#lucy and nyla

[gifs-by-renegadesstuff]

Lucy chen, *the* girl girls ❤️

2.07 | 7.09 | 7.13

[renegadesstuff]

SHE IS A GIRLS GIRL ❤️

[rookieoneil]

<picking teams for company baseball game, Tim and Nyla captains>

Tim: she’s my girlfriend

Nyla: she’s my girl.

Tim: I got to choose first.

Nyla: says who??

<continues arguing>

Lucy playing with a dog that ran up to her: such a good boy

[sgtbradfords]

the OG rookies + hugging their former training officer

[iw4ntrevenge]

And when you talk about my girl Lucy Chen, make sure you put ‘Sergeant’ in front of it!!! 🙂‍↔️🥹

[carisi-rollins]

[zerosbubble]

Bradford’s Intervention.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, like Rookie.

POV: A rookie who forgets to eat. A training officer who notices. It starts with late-night takeout, and ends with quiet care. Tim Bradford doesn’t say much—but actions? They speak loud enough.

TW: Reader goes through the motions of poor eating habits due to prioritising work, resulting in brief mentions of weight loss. Tim ensures reader gets back on track with eating in various ways, including often asking reader if they’ve eaten and observing if they’ve eaten enough.

A/N: Okay, first of all, I literally whipped up 70% of this oneshot and forgot to save it. So, apologies if this oneshot doesn’t hit different because it was made with frustration (Because I had to rewrite it all over again,) and not love like usual. :( Which also explains why I didn’t post once a week because my motivation went downhill after I realised it didn’t save—but we persevere!! So, here it is!

It was nearing the end of shift, and Tim could already feel the exhaustion setting into his shoulders. The paperwork was never-ending, the bullpen too loud, and his patience was at about 4%.

But when he looked across the room and spotted you, hunched over your desk with a blank stare and twitching fingers—he knew something was off.

You hadn’t said a word in the past hour. Not since the last dispatch call ended. Not since you got back to your desk.

Your knee bounced restlessly under the table, fingers twitching against the edge of your laptop. Your eyes were glassy—focused on nothing, staring straight through the screen in front of you like it wasn’t even there.

Tim watched you from across the bullpen, jaw ticking.

“Kid.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch. Just blinked—slow, like the thought had to travel a long way before it reached your brain. Then you looked up, bleary-eyed and sluggish, like you’d been wading through molasses.

Tim pushed back his chair with a scrape and crossed the room, arms folding as he stood beside your desk. “You good?”

You gave a fast, jerky nod. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

Too quick. Too rehearsed.

Tim glanced down at your desk—the same granola bar had been sitting there since morning. Unwrapped, untouched. The coffee cup next to it was long since empty.

“Did you eat today?” he asked, voice low.

Your eyes flicked to him, then away. “Wha—yeah. I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t the question,” he said flatly, brow raised. “Did you eat?”

You hesitated. Just enough to answer the question for him. Then you muttered, “Had some coffee.”

Tim exhaled through his nose. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t call you out or scold you.

He just looked at you. Stared long enough that you started to fidget, then glanced at his watch.

“Come on.”

You blinked. “What?”

He was already walking away, grabbing his jacket. “Hurry up before I leave you here.”

For a moment, you just sat there, watching him near the exit before you shook your head profusely, as if snapping out of a trance that had it’s way with you for far too long before bouncing to your feet and jogging after him.

The ride was quiet—typical with Tim. No music, just the soft murmur of the radio and the occasional irritated grunt when someone on the road pissed him off.

You sat curled into your seat, arms crossed, stomach finally realizing it hadn’t been fed in over twelve hours.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into a faded parking lot. The diner looked like it belonged in a postcard from the ’80s—neon lights buzzing, chrome siding catching the glow of streetlamps. The windows glowed warm and yellow in the night.

You squinted. “Diner?”

“Midnight special,” he replied, cutting the engine and getting out like it was a regular routine. “Get moving.”

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old grease, pancakes, and brewed coffee. You slid into a booth by the window while Tim nodded to the woman behind the counter. She brought two steaming mugs of coffee over like she already knew the drill.

Tim didn’t open the menu. Just sipped. Watched you.

“You’re gonna order,” he said finally, nudging a menu toward you with a finger.

You blinked at him. “What should I get?”

“All of it.”

You stared. “What?”

He took another slow sip of coffee. “Everything you’ve been skipping. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Pick something from every section.”

Your shoulders stiffened. “Sir—”

“Don’t even start,” he cut in. “I’ve seen corpses with more color than you today. You’re running on fumes and stubbornness.”

You huffed, looking away, cheeks burning. “I’m not a kid.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push. Instead, he nodded toward the menu again.

“Then order like an adult who knows how to take care of themselves.”

You grumbled under your breath, but something about the steadiness in his voice—like he noticed the way you’d been shrinking lately, the way your uniform was a little looser—made you obey.

And for once, you didn’t have a retort. Just stared down at the laminated page, swallowing hard as your stomach let out a quiet growl.

You pointed, finally. “I’ll take the fries, pancakes, hashbrowns, and a milkshake.”

Tim grunted, satisfied. “Atta kid.”

Tim just nursed his coffee, occasionally stealing a fry off your plate once the food came. He didn’t push. Just watched you eat with that unreadable expression of his.

Halfway through your milkshake, your shoulders sagged.

“Didn’t realize how hungry I was,” you mumbled.

Tim gave a small nod. “That’s the thing with burnout. You don’t feel it ‘til it’s already bleeding into everything else.”

You looked down at your fork.

He leaned back in the booth, exhaling slowly. “You’re not a machine, kid. You don’t get extra points for starving yourself through the shift.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know,” he said, softer now. “That’s the problem.”

You went quiet again.

The syrup was starting to stick to your fingers. The milkshake was giving you a headache. But the warmth in your chest—warmth that wasn’t from the food—was harder to ignore.

And when he flagged down the waitress for a to-go box for the leftovers you couldn’t finish, you didn’t argue.

After the midnight diner run, something shifted.

Tim Bradford, usually content to let his rookies suffer through learning things the hard way, was now on your ass like a hawk about one very specific thing:

Food.

It started the next morning—quiet, early, just before roll call.

You were half-awake, rubbing sleep from your eyes and yawning into your shoulder as you fumbled with your locker. The clatter of boots on tile barely registered until a shadow stretched across the floor beside you.

“Did you eat?”

You blinked, turned your head, and found Tim standing there—arms crossed, face unreadable, looming like a silent judgmental stormcloud.

“Uh… yeah?” you offered, voice raspy from sleep.

He tilted his head slightly. “What?”

“Granola bar?” you tried again, already wincing.

He let out a low, unimpressed sound. Somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. “That’s not breakfast. That’s a snack pretending to be one. You’ve got five minutes. There’s a vending machine in the breakroom. Find something with protein—go.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to ask if he was serious—but the sharp look he gave you shut it right back.

Your legs moved before your brain caught up.

By day three, the mission had evolved.

Now he was personally escorting you to the food trucks during break like your own surly, broad-shouldered chaperone.

“Go big or go home,” he muttered, squinting at the chalkboard menu propped on the sidewalk. “Get the loaded burrito.”

You stared blearily at the options. “Which one?”

He stepped forward slightly, pointing without hesitation. “Not that one. The other one—with potatoes.”

You followed the direction of his finger, and it took you a second to realize your own hand had drifted to match, your finger hovering just beneath the menu item like a trained reflex.

“Yeah,” he said with a small, victorious nod. “That one.”

