk, you knew where you were, what you were doing, everything you did was a conscious decision. So, as Tim drove you home, you recognized the spark of confidence as you slowly placed your hand on his throbbing crotch.

"Boot?"

God, you hated that nickname. What happened to sweetheart or doll or pretty girl? Why was it Boot again?

"Hm?" you replied, voice airy, laced with faux innocence. Playing dumb had never felt so delicious.

"What do you think you're doing?"

His tone was low, controlled, but there was tension there, pulling tight in his voice, in the way his fingers gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. His knuckles went white as you pressed your palm down firmer against him, your touch slow, maddening, deliberate.

You didn’t answer him. Not with words. You kept your eyes forward, pretending to admire the city lights through the windshield as your fingers lightly traced the outline of his hard-on through the thick denim of his jeans. His breath hitched. Just enough for you to hear it. Just enough to know he was losing the upper hand.

“Yes,” he muttered under his breath, adjusting in his seat, his hips instinctively shifting toward your touch before he caught himself.

“That doesn’t sound like a ‘stop,’ sir,” you teased, your voice sultry now, laced with just enough sugar to make it feel dangerous.

“I swear to-” he gritted out, flicking his eyes toward you, he was 15 minutes away from your apartment, he couldn't wait that long. He began to unbuckle his belt, you help him before removing his cock from his boxers, he pulled into an abandoned parking lot. Watching you with heavy eyes as your ran your fingers up and down his length.

"Yes, so good f'me" He threw his head back to hit the headrest, watching as you look at his cock with awe. Long, and girthy, large veins, with an angry tip, leaking with precum. "What're you thinking, doll?" He looked at you, then back to your hand which was stroking his cock. "I wanna ride you." You mumbled before looking but up at him.

He helped you pull your jeans down, making sure to leave your panties somewhere he'd remember to take later on. "Yeah fuck, look at my pretty girl." He smirked with pride as he moved his seat back, giving you space to straddle him.

'His.' You were his pretty girl

You stroked his cock a few more times before slowly sinking down on him. "Sir!" You whined before gripping his shoulder for stability, his eyes rolled back. "Say it." He grunted, gripping your ass to move up and down on his cock. "Say my name with those pretty little lips of yours." You couldn't bring yourself to do it. This was already wrong, vile, heinous even, you were crossing so many lines you promised to yourself you wouldn't cross. "S-sarge..." You mumbled.

"Moan my name Boot. That's an order."

Your eyes rolled back as you felt his tip hit that spot that made your legs shake. "T-tim..." You finally mumbled, earning a moan from Tim.

A moan, from Tim motherfucking Braford. It was loud, and deep, with just the right amount of rasp to make you want to do it again. Hell, you'd say his name all the time if it meant hearing those noises erupt from him.

"Louder." He barked through gritted teeth, placing a tight smack on your ass, "Tim!" You yelped from the sharp sting. "Yes fuck, you're so perfect." You sped up, his words edging you on. "Cum on my cock, doll." He groaned, looking straight at you as he felt your clench around him. You knew he was close too, you could feel his cock throbbing, begging for release.

"Tim I want you to-" You whined breathlessly as he began fucking into you in frustration. "Want me to what sweetheart? Cum inside this pussy?" You nodded at his filthy words, your eyes squeezing shut as that coil you felt not too long ago formed in your belly. A large moan erupted from your chest, a white creamy ring forming around the base of his cock. He held you in place, his rough hands gripped on your hips as he released his load inside of you. "Fuck, sweetheart, that's it, doing so good." He slowly helped you sink back down onto him. His warm fluids, filling you up to the brink.

"Are y-you on anything?" He asked breathlessly, helping you off him and back onto the passenger's seat, your legs shaking from the stimulation. You nodded yes slowly, trying to catch your own breath.

__________

The drive back was quiet; the air was thick. Tim stashed your panties in his jeans pocket, leaving you bare in your own jeans. The hum of the car being your only distraction to what had just happened. Did he regret it? Is he going to stop you from being his rookie tomorrow? Is he going to fire you all in all?

When he had finally pulled into the parking lot of your apartment you had no idea what to do, what to say. "Do you uh- want me to walk you up?" He was such a gentleman, considering he had cum inside you no more than 10 minutes ago. "That would be great." You half-smiled as he turned the ignition off.

You stood at your door, apartment 10F. Tim stood next to you as you fumbled with your keys to open the door. You thought this was goodnight, but Tim followed you into your apartment once you had opened the door.

He stood behind you, his hands in his jean's pockets, once again stoic, contemplating. "Are we gonna talk, or are you just going to avoid the conversation?" Your eyes shot up as his words cut through the thick air that had followed you from the car. "I won't say anything I promise, I don't want to jeopardize your career." You looked at him with wide eyes, not daring to take a step closer to him, if you did, you were afraid you might pounce on him right there and then. "It's not about that sweetheart, it's about you."

"You're much younger than me, I don't want to jeopardize your career." He seemed genuine, almost as if he had feelings for you. "With all due respect, I'm a grown woman, sir." He almost seemed taken aback by your tone, it was new for him, it was even new for you. "I know, but the LAPD can be quite... sexist." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't want other officers to think you slept your way to the top." You gulped. "I didn't think we we're going to tell other officers. I mean- isn't this a one-time thing?"

"No." No?

"I won't be able to keep this as a one-time thing." He took a step closer to you, "Call me old fashioned but I don't do one-night stands." He brushed a strand of hair out of your face before placing a subtle kiss on your forehead. "You're an amazing, sweet, kind girl. I don't want you to think that I only want you for your body." You could melt right there. "Although it is a plus." You chuckled making him smile.

"You have 5 weeks left of your probationary period; I can wait, I will wait for you." He cupped your cheeks before taking a step back, going back into T.O Tim mode.

"Am I really worth the wait?"

"Yes, you are, Boot."

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