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mrssabinecallas · 2 months ago

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Catching Up || Tim Bradford

pairing: tim bradford / formermilitary!fem!reader

in which tim runs into an old soldier he used to know in the bustling city of los angeles.

*guys i tried to hard to not use y/n or y/l/n but im sorry it had to be done :(*

cw! intended lowercase, not proofread, fluff, mentions of abuse and cheating, hints of smut of you squint towards the end :)

gif not mine, creds to owner above!

it had been 15 years since tim bradford had made his decision to retire from active duty in the army. shortly after he made that decision, he regretted it. becoming a cop? boy, was he stupid, it would never work out. now, 15 years later, he likes where he ended up. 12 years as a TO, and a bit of being a sergeant under his belt, he could’ve never predicted this is where he would be in the LAPD.

it was another day out on patrol, lucy chen sitting in the passenger seat of his shop, chattier than ever. tim just wanted the quiet, but he knows how she is. she won’t shut up for anything.

“so- anyways. we get to the restaurant, and he told me he had a reservation. turns out he lied, and the wait was over an hour. literally, the worst first date i think i’ve ever been on,” lucy rambled on, and tim added his two cents every now and then. it was a surprisingly quiet morning, very few calls coming in, and other units would attatch before he could. so, he resorted to traffic stops to try and make time go a little faster.

in this particular traffic stop, he pulled over a man for running two stop signs. when running his license, tim found out he was flagged as a suspect in a few armed robberies in the last few weeks. he decided to take a peak through the windows, seeing if he could spot anything to make the morning more interesting.

as he leaned back to hand the driver his license and registration, he saw two guns lying in the backseat floorboard. not very well hidden, he thought.

“sir, do you have a license to carry those firearms?”

“what firearms? i don’t have anything.”

“uh-huh. sure. and i’m a property brother. now, ill ask again, do you have a permit to carry the two weapons in your backseat?”

before the man responded, he looked over at lucy, standing on the passenger side, and slammed on his gas pedal. tim cursed under his breath as he took off back to the shop, and sped after the driver.

“07-adam-19, we are code 3, on road pursuit of a suspect of a few armed robberies, he is armed. gray sedan, driving 55 on melrose. requesting backup and airship.” he commands over the shop’s radio.

following the driver, he loses sight of the sedan in the traffic of lunch rush. “shit.”

“there!” lucy, quiet as she’s been all morning, pipes up and points to the vehicle turning onto a one-way road downtown.

“he’s driving against traffic on a one-way, is he trying to get killed?” tim questions, following in close pursuit.

“maybe he thinks we won’t follow him down a one way?” lucy chimes in.

before tim can manage to respond, they watch the gray sedan crash head on into a semi. glass shatters everywhere, the car seemingly crushing on impact. tim quickly parks the shop, and they run over to the accident, checking on the man inside.

“sir- sir are you alright?” lucy asked, concerned. in response, the man groans.

“well, he’s alive. let’s assess injuries and take him in.”

they pull the man out of the car, scanning for injuries, but surprisingly the man is barely hurt. lucy heads over to the semi to talk to the driver, while tim cuffs the owner of the sedan and guides him into the shop. the ride back to the station was quiet, filled with the occasional radio chatter.

“a property brother, huh?” lucy teases.

“i think i would be a hell of a property brother.”

“i mean, you look the part. you’re just to grumpy to be on tv.”

tim just sighs. as they pull back into the station, tim takes the suspect in for processing while lucy takes the guns found in the car to evidence. as tim is processing and prepping the paperwork, he sees a face he hasn’t seen in a very long time.