You gave him a look. “Are you seriously micromanaging my lunch right now?”

“Damn right I am,” Tim said without missing a beat. “Not risking my rookie blacking out during a foot chase because you skipped breakfast again.”

You just rolled your eyes with a defeated huff, stepping up to the food truck to place your order.

By day five, it was no longer a secret.

In fact, it had become something of a running joke at Mid-Wilshire.

“Hey,” Jackson whispered across briefing during roll call, nudging Lucy with his elbow. “Why does Tim follow Y/N around like a grumpy golden retriever with a lunchbox?”

Lucy smirked without looking up from her notes. “He’s on full food patrol. They skipped a meal once and now it’s like… a vendetta.”

Even Grey caught wind of it.

During roll call, right as the morning briefing was about to wrap, Tim leaned over casually and murmured, “You eat anything yet?”

You muttered a tired “Yes, sir.” under your breath, and Grey paused mid-sentence.

His eyes flicked up. “You feeding your boot now, Sergeant?”

Tim didn’t even flinch. “Can’t train a rookie running on fumes, sir.”

From the back of the room, Nyla raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “Didn’t know T.O. stood for Take-Out Officer.”

Angela snorted beside her. “Please. More like Dad-ford.”

You buried your face in your elbow and tried not to laugh, whilst Tim just shook his head, deadpan as ever, but didn’t deny a thing.

Because by now, it was true.

And everyone knew it.

Later that day, when he caught you trying to sneak away with just a cup of coffee for lunch, he reached out, plucked it from your hands, and deadpanned, “Caffeine doesn’t count as calories, kid. Let’s go.”

You groaned but followed.

And maybe, just maybe, the food tasted better when he was sitting next to you, silently eating his own lunch like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t made it his full-time side quest to make sure you were okay.

By day six, Tim was satisfied with not only the improvement in your eating habits, but also with the fact that everybody in Mid-Wilshire hadn’t mentioned a thing about his part in it ever since the day before in roll call.

Until..

Nyla and Angela decided that it was too good of an opportunity to not mention it once the break room was quiet, save for the low hum of the vending machine and the occasional clink of mugs against the counter.

Nyla perched on the edge of the table, sipping her tea, while Angela leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Tim stir way too much sugar into his coffee.

“You know,” Angela started, her voice carrying that amused edge she always got when she was circling in on something juicy, “you’re not exactly subtle.”

Tim didn’t look up. He was leaned against the breakroom counter, hands wrapped tightly around his coffee mug like it was anchoring him. His shoulders barely shifted.

“About what?” he muttered, tone just this side of defensive.

Nyla raised a brow, sipping from her own cup as she leaned beside him. “Your rookie.”

He let out a small, tired breath. “I make sure they eat. Big deal.”

Angela gave a short laugh. “You make sure they eat. And sleep. And drink water. You drag them to food trucks, you check in before every shift, and I swear to God, I’ve seen you watch their plate like a hawk to make sure they finish what’s on it.”

Tim gave her a flat look but didn’t deny it.

“I’m not coddling them,” he said. “They weren’t taking care of themselves. I stepped in.”

Nyla crossed her arms, eyes steady. “You stepped in like a one-man wellness program, Bradford.”

He didn’t respond right away.

There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He stared down at his coffee like it might say something back to him. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before—less like a retort and more like the truth slipping out. “They’re young,” he said. “Too used to burning themselves out before they even recognize the damage. Always pushing through, always trying to prove something. I’ve seen that break people. I’m not gonna let it break them.”

Angela’s teasing faded into something softer, more thoughtful. She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. “Most T.O.s would’ve chalked it up to ‘toughening up.’ Let them figure it out the hard way.”

He gave a small shake of his head. “Yeah, well. I’ve been the guy who figured it out the hard way. It sticks with you.” His tone had gone distant. Like he was seeing something none of them could. A memory, probably. One that hurt in ways he didn’t speak about.

The room quieted for a moment. Even Nyla, who usually had a comeback for everything, didn’t say anything right away. Then she tilted her head, voice quieter. “You’re a good T.O., Tim.”

Angela nodded. “Little overbearing. Lot grumpy. But yeah—solid.”

He rolled his eyes, but it didn’t quite reach the rest of his face.

Before he could respond, the door creaked open behind them, and your voice cut through the silence like sunlight filtering through blinds.

“Hey, sir? I grabbed you an extra taco.”

All three of them turned. You stood in the doorway with your jacket half-zipped, hair a little mussed from your earlier nap in the shop, holding out a foil-wrapped taco like it was a peace offering.

Tim’s entire posture softened in a blink.

His brows lifted—not in surprise, but in quiet warmth—and he straightened from the counter. When he reached out to take the taco from your hand, his fingers brushed yours gently. He didn’t rush it.

“Thanks, kid,” he said, his voice lower, more grounded.

You smiled—small but bright—and gave a quick nod before stepping back out, the door closing quietly behind you.

For a moment, the three of them just stood there.

Then Nyla took a long sip of her coffee and smirked. “Okay, but that was actually adorable.”

Angela grinned, eyes twinkling. “Dad-ford strikes again.”

Tim groaned and tipped his head back against the wall. “I swear to God, if that name sticks—”

“Oh, it already has,” Nyla said with a shrug. “You’re toast.”

Angela raised her cup in a mock toast. “To the dadliest T.O. in Mid-Wilshire.”

But the thing was—Tim didn’t argue. He didn’t snap back with a sarcastic jab or roll his eyes too hard.

Instead, he just looked down at the taco in his hand. His thumb brushed over the warm foil, slow and thoughtful, like he was still hearing your voice echo in his head.

And there, alone with his thoughts while the others teased, Tim let the smallest smile pull at the corner of his mouth.

One of gratitude.

And something else that felt a lot like peace.

Taglist: @its-ares @nevereclipse @chezze-its @mcckunty @graciereads

[severide-stella]

THE ROOKIE

– 07x11, Speed

[westwingwolf]

Forget the Academy and listen to your T.O.s. They'll teach you the way it should be done.

[nevereclipse]

father figure

Pairing: Platonic!Tim Bradford x femme!rookie!reader

Requested Y/N: no this came from my own brain !!

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: Use of y/n, yelling (standard TO Bradford style), domestic violence from a police perspective, light verbal sexual harrassment, mentioned vomitting, mentioned anxiety/nervousness, panic attacks, referenced/discussed past child abuse (emotional, with vague mentions of physical). Tim being a big ole softie (eventually).

Words: 5k+

Summary: How you went from being Tim Bradfords boot, to his unofficial kid.

this one got away from me a lot and has not been proofread!😭 enjoy! feedback is fuel.

----

“Officer Y/l/n, you’re assigned to Sergeant Bradford.” Sergeant Grey was standing at the front of roll call, having just asked you to introduce yourself to your new coworkers. It was your first day as a rookie at Mid-Wilshire, and your stomach was alive with nerves.

“Yes, sir.” You responded, sitting back in your chair.

“Alright everyone, you’re dismissed,” Grey continued, “Stay safe out there.”

Immediately, Sergeant Bradford was out of his seat and walking towards you, his face stony. You’d been warned about him by a… Officer Chen? You couldn’t really remember her name. Still, she’d warned you about his ‘Tim Tests’ and gruff demeanour. It wasn’t helping your nerves.

“Boot! Let’s go.” Bradford snapped, gesturing you over with a flick of two fingers. You smoothed your uniform and walked over. You forced a smile onto your face, wanting to make a good impression.

“Sir, I’m-,” you started.

“Save it, boot.” Sergeant Bradford cut you off. “You will address me as only Bradford, Sergeant Bradford or Sir. Is that understood?”

You nodded, the nerves settling comfortably in your stomach. Bradford was clearly not planning to calm your worries. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go grab the warbags and meet me at the shop.” Bradford nodded his head vaguely in the direction of the supply room, and you hurried off to prepare the war bags. The last thing you needed was to make a bad impression on someone who was already making you nervous.

---

Tim watched you hurriedly walk to the war room to set up. As he watched you go, Angela Lopez approached.

“So, what do you think of the new blood?” Lopez asked, gesturing (albeit unnecessarily) behind you.

“Too soon to say.” Tim replied, crossing his arms as he turned to Angela.

“Come on, Bradford, you always know right away.” Angela pushed, nudging Tim’s side.

Tim couldn’t deny that. He had a knack for knowing whether someone would be a good fit for policework – it was why he was an excellent TO.

Still, he paused, considering. “She’s… eager.” He hedged. It was true, to a degree. You did seem eager. But he could tell there was something more bubbling under the surface.

“Uh huh.” Lopez grinned, “Don’t be a total dick today, yeah?”

Tim glanced over his shoulder just as you walked out of the storeroom carrying the war bags. “No promises.”

---

Office Chen had been right. Sergeant Bradford was extremely intimidating. You’d graduated third at the Academy, and you knew you were good (well, competent at least), but some part of you was still constantly second guessing. Maybe it was Bradford’s height and build, or his permanently pissed off energy but an hour into your shift and you were scared. Not of him (not really), but of what’d happen when you inevitably screwed up. You’d tried to chat initially, but it hadn’t gone down well.

“So. Why do you want to be a cop?” Bradford asked as he pulled off West Olympic.

After an hour of near-silence, since Bradford had firmly proclaimed that the shop was a personal-life-free zone, the question surprised you. “Is that a trick question?”

“No. If I’m going to train you, I need to know why you’re in this car.” Bradford didn’t even look at you as he drove, instead scanning the streets around you.

You looked out your window for a moment. It wasn’t exactly an easy question to answer. Not without revealing way more about yourself then you wanted to on your first shift. Then you wanted too ever, really.  “Um.” You swallowed. “I know it’s… basic, but I want to help people.” You hedged. “People who don’t have anyone else to-.”

The shop screeched to a halt, and you were suddenly cut off by Bradford yelling: “I’VE BEEN SHOT! WHERE ARE YOU, BOOT?”

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck- you didn’t know. “Um…” You looked around, trying desperately to find a street sign, or some clue as to where you were. After a few more seconds, you heard Bradford scoff.

“Now I’m dead. It’s your fault.” He didn’t even look mad. Just completed blank. That was almost more nerve racking.

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” You started, hating the way your voice shook.

“Not good enough, Boot!” Tim’s voice was loud and sharp, cutting through the silence of the shop. “Apologies don’t save lives, rookie. Get out.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“I said get out and walk, boot. You can get back in when you know where you are.”

In that moment, you knew you’d ruined it. This had been your chance to be a cop, and less than two hours in, you’d already fucked it up. You got out of the shop, walking along side it. Hoping Bradford didn’t notice how your legs had shaken as you left. You wouldn’t let yourself be upset by this. Bradford was just doing his job, you were perfectly safe. From him, anyway.

Still, when you finally got back in the shop, you didn’t talk again. All your focus went towards scanning your surroundings.

---

Your legs had shaken when you got out of the car. It was subtle, but Tim had noticed it. Unbidden, a touch of guilt settled in his stomach. He honestly hadn’t meant to frighten you. It was just a Tim Test – he didn’t need (nor want) you to be scared. It was hardly conducive to training a good rookie.

What bothered him most, though, is your complete silence the rest of the day. You’d been annoying chatty the first twenty odd minutes of your shift (until Tim had, in traditional Bradford fashion, banned any sort of personal talk), but since getting back in the car, you’d stuck strictly to ‘yes, sir’s and ‘no, sir’s. It had been… unnerving.

Tim didn’t like changing his training style. After all, after half a dozen rookies, he liked to think that he’d perfected his TO methods. Everyone knew that he was an exceptional training officer. The only people he ever made exceptions for were veterans like him. But the thought of scaring you every time he yelled made his stomach drop in an unpleasant way. You’d been so eager when you’d first gotten in the shop – nervous, sure, but eager. And you were so, so young. You reminded him of himself in a way.

In the way you’d immediately changed he’d yelled, which even Tim could admit would’ve been… slightly scary. And that change had implications, ones Tim didn’t like. He especially didn’t like the implication of what that made him to you. A threat. So he’d never mention it, but he did quietly resolve to adjust – adjust, not change – the way he made sure you learnt what you needed too.

---

A few weeks into your training and Sergeant Bradford had significantly lowered on your rating of ‘scary people I know.’ While he was still harsh, and quick to criticise, he’d never shown you that cold, disappointment-infused yelling that he had on your first shift. It’d made it a lot easier for you to get comfortable around him, and you’d almost immediately started breaking the ‘no personal talk in the shop’ rule.

“Anyway, then she said that I was the one who needed to check my attitude. I mean can you believe that? Me? Having an attitude?” You said, watching your surroundings (you hadn’t forgotten your first Tim Test) as you rambled about some woman you’d run into grocery shopping.

At your comment, Bradford simply side-eyed you. He did that a lot, you were realising.

“Rude. That’s rude.” You said in response to the side eye. “It gets worse, though. She had the audacity-.”

Bradford held up a hand, cutting you off. “Boot.”

You turned, “Yes, sir?”

“Stop. Talking.”

You shut your mouth, but that was mostly to hold back a slight laugh. Bradfords hands were wrapped around the steering wheel, but they weren’t white like they were when you really needed to shut up. (You’d always been observant.)

“But this is the best part of the story.” You pressed.

“Boot, I swear to god-.” Before Bradford could issue whatever threat, he planned too, someone’s voice crackled over the radio.

“7-Adam-100, we have a domestic call at 4195 Clover Drive. Neighbours reported shouting.”

Tim’s face hardened. He glanced briefly at you, and you knew, even without a mirror, that your face had paled a shade. You’d been lucky so far to not have to deal with any DV calls. Guess that luck was over.

“7-Adam-100, show us responding, Code 6.”

Tim floored the breaks a little harder than he objectively needed too.

You could hear the yelling as soon as you pulled into Clover Drive. It was distinctly male, the words harsh and clear, and coming from a house halfway down the street.

It was an effort to clear your head.

“What’s the procedure for a domestic call, boot?” Asked Bradford as you switched off your sirens and approached the house.

You swallowed, “Um.  Get inside the house to assess any damage. Separate the assumed predominant aggressor from the presumed victim or any children if possible. If there doesn’t appear to be violence, there isn’t much we can do, though.”

Bradford nodded tightly. “Good. I’ll take lead on this one.”

“Yes, sir.”

 You knocked on the front door as Bradford called out, alerting the occupants to the polices presence. The yelling stopped immediately.

“Is there a problem, Officer?” Asked a man, probably in his forties. You and Bradford pushed your way into the house as you spoke with him. There was water spilt across the countertop, and a girl in her early teens standing in the kitchen. Her face was tear-streaked, but she appeared unharmed.

“We got reports of yelling from this area, sir.” Came Bradford’s voice from behind you. Your head was starting to spin as memories flooded back to you: late nights, angry words, the occasional smashed plate. Or worse.