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it had been 8 years since you made the decision to retire from active duty in the navy. shortly after you made that decision, you decided it was the best decision you had ever made. going back to school, getting a degree to help better the world and the people in it. not to mention your divorce. that had quite an impact on your decision.

you saw first hand the mental toll that special forces, well, military life in general had on people that decided to join. this included yourself, close to your breaking point with the physical and mental demands of special ops. you decided to use your GI bill to go back to school and get your psychology degree, trying to help those who struggled as you did.

now, 8 years later, you had been a successful therapist and mental health counselor in los angeles. it was a change of pace from the constant, bustling military life you had gotten used to, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything. getting to hear all kinds of stories from all kinds of people was the highlight of your career.

a few weeks ago, you received word that the mid-wilshire police department contacted you about a new task force: criminal psychology and recovery. after some back and fourth, you had a meeting with sergeant grey and the union rep, officer nolan, set for this morning.

walking into the alive station was caffeine to your veins. it reminded you of being on-duty, reliving your life on base or on a ship. walking up to the front desk, you politely let the officer know you’re here to meet with grey.

after a few minutes, a stoic man shakes your hand and introduces himself as sergeant wade grey. formal introductions are made as he leads you back to his office, handing you a visitor pass.

“please, take a seat. officer nolan should be here any minute, can i get you anything?”

“i’m alright, thank you sergeant.”

“please, call me wade. now, i understand you were in the military? what happened there, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“of course! i was in the navy, worked special ops. after a few years, i saw and felt how taxing it was for myself and fellow sailors, so i decided to do something about it. got my degree in psychology, and started working mental health counseling.” you explained to wade, animatedly moving your hands.

“interesting. what kind of work did you do in special ops?”

before you could respond, an older man walks in. “sorry i’m late, got caught up in processing. ms y/l/n, nice to finally meet you! i’m officer john nolan, and im looking forward to what you have in mind for this new project.”

the three of you go back and fourth for roughly an hour, talking specifics of the program and nailing down a solid plan. you jot down notes on your phone, and before you know it, you’re set to head an LAPD task force in two weeks.

standing, you shake sergeant grey and officer nolan’s hands, as they begin to walk you out. from behind, you hear a somewhat familiar voice ring out.

“y/l/n?”

you turn, facing the sound.

“bradford?”

you’re both shocked to see each other, standing in silence for just a moment before he approaches you for a hug.

“it’s been a while! since when were you in LA?” he questioned, a small smile shining through his grumpy work persona.

“a few years now, actually! started mental health counseling around here about four years ago,” you explained, while nolan and grey just look at each other and back to you and bradford.

“wait, bradford you know ms. y/l/n?” john questions, trying and failing to piece it together without an explaination.

“yeah. we, uh, worked a few operations together back in my army days. this girl is hell of a leader, i’ll tell you that. she led an ops team of army, navy, and marines into a huge crack in enemy territory. gave us the upper hand in a ton of future fights.” tim compliments, focusing on you.

“oh please, i led my people, you led yours. don’t give me all the credit bradford.” you laugh. you forgot how easy it was to be around him and banter.

“yeah yeah. well, i do have to head back, gotta process this S.O.B. so we can hit the streets again. hey, why don’t we catch up? grab drinks, on me?”

“sounds like a plan, what time do you get off?”

“8:00.” you open your phone calendar to add “drinks with tim” into the 8:00 spot, and slide the device back into your pocket.

“well as lovely as this has been, i have a lot of work to do, yknow, setting up a new program and all. officer nolan, sergeant grey, lovely to meet both of you, and ill stay in contact. tim, ill see you tonight!” you wave as you walk away.

the rest of the day seems to fly, contacting some of your colleagues to aid you in this new project. tim seems to feel the same, arresting a few people and filling out paperwork. by the time 8 pm rolls around, you find yourself texting tim.

Tim

———

-hey, where we headed for drinks?

there’s a bar down the street from the station, meet me there? -

-perfect, i’ll be there in 10 :)

you smile and shift your car into drive, enjoying the peaceful california evening. after a few minutes, you push open the door to a small bar called “the hard road bar.” glancing around, you spot tim in a booth against the wall.

sliding yourself into the seat across from him, you exchange your hellos, as a waitress comes up to ask for your drink orders. tim gets a whiskey neat and you order two shots of tequila.

“so, mental health counseling, huh?” tim questions as the waitress walks away.

“yeah! special ops is draining, and i saw how bad it affected people. so i wanted to help.” you give him the brief explanation, and bounce a question back onto him. “how’s police work going? last time we talked was, what, 9 years ago? you were barely touching the surface of your job now.”

“it’s good! i enjoy it. keeps me busy, i get to protect people, and teach the next generation of officers. it’s hard a lot of days, but seeing that people are being helped and trouble is taken off the streets makes it worth it. oh! how’s shawn?” he ricochets back.

you pause. you weren’t expecting him to ask about your ex-husband. tim seems to notice your hesitation. “you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to-“

“-no! no, it’s okay. uh, shawn and i got a divorce 8 years ago. part of the reason i retired, i needed to get the hell away from him.”

“woah, what’s the story there?” he questions, as the waitress sets down your drinks, and he picks up his glass.

“to make an overwhelmingly long story short, shawn cheated, i found out and filed for divorce. he did not make the process easy, but a few bruises and court dates later, i’m free.” you pick up one of the shot glasses, throwing it back as the liquor burns your chest.

“damn, he cheated? on you? and- what do you mean bruises?” he questions as he lifts his glass to his lips.

“well… when i found out he was cheating, he tried to manipulate me into staying. when that didn’t work, he resorted to… violence. but it’s fine now. he’s in prison for domestic assault charges, and i have his money. so it’s great!”

tim laughs at your last statement, but his expression softens into one of concern. “are you alright, though? i never knew he was the kind of guy to do something like that.”

“yeah, i’m good. whenever he gets out, my lawyer already has the restraining order ready to go. so he won’t be an issue. oh! how’s isabel?”

“ah- my turn for the awkward long story short. we got divorced a few years ago too. she started using and got hooked, i lost contact with her for two years before i could get her into rehab. i broke it off from there,” tim explained, waving his free hand around gently and holding eye contact.

“oh! yknow, out of all things, i never expected that. well, cheers to us being in the same boat, yeah?” you hold up your other shot towards him, and he clinks his glass against yours. as the night drawls on, more drinks and added to the tab, and eventually you both decide to call it quits. drunkenly, but still, call it a night.

as you’re walking next to tim out to your cars, you check your phone and read “1:27 am. damn. that was a lot more time than i thought,” you hiccuped, and looked back up at tim’s face. has he always been that attractive?

“yea’, it definitely was. we sh’uld do ‘t again sometime.” tim’s words slurred, as he leaned closer to you to pull you into a hug.

you leaned into him, and relaxed into his body heat. he smelled nice, like fresh rain and forest. you let your melt under his touch, and you just want to stay there forever.

tim eventually pulls away, but keeps a firm hold on your shoulders. you look up at him, wondering where these sudden thoughts are coming from. he makes eye contact, and his lips part slightly. your eyes snap to this small movement, and you can’t help but wonder how nice of a kisser he would be.

he notices the shifting of your eyes, and before he knows it, his lips are on yours, eyes closed, breathing in your presence. your floral perfume, the fabric of your blouse, the hand he feels caress his face. he wants more of it. he slides his hands from your shoulders to your lower back, and lightly pull you closer.

he suddenly pulls away, panting slightly, and looks back over at his truck. “yknow what, fuck it. wanna keep this going?”

“you know i do, bradford. you know i do.”

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ahh!! i wrote this at 3 am bc i love tim bradford and i need this thought out of my head.

yes, i did do army navy for a reason, go navy, beat army, hooyah, bite me! i had to squeeze it in there!!

let me know if y’all want a part 2!!! i’m more than happy to oblige ;)

#tim bradford x reader #the rookie #tim bradford #sergeant bradford #im in love #i will shout it from the rooftops

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realityjoey · 2 months ago

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SEASON 1, EPISODE 4, “THE SWITCH.”

The morning hum of the precinct had its usual rhythm — coffee brewing, boots stomping across tile, the occasional shouted “Where’s my damn vest?” echoing from the locker rooms.