You didn’t hear what the man (you assumed he was the girl father) said in response. The teen was watching you and Tim with wide eyes, shaking her head. She rubbed her wrist absentmindedly, and if you weren’t so stuck in your own head, you would’ve thought to ask to see if she was injured. You turned to her father and vaguely registered that he was wearing a wife beater under his button up. Ironic.

“Let’s go, boot.” Bradford snapped, beckoning you over. His jaw was set, and he obviously didn’t believe whatever the man had said. Your head felt like it was underwater as you walked out of the house, and your stomach turned. Memories flooded your head.

Bradford was grumbling under his breath, something about hating the laws around DV in California, when he noticed you stumble towards the bushes outlining the road.

“You good, boot?” He asked, frowning something.

You nodded frantically, “Mmhm… fine, si-.” The ‘sir’ was cut off by the sound of you throwing up in the bushes. You hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so nothing really came out, but still you dry heaved, clutching your stomach.

“Shit, Y/l/n, are you okay?” Instantly, Tim was at your side, one hand on your back. You nodded vaguely, gesturing for a drink of water. He almost ran to get it. When you could finally breathe, and had swallowed nearly half a litre of water, he asked,

“Jesus, boot, what the hell was that?”

“I’m fine.” You insisted, not wanting to get into some conversation about your past: Bradford wasn’t the understanding type. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Like hell it’s not.” Bradford snapped, guiding you back to the shop. His words were harsh, but his touch gentle. A strange combination, but one that left you feeling comforted. “Listen, boot, if you’ve got something that’s going to make you react to scenes like that, I need to know. Now.”

You shook your head frantically, refusing to open up. As much as you were starting to trust Bradford, you weren’t ready to give him that information. Not when he was the age he was, the build he was, holding so much authority over you

“It’s fine, sir. I swear. It won’t happen again.” You repeated, and you meant it. It wouldn’t happen again.

Tim surveyed you for a moment, watching the guarded expression in your eyes. It was one he recognised, having seen it in his reflection countless times after teachers asked about a suspicious bruise. It was for that reason he relented, though he fully intended to bring it up again. “Fine. But if have something you need to tell me… you can, kid.”

“Yes, sir.”

---

More time passed, and even though you still refused to open about your childhood to Tim (how do you even have that conversation?), you were starting to rely on him.

It was inevitable, you supposed. Unrequited, but inevitable. After all, he was in his mid-forties, an authority figure, admittedly a bit of a dick, but you were gradually (ever so gradually) starting to see a slightly gentler side of him. So of course you looked up to him. You had daddy issues, okay?

It wasn’t a crush. You knew that for sure. You’d half expected it to be, but it wasn’t. Instead, it was a healthy dose of admiration, paired with a slightly-less-healthy dose of please god be proud of me. But that was fine. It was entirely reasonable given he was your TO. You hoped.

---

“You’re under arrest for attempted grand theft auto and possession of illicit substances,” you said, hooking handcuffs around some criminal’s wrists. He’d been a pain in the ass to catch, and you could already feel a bruise blooming across your jaw from his escape attempts. Bradford had, predictably, been unhelpful in the arrest, instead opting to analyse your fighting technique as you’d taken the crook down. He’d even cracked a rare ‘good job’ smile as you’d put the cuffs on.

You pushed the perp against your shop, already halfway through the Miranda Rights: “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?”

The thief mumbled slightly, and you nodded to Tim to take him off your hands. The second your hands were off him, however, he started complaining. Loudly.

“Aw, come on man. If you’re gonna arrest me, at least let the lady cop throw me ‘round.” He said, looking over his shoulder to grin at you. You scrunched your nose. It wasn’t the first time a suspect had hit on you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“Nothin’? Dude, you gotta… I ain’t going to jail without gettin’ to feel some sweet lady cop ti-! Ow! The hell was that for?”

Tim scowled, hitting the suspect over the back of the head a second time for good measure (or something). “Get your eyes off Officer Y/l/n. You’re not fit to look at her.” He shoved the perp into your shop, rougher than was strictly necessary, and you couldn’t help the slight smile that crept onto your face.

“Really?” You asked, slipping into the shop’s passenger seat.

“What? You got a problem, boot?” Tim said, his voice flat. You just chuckled and shook your head.

“No problem, sir.”  

---

The silence in the shop was unbearable. It was almost lunch, and you’d scarcely said a word all day. You were preoccupied replaying your conversation with your parents from the night before over and over in your head, trying to figure out how them coming over for dinner had dissolved into fighting so quickly.

“You good, boot?” Tim asked after a particularly long stretch of quiet. “Usually I can’t get you to shut up, but you’ve barely said a word today.”

You nodded quickly, forcing yourself to focus. “I’m fine, sir. Sorry. Just tired. Besides, not personal talk in the shop, right?”

“When have you ever followed that rule? You sure you’re good, boot? Because if something’s going on that’ll affect your performance, I need to know.”

“Nothing’s going on. Sir.” You knew the words sounded thin, but what were you going to do? Complain about your parents?

Tim glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Uh-huh. In that case, what colour was the Lexus we just passed?”

Shit. You hadn’t been paying attention to your surroundings, too lost in your own thoughts. “Uh… silver?”

Another side eye, this one harsher than the last. “There was no Lexus. It was a Camry. And for the record, boot, it was blue.”

“I…” You didn’t really have a defence.

“Seriously, kid. What is going on?”

“Nothing.” You said, and you had to admit, you sounded like a kid. “I just. Had my parents over last night, and it didn’t… go great.”

Instantly, Tim was on edge. He wasn’t proud of the reaction, of the way his stomach instinctively dropped. He knew, he knew, that his version of ‘it didn’t go great’ with family wasn’t the same as most people’s. But this was you. You who’d thrown up at your first DV call, even without any violence. You who’d completely shut down after being yelled at.

Which is why he couldn’t help the immediate questions if: “Are you hurt?”

You tensed. Why would he ask that? “No,” you replied, “I’m not hurt.” It was true, technically. You hadn’t been hit since you were fifteen. And even then, it’d been rare.

Tim’s eyes flicked over you, trying to find a lie. “What happened?” He asked, and his voice had a weird gentleness that made you feel... strange.

You swallowed. Shrugged. “My parents came over for dinner. I did something, I don’t really know what, ‘n pissed my father off.” Your explanation was purposeful vague, but you could help but add: “He broke my favourite mug, which really pissed me off. It’s my apartment, you know? He’s not supposed to be able to break my shit anymore.” A long pause, your father’s furious insults running through your head. “He didn’t like it when I told him that.”

Tim nodded slightly, knowing exactly what you were suggesting. “He insult you?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before.” Despite your cool delivery, the words stung. You looked away, out the window, feeling tears prick at your eyes. You didn’t like talking about this, especially not with Tim. Just because you viewed him as... something, didn’t mean he thought of you ask anything more than a rookie he had to train. A burden.

“I’m sorry, kid.” Tim said, assessing you carefully. “I know what that feels like.”

“You do?” You looked at Tim, curious, and instantly regretted it. The tears welling in your eyes were all too obvious now.

“Yeah. My dad was like that too. I got slapped around my fair share.” Tim’s words were clipped. He clearly also wasn’t fond of talking about his childhood.

“Oh.” What else could you say?

“Listen, boot. I know it’s rough. And you don’t deserve it. But you’re not whatever he says you are, okay?”

You sniffled, hastily wiping your eyes. “Yeah. I know.”