But there was an energy in the air. A kind of anticipatory buzz that hinted at chaos, the kind that only Sergeant Grey seemed capable of orchestrating without ever raising his voice.

The bullpen filled fast. Tim Bradford leaned against the wall at the back of the briefing room, arms folded across his chest, watching the usual suspects file in. His expression was unreadable — but the slight twitch of his jaw said he was already skeptical.

Beside him, Dylan Jenkins strolled in, black coffee in hand, her eyes sharp and steady, that usual air of British smugness wrapped around her like armour. She clocked the mischievous glint in Grey’s eyes before he even said a word.

Uh-oh.

Grey cleared his throat, standing tall at the front with his clipboard. “Today is a special day.”

Bradford rolled his eyes. “Here we go…”

Dylan smirked into her coffee.

Grey continued. “As part of your ongoing development, and because some of you are getting a little too comfortable in your partnerships, we’re mixing things up.”

A ripple of surprise — and light panic — moved through the room.

“Today, you’re each going to work with someone new. Not just to test your adaptability, but to challenge your communication, your habits, and your trust.”

He began reading off the new pairings, voice firm and deliberate.

“Chen — you’re with Bishop.”

Lucy blinked, wide-eyed, and looked over at Bishop, who just offered a tight-lipped, amused smile.

“Nolan — you’re riding with Officer Yates.”

John sighed softly and gave a nervous thumbs up to the corner where Yates leaned, already unimpressed.

“Bradford — you’re with West.”

Jackson grinned like a kid unwrapping a gift. “Let’s go, Coach.”

Tim muttered under his breath, “This is going to be a long day…”

“Lopez,” Grey said, “you’re with Jenkins.”

Angela Lopez’s eyebrows shot up — and despite herself, she let out a soft but audible: “Yes.”

Dylan looked over, amused. “You alright there, partner?”

Lopez played it cool. “Just… always nice to work with someone who’s actually intimidating on purpose.”

Dylan’s grin widened. “Flattery gets you a better playlist.”

The truth was, Angela Lopez was genuinely thrilled. She’d admired Dylan since day one — her quiet intensity, her control, that cool accent and no-bullshit approach. Dylan was a walking detective’s manual with a tragic past and a wry sense of humour. And she carried herself like someone who could win a bar fight with one arm.

Lopez wanted to learn. And Dylan? Dylan secretly felt the same. Lopez was sharp, assertive, and charismatic in a way Dylan would never be. She liked her. Which unnerved her slightly.

But she wasn’t going to admit that. Obviously.

Grey stepped forward again. “One more thing — today’s not just about routine patrols or team-building exercises.”

Cue Tim’s second eye-roll of the morning.

Grey went on, “Your objective today is to learn one personal thing about your temporary partner. Something they don’t advertise. Something real.”

There was a collective groan from every corner of the room.

“No surface-level nonsense,” Grey clarified. “I don’t want to hear about favorite bands or pet names. I want something they wouldn’t normally share. And by end-of-shift, you’ll each report back.”

“Seriously?” Tim muttered.

Grey met his eyes directly. “Yes, seriously. You all spend more time with each other than your own families. It’s about time you acted like it.”

“Sounds invasive,” Dylan said casually, sipping her coffee. “I’m in.”

Grey glanced at her. “Careful, Jenkins. You’re not as impenetrable as you think.”

She raised a brow, accepting the challenge with a half-shrug.

Tim pushed off the wall, heading toward Jackson without a word. But the moment his back was turned, Dylan caught the way he glanced her way — just for a beat.

That half-second pause.

A reluctant tug at the corner of his mouth.

He wouldn’t say it — ever — but she knew.

He was going to miss riding with her.

As Dylan turned toward Lopez, Angela was already flipping open a notebook from her vest pocket.

“Alright,” she said. “First question — what’s your interrogation strategy when someone’s clearly lying but knows they’re cleverer than you?”

Dylan blinked. “Wow. Straight to it.”

“I don’t mess around.”

Dylan smirked. “You’re not going to let me get through the day without talking about my feelings, or detective tips, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

And with that, the pairs began to peel away, fanning out toward patrol cars, assignment sheets in hand, new energy in their step.

Dylan Jenkins had no doubt she’d uncover something about Lopez.

What she didn’t realise — not yet — was just how much Lopez was going to dig out of her.

The briefing room had emptied quickly after roll call, with rookies filing out toward their assigned units like chess pieces scattering across the board. The parking lot hummed with the sound of cruisers starting up, boots hitting pavement, clipped conversation crackling through open radios.

But just outside the rear entrance, in the slight shadow of the awning, four training officers lingered.

Tim Bradford. Talia Bishop. Angela Lopez. And Officer Yates.

All four leaned against the concrete wall in practiced silence — the kind that only came from people used to leading the charge. For a moment, no one spoke. Just the shared nods, the low clink of coffee cups and tactical belts.

Then, naturally, Lopez broke the silence.

“So,” she said casually, hands on her hips, “Jenkins. What am I in for?”

Tim didn’t immediately respond. He stared out toward the lot, watching as Dylan disappeared around the corner with her coffee in one hand and her signature walk — unbothered, steady, quietly intimidating — cutting across the asphalt.

“She’s solid,” he said finally. “One of the sharpest cops I’ve worked with in a long time.”

Lopez raised her brows. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”

“It was,” Tim said flatly. Then, reluctantly, he added, “But she’s got a few… quirks.”

“Oh, I love quirks,” Lopez said with a grin. “Shoot.”

Tim shifted his weight slightly, arms folded across his chest. “She’s got a short fuse. Controlled — mostly — but if someone’s being an idiot or doing something reckless, she doesn’t always hold back.”

Lopez nodded. “Noted.”

“She also takes too many risks,” Tim continued. “Not the adrenaline-junkie kind — more like… if she sees someone in danger, she doesn’t hesitate. Even if it puts her in the line of fire.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Bishop murmured with a look toward Bradford.

Tim ignored it.

“She’s got instincts like a detective who’s worked twice her years,” he added. “Cuts through lies like nothing, picks up on details most people miss. But…”

“But?” Lopez prompted.

Tim hesitated.

“She shuts down sometimes,” he admitted, voice lower now. “Just… goes quiet. You’ll be mid-shift, everything fine, then something will hit her — a call, a suspect, a phrase — and she’ll go radio-silent. Detached.”

Yates glanced over. “Trauma?”

“Definitely,” Tim said. “What kind, I don’t know. She doesn’t talk about it. Not to me.”

Lopez tilted her head thoughtfully. “So she internalises. Pushes through. Bottles it up.”

“Exactly.”

Bishop crossed her arms. “And yet you still say she’s solid?”

Tim looked at her, voice even. “She is. She doesn’t let it get in the way of the work. But you’ll see it if you’re paying attention. She’s not a mess — she’s just carrying something big. And she’s good at hiding it until it gets too heavy.”

Lopez nodded, taking all of it in with a quiet seriousness.

“She’s one of the best partners I’ve ever had,” Tim added after a pause. “But she doesn’t want people to know that she still bleeds.”

The group was quiet for a moment, the weight of his words settling over them like heat.

Yates finally broke the silence with a grunt. “I’ve got Nolan. He’s probably already offering to pay for lunch.”

Bishop smirked. “Chen’s practically allergic to talking about herself. This should be fun.”

Lopez took one last sip of her coffee, then dropped the cup into a nearby bin.

“Well,” she said, stretching her shoulders, “sounds like it’s going to be an interesting day.”

Tim offered a dry smirk. “Just keep your seatbelt fastened.”

Lopez glanced over at him as she headed toward her cruiser. “Don’t worry. I’ve been waiting for this ride for a while.”

As the others dispersed, Tim lingered for a beat longer, eyes following the direction Dylan had walked.

He wouldn’t say it aloud.

But part of him hated that someone else was riding with her today.

Not because he didn’t trust Lopez.

But because he did.