Tim nodded tersely. “Good.” There was a small moment, where Tim placed a hand on your shoulder, and you felt like things might actually be okay. Like you might actually have someone. Then, “Come on, boot. We’ve got six hours of shift left. You gonna focus now?”

---

Tim kept an eye on you the rest of the day. He’d known there was a bit of him in you, but the parallels between your childhoods made his heart crack.

He could see the countless untold stories behind your eyes, ones he’d undoubtedly heard before. And the way you’d tensed when he asked if you were hurt... you hadn’t been hit last night, but you had been before.

He really had tried to not get attached.

And look. He knew you looked up to him. He’d seen the way you preened at praise, the shaky look over to him after making a decision, waiting for his nod of approval, regardless of how confident you were in the decision. He’d tried not to encourage it – limiting praise, refusing to approve your decisions unless you did first. It wasn’t good for a rookie to get that attached to their TO, not when they were only partners for a year. It was especially not good for them to view them as some sort of parental figure. More importantly, Tim Bradford didn’t get attached to his boots.

But goddammit it. The look in your eyes when he’d told you about his dad? It made him abandon all the principles he thought he held so strongly. He’d always wanted a kid, after all.

---

“Does anyone know what day it is today?” Sergeant Grey asked from the front of the roll call room.

You groaned internally. Of course he had to announce it to the whole it room.

A few rows behind you, Officer Chen perked up, grinning, you were sure, at Bradford.

“The day Officer Y/l/n takes her six month exam.” She said.

Cheers and whistles filled the room and you almost buried your head in your hands.

“Boot!” Tim called out. You turned to look at him. “I’ll take it as a personal insult if you don’t get more than a 93 on this exam.”

Great. Like you weren’t stressed enough about the exam already. “Yes, sir.”

As Grey tried to calm the room down, you swallowed, focusing on calming your breathing. You knew what you were doing. You just had to not disappoint Tim. Not forget everything. Not be a total fucking failure.

No pressure, right?

---

Three days later, and you were back in roll call. Grey had written three numbers on the white board. An 84. A 91. And a 95. Your stomach dropped at the sight of the 91 and the 84. Of course you’d failed. Of course. Why hadn’t you worked harder? You’d been a straight A student in high school, and university, why was this different?

“Can anyone guess which of these belongs to Officer Y/l/n?” Grey asked the room. Various answers were shouted out, most leaning towards the 95, until Grey cut them off and said: “The 91. Good work, Officer.”

You could only nod, your head already pounding. You’d failed. Not really, not truly, but enough. And Tim. What would he do?

You didn’t notice everyone leave the room. Didn’t notice Tim approach you, not until he was practically having to shout in your face.

“Boot? Boot! Y/l/n!” The sound of your name, paired with Tim waving a hand in your face, snapped you back to reality.

“Yes, sir?” Your voice had an almost unnoticeable tension to it. A shake. Please, please don’t be mad.

“Let’s go, boot. Why aren’t you getting the war bags?” Tim asked, completely ignoring your test results.

Completely ignoring your test results? What? Why wasn’t he yelling, reaming you out for disappointing him? He’d been very clear with his expectations and he’d never been one to let you down gently if you did something wrong.

“Sir?” You asked, confused.

“What is it, boot?” Tim asked, exasperated. You should’ve been on the road by now. Wait, where you okay...? Your eyes were wide. Almost afraid.

“Why aren’t you mad?”

“What? Why would I be mad-..? Oh.” Tim looked down at you, his face softening as he recalled what he’d said before your test. What you’d told him about your past. “About your test? No, kid, I’m not mad. I was screwing with you when I said you needed to get a 93. A 91 is an excellent result, boot “

“Oh.” You said quietly, looking away sheepishly. Of course he wasn’t mad. This was Tim.

Tim looked at you like you were an idiot, but somehow, you didn’t feel stupid or insulted. “Yeah, oh. You’re not a disappointment, kid. Not to me. Now hurry up and get the war bags sorted.” Tim clapped you on the shoulder as he sent you on your way, and you couldn’t help but think that this was what a father was supposed to be like.

---

“Red or black?” You asked Tim during one shift a month or so later. It was a random question, but you wanted his opinion.

Tim glanced at you. “As concepts, or…?”

“As dress colours.” You elaborated, before hesitantly adding, “I have a date.”

The shop skidded to a stop. “Woah, woah. You have a date? When? With who?” Tim was turning instantly, all his attention on you.

You bit back a laugh. “Tonight. With a boy. Jacob. And I don’t know what to wear.”

Tim frowned. “Where did you meet this ‘Jacob?’” He couldn’t help the protective instinct. The last time one of his rookies went on a date, she got kidnapped. And you weren’t Lucy (he wasn’t in love with you) but he did… care.

“At a bookshop. Calm your farm, Bradford. It’s one date. You really pulling the protective dad card right now?” You smirked, watching the slight red colour Tim’s face.

“I- no. I’m not pulling a card, boot. I’m just… curious.” Tim spluttered, not wanting to admit that he was definitely acting like a protective dad.

“Uh huh. He’s a good guy, Sarge. He’s funny, and sweet, and I actually like him.” You said, as if the concept of actually liking a guy was foreign. It had admittedly been a while since you went on a date. “So, red or black?” You repeated, crossing your arms. Your cheeks were the tiniest bit pink.

Tim glared from the corner of his eye. “Black.”

“Thank you.”

In signature Bradford fashion, Tim huffed and simply said, “For the record, I still don’t like this whole ‘date’ thing, boot.”

---

The date was a success. So much of a success, in fact, that three dates later, Jacob came to pick you up after work the next day. It was adorable, and he showed up with fresh flowers and a planned date, and it would’ve been perfect, if you hadn’t been leaving the station with Officer Bradford.

The same Bradford who’d been demanding more information about “this Jacob person” ever since you’d first mentioned a date.

So, while you were excited about the date, you weren’t thrilled at seeing Jacob stand in front of you, levelled by one of Tim’s many practiced glares.

“Who are you?” Tim asked, crossing his arms. He knew exactly who he was.

“I’m Jacob…?” Your boyfriend said hesitantly, trying to figure out why the man in front of him was staring at him so intimidatingly.

You winced and jumped in quickly. “Jake, this is Tim. My TO?”

Recognition clicked quickly in Jacob’s eyes.  He instantly stuck out a hand to Tim, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Uh huh.” Tim raked his eyes over Jacobs outstretched hand, but didn’t shake it. “You got a last name, Jacob?”

“Anderson.” Jacob supplied immediately, lips twitching faintly in amusement.

“What do you do, Anderson? If you say screenwriter, you’re going in a cell.”

Jacob chuckled. “I’m a teacher, sir.” Tim didn’t look impressed, but he didn’t look totally disgusted either. Which, to you, was a win.

“Is this the part where you tell me not to hurt Y/n?” Jacob asked with a barely contained grin.

Tim glowered. “Yes. In fact, consider this your one and only warning. Hurt her, and I’ll find a way to make you spend the rest of your life in a cell.” Tim crossed his arms over his chest, and God you were glad he’d never given you that look before.

Pitying your partner, you jumped in and placed yourself between the two most important men in your life. “Oookay, Bradford, chill. We’re going to go now. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay, sir?”

“Uh-huh. See you tomorrow, Boot.” Tim’s words came out tense, and he didn’t take his eyes off you until you were well out of the carpark.

---

The day had arrived. You’d officially been a police officer for an entire year. You weren’t a rookie anymore.

It was everything you’d dreamed of it being.