The cruiser rolled down a sleepy stretch of side street near Echo Park, warm sun filtering through the windshield, the usual city noise quieted by a rare pocket of calm.

Angela Lopez gripped the wheel with one hand, trying very hard to look casual — and failing. The second she’d been assigned to ride with Detective Dylan Jenkins, she’d been a mixture of giddy, focused, and slightly terrified. Dylan wasn’t just sharp — she was magnetic. The kind of cop whose silence made people talk, whose gaze could unearth things buried years deep.

Angela wanted to learn. Desperately.

And Dylan?

Dylan was the kind of person who didn’t give anything away for free.

Which is why Lopez had parked in the shade, killed the engine, and said — casually, but very much on purpose — “Figured now’s a good time for the whole ‘tell me something personal’ thing Grey’s making us do.”

Dylan, in the passenger seat, raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re really following through with that?”

“Absolutely,” Lopez said, turning to face her fully. “You’ve got layers, Jenkins. And I want to know what’s underneath.”

Dylan gave a soft snort and looked out the window. “You’re too eager.”

“I’m ambitious,” Lopez corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Dylan didn’t respond immediately. She seemed to weigh the silence, like she was deciding whether to fill it or let it stretch.

“You know what, let’s just get this over with.” Then she said, very quietly: “I had a younger brother.”

Angela’s smile faded slightly, caught off guard by the abrupt sincerity in her voice. “Yeah?”

“Rio,” Dylan continued. “He was… a mess. Charming, funny, but always in trouble. Drugs, theft, fights — you name it.”

Lopez stayed quiet, sensing the shift.

Dylan’s voice was calm. Controlled. But there was something just beneath it — like she was walking across glass, barefoot.

“I was more of a parent than a sister. Our dad was a drunk, high more often than not. Mum never cared enough to ask where we were, let alone what we were doing. So I took care of him. Cooked, cleaned, covered for him. Tried to keep him on the rails.”

Angela frowned, already feeling the tightening in her chest. “That’s a lot for a kid.”

Dylan nodded slowly. “When I joined the Met, started working my way toward detective, I got tunnel vision. Thought if I made it — if I became someone — I could pull him out of it all. But I stopped watching. He started acting off. Secretive. Jumpier. I chalked it up to immaturity.”

She went quiet for a beat.

Then said, so softly it nearly disappeared: “One day, I was on shift. Got called to a scene. Anonymous tip. Body dumped in an alley behind a kebab shop in Camden. Male. Early twenties. Gunshot to the chest.”

Angela didn’t move.

Dylan stared straight ahead, eyes locked on something far away. “It was Rio.”

The air in the cruiser went still.

“I was the one who unzipped the bag,” Dylan said. “Didn’t even realise what I was looking at until I saw the tattoo on his collarbone. I still see it. Every single day.”

Lopez’s throat tightened. “Dylan…”

“I should’ve done more. Should’ve pushed harder. Should’ve seen it coming.” Her fingers tapped once on her thigh. “That guilt? It doesn’t fade. It just shifts. Changes shape. But it never leaves.”

Angela took a slow breath, grounding herself. “You were a kid trying to carry two lives. And then you were a woman trying to fix something no one trained you for. That’s not your fault.”

Dylan finally looked at her. “Tell that to the part of me that sees his face every time I look in a mirror.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Real.

Angela, moved but composed, reached into the console, pulled out a granola bar, and handed it over like it was a peace offering.

Dylan blinked at it. “What’s this?”

“Something to chew on instead of your guilt,” Lopez said simply. “Also, you skipped breakfast. I saw you.”

Dylan let out a surprised huff of laughter. The smallest, briefest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“You’re relentless,” she muttered.

Angela grinned. “Ambitious. We went over this.”

They sat for another quiet moment, the engine off, the city moving around them like distant waves.

And for the first time since the shift started, Dylan felt like she wasn’t just being studied — she was seen.

The cruiser had been rolling again for about ten minutes, but the earlier conversation hung in the air like dust — soft, but ever-present.