“Finally, congratulations to Officer Y/l/n for completing the FTO program and surviving her rookie year. Welcome, officially, to the team, Y/l/n.” Grey walked over to you, shaking your hand proudly. “Good work, kid.”

“Thank you, sir.” You beamed, returning the handshake. Grey dismissed the rest of roll call, and you walked out of the room. You could barely make it a few steps without someone grabbing you, hugging you or congratulating you in some way. You’d never been happier.

You reached the edge of the room and were met with Sergeant Bradford, a rare smile on his face.

“Congratulations, Y/l/n.” He said, reaching out a hand.

“Don’t even try.” You said, knocking his hand out of the way and pulling him into a hug. It was unprofessional, you knew, but you couldn’t help it. Aside from your boyfriend, Tim had managed to become one of the most important people in your life over the past year.

Tim froze for a moment, but gently returned the hug, patting your back a couple times. You thought you heard Harper snicker from across the room. You definitely heard Lucy say the word ‘Dadford.’ She wasn’t… entirely wrong. You had found a father in Tim. Maybe one day he’d even admit it – in actual words, not just actions. You still laughed every time you thought about his interrogation of Jacob when they’d first met.

You pulled back and only then did you shake Tim’s hand. “Thank you, sir. For everything.”

Tim nodded, the smile lines by his eyes crinkling. “You’re welcome… Y/n. I’m proud of you, kid.”

You smiled softly and forced yourself to only say, “Have a good shift… Tim,” before hurrying away. But as you got into your shop (your shop, for the first time), you didn’t stop a few happy tears from falling.

---

You were nervous. It was your second time riding with Tim since graduating the FTO program and you were nervous. It had nothing to do with riding with Tim, however, and everything to do with what you were going to ask him.

“Tim?” You asked, hesitant.

“Yeah, Y/l/n?”

“I have to tell you something.” You fiddled with your left hand nervously, already missing the weight on your finger.

Instantly, Tim was softening and frowning, “Are you okay, kid?”

“Yes! Yeah, I’m okay.” This time you actually meant it. “I have news, though.”

“Oh?” Tim turned to you for a second, before looking back at the road. “What is it?”

You swallowed, and then, “Jacob asked me to marry him. I said yes.”  

Tim had finally come around to Jacob a few months ago. Little did you know, but Jacob had actually asked Tim’s permission before proposing. You’d told him once about how you wished you had a father that you still spoke to, just for that reason. Jacob had known Tim was the next best thing.

Tim smiled widely, “Congratulations, Y/n. I’ll be expecting an invite to the wedding.”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about that.” This was where the nervousness was coming in. You were pretty sure the butterflies in your stomach had reached your lungs too.

“What is it?” Tim tilted his head slightly.

“Will you walk me down the aisle?” Tim froze, shocked. You quickly rambled on, as you so often did when nervous, “You don’t have to, I just-.. I don’t talk to my bio dad, and you’re the closest thing I have to a father, and it would mean a lot to me, and-.”

“Relax, Y/l/n,” Tim cut you off with a smile. “I would be honoured to walk you down the aisle.”

The smile on your face then was the third biggest you’d ever smiled. The first had been when you’d graduated the FTO program, and the second when Jacob had proposed. But this… this was an entirely different feeling. This was the feeling of your whole life, finally working out. You had a career, a fiancé, and now, a father. A real one, who never insulted you or made you feel worthless.

What more could you ask for?

fin

!! DO NOT REPUBLISH OR FEED TO AI !!

[jamiedc-they-them]

Please a The Rookie Tim Bradford x Shy!Adopted!Daughter!Reader? Where it’s her senior year and she’s a cheerleader and she’s doing her senior solo cheer and the stations there (Angela, Wesley, Nyla, James, Wade, Luna, Lucy, Aaron, Celina) and this is their first reaction to her cheer (her cheer can be this one: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTYognBE1/) and they’re cheering her on and you can finish the rest

Family Matters (Platonic)

Summary: Lucy likes to think she knows Tim at least a little, he is dating her best friend after all. However, what she learns is not something she ever expected.

Notes: Sorry to the requester as I think some of the other characters you mentioned come in later in the show, I'm only up to Season 2 Episode 6. Apologies!

Also, I'm from the UK and also very tired so I apologise if anything about cheer is wrong :)

Lucy knew Isabel was hard for Tim, a spot to not bring up. But, something was eating at him today. It wasn't anger, more...dare she say it? Nervous to him today.

He kept looking at his watch. Even Angela seemed to lighten up a bit with their friendly teasing.

Lucy didn't pressure him, though. So, she kept it casual, keeping their conversations how they normally would, when Tim's phone went off. He had put it in the holder, letting the audio book she recorded for him play as they went on patrol.

"It's Angela," Lucy said, picking up the phone, eyes going confused when she read the text - well, she only read the first part, when it was snatched from her grasp.

"Uh-uh," Tim said. His strict TO voice coming through, but also something else. Something like his look this morning.

"Sorry," Lucy said, hands going up.

"Relax, boot," he said, voice softening a little - ever so little, and yet she still picked up on it. See, she did know him at least, "I ain't gonna arrest you."

She snorted, despite herself, "just never seen someone so defensive over a phone before."

"Look, today's not the day, alright?" he said, sharpness coming back. He looked at her, and she saw a silent plead in his eyes.

"Of course, sir," she said. Then again, curiosity and all that --

"Who's Y/N?" it slipped out before she could even help it.

He looked at her again, this time a look she hadn't seen in his eyes since...well, maybe ever:

Life. Love. Hope.

"She's my daughter," he said.

Her eyes widened.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You loved your parents, both of them. You knew what had happened with your mother, your father had told you as gently as he could.

You just hoped that she would be able to make her way out of her addiction. You wanted her to be ok.

She was getting there, taking actual steps to do so.

You would go see her, one day. Your dad had told you that she was ok with that, only wanting to go see her when you were ready.

As for you? You threw yourself into your cheer team.

You had a natural talent for it when younger, and your father had supported you with all he had.

However, as things took a turn, you and him ended up going a bit further into work and hobbies.

You weren't estranged, you still spoke and had parent and child bonding times of watching films. It was just more difficult as you both tried to deal with everything changing.

Tonight was a special performance, a solo cheer that you were doing. You had been doing all you could to practice for it. A chance to prove yourself.

You had been texting your aunt, as you knew your dad didn't like to use his phone much when at work.

She had assured you that herself and some of the others would be there, but that most importantly he would be there.

The other people in your cheer place were nice, friendly and fully got you for you. You didn't talk that much, preferred to be in the background - not that it was a bad thing of course, pieces to a puzzle and all - but they and your coach convinced you to do this solo.

So, you looked at the crowd before the game.

You took a breath, as one of your team mates can up to you, taking you away from the curtain to try help with your nerves.

Your friends were great, but you wanted your family.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lucy now knew why Tim had taken a half shift that day. She knew why Angela had texted him. She knew why he was more on edge than usual.

He wanted to make sure he made it.

"Hey, we ain't having you miss this," Angela promised back at the station, putting a hand on Tim's shoulder as he sat on the corner of a desk, arms folded and staring at his watch every few moments.

A hard half-day had been the last thing he wanted. It had wasted time, even if he made people safe.

"We still need to book this guy," he said, looking to the criminal him and Lucy had brought in for...god, he was so distracted today. He'd missed things like this before, but this one he knew was special from what you had said about it when he got home from work.