Angela Lopez hadn’t stopped thinking about Rio. About the way Dylan’s voice had shifted when she said his name. About the quiet resilience behind the guilt that she wore like armour. Dylan had cracked open something real and painful, and somehow she hadn’t done it for sympathy — she’d done it like it was nothing more than breathing.

Angela was still in awe.

Which was exactly why she was caught off guard when Dylan said, casually:

“Alright, your turn.”

Angela blinked. “My turn?”

“Grey’s little challenge?” Dylan said, glancing at her with a hint of a smirk. “You got my tragic backstory. Time to cough up yours.”

Angela tried to laugh it off. “Come on, I don’t have anything near as heavy as that.”

Dylan didn’t look away. “Didn’t say it had to match. Just said it had to matter.”

Lopez hesitated. Her hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, knuckles flexing as she stared straight ahead. The light turned red, and the cruiser rolled to a gentle stop.

She exhaled slowly, thinking. Then, finally:

“I wasn’t supposed to make it this far.”

Dylan turned toward her, intrigued.

Angela kept her eyes on the road. “Not that I wasn’t capable. But where I’m from, people like me — young, brown, working-class — we don’t get handed a damn thing. My older brother? In prison. My cousin? Dead at twenty-two. My mom worked three jobs and still couldn’t keep the lights on sometimes. Every teacher I ever had told me I was ‘spirited’ — which is just code for ‘you’re gonna burn out or blow up.’”

Dylan listened in silence, her gaze steady, but not pressing.

Angela’s voice dropped slightly. “I learned how to fight young. Not physically, just… push back. Speak up. Out-talk, out-work, out-smart everyone around me. I told myself I’d get out. Become something.”

“And you did,” Dylan said quietly.

“Not yet,” Angela replied, her smile faint but tight. “Detective’s still the goal. Getting the badge, cracking the cases, putting my name on something that matters.”

She paused again.

“But sometimes… I still feel like that girl from Boyle Heights. The one who got overlooked. Like at any minute, someone’s gonna realise I’m faking it.”

Dylan was quiet for a long beat.

Then, with a small smile: “Imposter syndrome.”

Angela nodded. “Yeah.”

Dylan leaned her head back against the seat, watching the world move past the window. “You’re not faking it. You’re earning it. Every damn day.”

Angela glanced at her, surprised.

“You’re sharp,” Dylan continued. “You lead with your instincts, but you’re not reckless. You want to learn, but you don’t beg. You ask. Direct. Respectful. And you listen. Not many people do that.”

Angela’s chest tightened slightly — not from discomfort, but from something deeper. Recognition. The rare feeling of being seen and understood without having to scream for it.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Dylan didn’t make a big deal of it. Just gave her a slow nod.

And just like that, something unspoken fell into place between them.

Not rivalry.

Not hierarchy.

But mutual respect. The kind that comes before a real friendship.

The rest of the shift passed in a comfortable rhythm — answering calls, sharing dry humour, working like they’d been doing it for years.

And as they drove back to the precinct with the city dipped in gold from the setting sun, Angela looked over at Dylan and said, half-smirking:

“You ever think about transferring to training officer? You’d make a pretty great mentor.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “You saying I’m old?”

“I’m saying I’m learning more from you in one shift than I have from some people in six months.”

Dylan scoffed. “Don’t get sentimental. It doesn’t suit you.”

Angela just smiled wider. “Too late.”

And this time, when Dylan smiled back, it wasn’t guarded or small.

It was genuine.

The beginning of something solid.

The warehouse sat low and wide in the fading light, its corrugated steel walls already rusting at the seams. It looked forgotten, tucked between a scrapyard and a storage yard, but the intelligence was solid — it was a front. A gun runner had been operating from the inside, moving modified rifles and pistols through the city like clockwork.

Tim Bradford stood just outside the perimeter fence, his vest heavy over his chest, one hand resting on the grip of his service weapon. Jackson West stood beside him, less steady, shifting from foot to foot like he couldn’t quite settle his nerves.