He stood up, putting his face in his hands. Sure, he didn't like being as vulnerable as this at work, especially in front of rookies, but from the look Nolan gave him when he met his eyes for a minute, right now it didn't matter about work or ranks, it was a family matter.

"I can book him," Nolan even offered.

It was kind, but Tim waved him off, "she'd want to meet all of you, especially you new rookies. Just..." he looked back at them all, "just...she's a bit shy, ok? So don't like, pressure her to talk or anything."

Nolan was dead serious with the shake of his head, "oh, no, I wouldn't dream of it, sir."

Tim had a growing respect for Nolan, and this was just another reason to add to that list.

"Officer Bradford," Sergeant Grey said as he joined them all, "you are aware that we have other officers here and that this precinct isn't just you all, correct?"

"Of course, sir," Tim said, the others also nodding.

Grey nodded, sly smile, "so why are you all acting like we can't get another officer to book this man in, thus letting us all go and see Y/N's cheer?"

"You're coming?" Tim said and Lucy didn't think she could ever see him so happy.

"Course I'm coming," Grey said like it was obvious, "I've seen that girl grow up, Tim. I'm the favourite uncle."

"Wouldn't you be the gran--"

"Something you'd like to add, Officer Nolan?" Grey asked, eyebrow raised as he pretended not to hear that.

Nolan shook his head instantly, then coughing from Nyla hitting him with her elbow, "no sir."

Grey nodded, "just what I thought. Now," he said, looking at the rest of them before nodding to Tim, "lead the way, Officer Bradford."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You took a final breath, your team giving you silent support before you walked onto field, to the centre. Your team hyped you on from the background, all eyes on you.

And so, you began.

You looked at the crowd for a moment, stumbling slightly but managing to catch yourself before anyone noticed.

You looked back to your team, joining in with your chants and pointed subtely.

There they were, old and new faces.

And right in the middle of them? Tim Bradford, your father.

He was clapping, everyone else joining in, both in rhythm and in the chants.

Just like that, it was over.

You all went to the sidelines, and the game went on.

It went by like a flash.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After it, you got changed and made your way out, but was swept up in a hug by your father, "there she is!" he said, his guard completely down, "you were amazing, sweetheart!"

You giggled, hugging him close.

"Y/N," he said, putting hand on your shoulder and gesturing for the others to come over, "I'd like you to meet Lucy Chen, my boot; John Nolan, Nyla's boot - previously Bishop's - and Jackson West, Angela's boot."

Lucy came forward, beaming smile and hand outstretched, eager to meet you. You clasped her hand gently, shaking it.

"Hi! It's so good to meet you! You were amazing out there! Tim, I'll send you some photos later and oh, sorry --" she said, knowing she was rambling.

"It - it's ok," you assured. Her smile grew more, before she stepped back, letting her friends go forward as well.

"I agree with Lucy," the older one said, holding out his hand, "John Nolan, pleasure," he had a parental feeling to him that made you feel safe, that he got that you wanted this to be quick.

"Pleasure, ma'am," Jackson said, hand outstretched, "and I concur, you were incredible. You should be proud."

You nodded, giggling a bit before turning to your aunt, "he always this serious."

Angela shrugged, "I'm trying to tire it out of him. We only did a half day, remember?"

You nodded, "...right."

She came over, hugging you before ruffling your hair - something she'd done since you were young, even if now in your late teens, "I'll get there. 'sides, he's a good guy. All three are."

You nodded, "I know, I know," you said.

"I gotta say," Grey said, "that was some cheer. You've grown a lot, Y/N."

"Thank you gr-uncle Grey," you said, looking to your dad who gave you a wink: nice save.

"Hi, Wesley," a man in a suit said.

You shook his hand, eyes coming to life more as you looked back at your aunt, "ah, so this will be my uncle-in-law."

He went red at that, Angela letting out a laugh and cough at that.

She looked to Tim, "traitor!"

Tim raised his hands, "hey, you know the rules when it comes to family -"

"'No secrets', yeah Bradford, I remember," Angela said, rolling her eyes fondly. You did clock how she held Wesley's hand after that.

You looked to Nyla, giving a smile and approaching with hands together.

"You must be the new TO," you said, "I know you're still getting used to being back from undercover. So, I understand if just a hello is ok for now. But, I hope I can get to know you more?"

Nyla smiled softly, "perceptive, aren't you?" she said in a soft tone, "ever thought about being an officer?"

You shook your head, "I'll leave that to you guys. I think I'd prefer just a simple life, however I can."

Nyla nodded, "understood. But, keep that sharp eye of yours."

You tilted your head, looking at her and then at Nolan, "do you both have kids?"

They nodded, "a son, Henry," Nolan said.

"A daughter. Quite a bit younger than you," Nyla said, "I don't know what she wants to be yet, she's still learning. But, and don't tell anyone else this," she said, leaning down a bit, "I might just start bringing up cheer more after seeing moves like that."

You smiled, nodding, before making a zipping motion to your mouth.

You went back to your dad, who put an arm around your shoulder.

This was your family, with new additions.

They loved you for who you were.

Your dad knew you worried. You always would. But, you also had friends to help ground you, just as he did.

Neither of you were alone.

[gifs-by-renegadesstuff]

NYLA HARPER & LUCY CHEN in THE ROOKIE, 7x09 “The Kiss” ❤️‍🩹

[renegadesstuff]

SHE NEEDED THOSE HUGS 🥺❤️‍🩹

[rookieoneil]

Tim: I’m so sick of Nyla stealing everything that’s mine

Lucy: name one thing she’s stolen from you

Tim: I can name a few. She tried stealing my football day, she took my rookie, and she took my best friend! The list goes on

Nyla: don’t be mad cause I do it better

[chenfordsource]

THE ROOKIE Season 7, Episode 2 “The Watcher”

[midnightprofiling13]

Echoes of the Past

Detective Y/N and Officer Tim Bradford are building a life together when Y/N’s abusive ex, Kyle, resurfaces, threatening their safety. Despite warnings and limited police resources due to a citywide emergency, Kyle breaks into their home. A violent confrontation ensues, putting Y/N’s life at risk and forcing Tim to fight fiercely to protect her. With support from their colleagues Nolan, Lucy, Nyla, and Lopez, they face the trauma and begin the long path toward healing.

Trigger Warnings:

Domestic abuse and stalking

Physical violence and assault

Home invasion

Emotional distress

Unconsciousness and injury

The hum of early morning Los Angeles traffic buzzed through the open window of the modest Spanish-style home shared by Tim Bradford and Detective Y/N. Sunlight spilled across the hardwood floor, casting warm gold patterns on the walls. A kettle whistled softly in the kitchen as Tim poured two mugs of coffee, already dressed for his shift—black boots polished, badge clipped to his belt.

You padded in barefoot, wearing one of Tim's old Academy shirts and your hair still damp from a quick shower. "You always beat me to the coffee."

He turned and handed you a mug with a small smile. "One of the perks of dating an early riser."

You chuckled, leaning into his chest as he kissed your temple. For a moment, it was just the two of you, insulated from the chaos of the job you both lived and breathed.

By the time you got to Mid-Wilshire, the precinct was already buzzing. Sergeant Grey was in his office reviewing the day's operations. Officers bustled between desks. Nolan was leaning over Lucy’s shoulder, pointing out something on a tablet. Lucy rolled her eyes and swatted his hand away.

"Morning, Detective Badass," Lucy teased as you walked in.

You raised an eyebrow. "Morning, Officer Gossip."

Nyla Harper appeared beside you, her usual calm demeanor paired with a nod. "Lopez is already in the war room. We've got a briefing in five."

As the squad gathered, Tim passed by and let his hand brush yours briefly. No one noticed, but it was a small reminder—one that always made your heart steady.

The briefing was standard: a series of B&E cases escalating in your district, possible gang involvement. But your mind drifted.

Lately, you’d felt... watched. At first, you chalked it up to paranoia. After all, being a detective came with its fair share of enemies. But last night, a black SUV had idled outside the house longer than it should’ve. When you stepped outside, it sped off.

You hadn’t told Tim. Not yet.

After the briefing, you, Nyla, and Angela worked a lead while Tim partnered with Nolan. At a diner for lunch, Nyla finally broke the silence.

"You've been off lately," she said, nursing a black coffee.

You hesitated. "Just tired."

Nyla gave you a look that could slice through walls. Before you could speak, Angela slid into the booth beside you, arms crossed. "Try again," she echoed, her voice edged with a detective’s resolve. The combined force of both women staring you down left no room for evasion.

You exhaled, staring into your coffee. "I think someone’s following me. I haven’t seen him in years, but... I think it might be Kyle."

Her eyes sharpened. "The ex? The one you got the restraining order against?"

You nodded. "It expired a year ago."

She didn’t speak for a moment. Then Nyla said, "Tell Tim. Today. This isn't something you handle alone."

You knew she was right. But admitting it meant reliving it. And that terrified you more than Kyle ever had.

Back home that night, Tim grilled steaks on the patio while you sipped wine, pretending the world wasn't shifting beneath your feet.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked suddenly, eyes studying you.

You looked at him—really looked—and realized he knew something was wrong.

"I think Kyle's back," you said softly.

Tim’s expression shifted instantly—controlled, but fierce. "What did you see?"

You told him everything: the SUV, the strange feeling, the expired restraining order. His jaw clenched.

"We’ll take this seriously. I’ll talk to Grey, get extra patrols near the house. You’re not alone in this. Not ever."

You nodded, but the weight of the past had already begun to settle like a storm cloud on the horizon.

Over the next week, subtle signs multiplied. A bouquet of roses left on your windshield. A voicemail with nothing but heavy breathing. Even your mailbox door was left open when you knew you'd shut it.

Lopez caught you staring into space at the precinct. "Y/N," she said firmly. "This is getting into your head. You need eyes on you at all times."

"Grey’s already approved rotating partners," you muttered. "I just hate the feeling of being hunted."

"Then let us help hunt back," she replied.

Tim was more on edge than he let on. He double-checked locks. Refused to let you drive home alone. He never said it, but you knew: he blamed himself for not being there the first time Kyle hurt you.

That night, you and Tim returned home after a late callout. As you approached the door, you paused.

The light in the upstairs hallway—one you were sure you turned off—was glowing.

Tim's hand went to his holster. "Stay behind me."

The house was cleared. No sign of forced entry. Nothing missing. But something was wrong.

On the bed lay an old photograph of you and Kyle. Torn down the middle.

You called Grey. Then you called Nyla.

The next day, Grey made it official: Tim wasn’t allowed to be your partner or respond to calls involving Kyle. Conflict of interest.

Tim’s jaw clenched. "This is bullshit," he growled, stepping toward Grey. "You expect me to just sit on my hands while she’s out there alone?"

Grey stood firm. "You know the policy, Bradford. This is personal, and you’re too close."

Tim looked like he was about to explode, but Nolan placed a hand on his shoulder. "We’ll be fast. Let’s move."

Still seething, Tim kissed your forehead, his voice low. "I’ll be back as soon as I can." His eyes didn’t hide his fear—only his rage.

Weeks passed without a single sign of Kyle. You clung to the hope that the danger had finally passed.

The department was stretched thin due to a massive wildfire blazing just outside the city limits. Officers were pulled away to manage evacuations, control traffic, and provide support to firefighting crews. As a result, resources were scarce, and constant surveillance on your house wasn’t possible.

Instead, patrol cars drove by your neighborhood roughly once every hour, a thin thread of protection in an otherwise vulnerable situation.

After a long, exhausting shift, you finally arrived home. You locked the door behind you, shedding your gear and trying to settle into the quiet of the evening. But something felt off — a subtle tension in the air you couldn’t shake. Quietly, you pulled out your phone and sent a brief, coded text to Nyla: “Something’s wrong. Be ready.”

Within moments, your phone buzzed with a reply: “On it. Stay sharp.”

Nyla immediately called the precinct to alert them. Officers were dispatched discreetly to your neighborhood, but the department was still stretched thin due to the ongoing wildfire emergency.

As you moved through the house, your heart pounded louder. You hadn’t seen Kyle in weeks, but now the dread felt tangible — like he was already there, lurking in the shadows.

Suddenly, a crash echoed from upstairs.

Before you could react, Kyle appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his face twisted with anger.

Without warning, he lunged toward you.

You scrambled backward, heart hammering, and managed to slam the bathroom door shut just as he reached for you. Hands shaking, you fumbled with your phone and dialed 911.

“Mid-Wilshire Detective Y/N. Officer in distress,” you whispered urgently into the phone. “My ex is in the house. Address is—”

Heavy footsteps pounded outside the door. You held your breath as the door handle rattled. The fight was just beginning.

Tim was on patrol with Nolan when his radio crackled to life. The dispatcher’s urgent voice sent a jolt straight through him.

“Units, emergency at 4725 Maple Avenue. Officer in distress. Suspect is Kyle Lawson. Proceed with caution.”

Tim’s heart dropped. That was your address.

“Copy that,” he muttered, eyes locking with Nolan’s. “We’re rolling. Now.”

Grey’s voice crackled over the radio: "Bradford, you’re too close to this. Stand down. I’m en route."

"Negative, Sarge. That’s my house. That’s my—"

"You stand down, that’s an order."

Tim pulled up just as backup arrived. Grey intercepted him at the front lawn.

"You're benched."

"I’m not letting her die in there!"

A scream cut through the air.

Tim’s blood ran cold. Then he heard it: a second scream—your voice—followed by a crash.

Upstairs, Kyle had grabbed you by the ponytail, yanking you backward. You lost your balance. Both of you tumbled.

Your head struck the floor.

Time seemed to stop.

And everything went dark.

Tim didn’t wait.

He burst through the front door, pushing past two uniforms. Nolan followed close behind.

"Y/N!" he called out.

He found you at the bottom of the stairs, motionless. Kyle loomed over you, reaching.

Tim tackled him, rage blinding his technique. He pummeled Kyle until Nolan dragged him off.

"She’s unconscious," Nolan said, checking your pulse. "Still breathing."

Tim cradled you in his arms, whispering your name over and over until paramedics arrived.

You woke in the hospital to sterile white light—and the weight of Tim’s hand wrapped around yours.

He jolted awake the second your eyes fluttered open.

"Hey," he choked, brushing hair from your face.

"You didn’t follow orders," you murmured.

"Not when it comes to you."

Grey visited later. Said nothing about protocol. Only left a quiet, "Glad you’re okay."

Kyle was being charged. The DA was confident. And this time, you’d be testifying.

Lucy, Lopez, Nolan, and Nyla filled the room with flowers and warmth.

Later that week, you sat on the porch with Tim, a blanket around your shoulders.

"You scared the hell out of me," he whispered.

"I scared myself."

Tim kissed your temple. "But you're still here. We’re still here."

You looked out into the night, no longer fearing the shadows.

Together, you’d made it through.

And he would never let you fall again.