Tim gave him a glance. “You good?”

Jackson nodded, but it was the kind of nod that came too fast — automatic. Not rooted in confidence. His eyes were wide, scanning everything too quickly.

Tim noted it. Tucked it away.

They moved in with two other units, taking different access points around the back of the warehouse. The tension hung thick in the air — that razor edge before the breach, when anything could go wrong and usually did.

Tim signalled.

They stepped through the side door into shadow and must.

Then came the shout.

“LAPD! Show me your hands!”

The response was immediate — the pop of gunfire cracked through the air like a whip, loud and disorienting in the tight space.

And that was when it happened.

Jackson froze.

He dropped to his knees behind a steel crate, arms over his head, his entire body trembling with the sudden crash of adrenaline. His gun hung useless at his side. Breath ragged. Eyes locked on nothing, like he’d been transported somewhere else entirely.

Tim barely had time to process it — diving behind a forklift, returning fire with precision. One suspect went down. Another bolted through a side door, and the sound of boots echoed through the far corridor.

Once the gunfire stopped, everything went still.

Except Jackson.

Still crouched. Still shaking.

Tim’s heart thundered in his chest — part residual adrenaline, part something heavier.

He holstered his weapon and crossed the floor, boots crunching over spent casings and shattered glass. He crouched down beside Jackson, his voice low but firm.

“West.”

No response.

“Jackson. Look at me.”

Jackson finally did — and his eyes were glassy, terror swimming just beneath the surface.

Tim’s gut twisted.

This wasn’t just rookie nerves. This was real fear. The kind that locked the body down and cut off instinct. The kind that, in the wrong moment, could get someone killed.

Tim had seen it before. Hell, he’d seen it in himself once — long ago.

He helped Jackson to his feet slowly. The kid didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His silence said everything.

Later, once the scene was cleared and backup had taken over, Tim stood near the cruiser, arms folded, watching Jackson sit quietly in the passenger seat, staring out at the pavement with haunted eyes.

Tim had seen rookies break before. It came with the job. But this moment, this bust — it brought something else back to the surface.

Dylan.

That gunfight. The blood. The noise.

The way she’d run to him — even as she bled.

The way she stayed focused, stayed sharp, and dragged him out with one arm and zero hesitation.

He’d almost died that day.

But she hadn’t frozen.

She hadn’t flinched.

She’d acted.

She’d saved him.

And now, watching Jackson crumble under the same kind of pressure, Tim felt that truth dig deeper than before:

He was fucking lucky.

Lucky Dylan had been the one with him that day.

Lucky she hadn’t second-guessed herself.

Lucky that, even carrying her own trauma, she still ran toward the danger, not from it.

Jackson wasn’t ready.

He might never be.

And Tim?

Tim realised, for the first time in weeks, just how rare it was to have someone like Dylan at your side when everything went to hell.

The lunch crowd at the burger van buzzed with casual energy — the clatter of boots, the scent of grease in the air, and the familiar sound of laughter bouncing off brick walls. Officers gathered in loose circles, leaning against cruisers, paper-wrapped burgers in hand. It was one of those rare moments where the precinct exhaled.

Angela Lopez and Dylan Jenkins sat together at one of the dented folding tables beneath the truck’s faded yellow awning. Grease-stained napkins rustled in the soft breeze, and the sun baked gently on their shoulders as they picked at fries and sipped lukewarm sodas.

“I swear,” Lopez was saying through a grin, “if Bishop gives me one more lecture on ‘leading with empathy,’ I’m going to start handing out emotional support stickers during arrest reports.”

Dylan smirked. “And here I was thinking the point of training officers was to beat the empathy out of people.”

Lopez snorted. “You and Bradford are basically a ‘Caution: Emotional Repression’ poster.”

“Flattered,” Dylan replied dryly, but her eyes glinted with amusement.

That’s when they heard it — the unmistakable screech of tires, a black-and-white cruiser pulling in too fast, skidding slightly before jolting to a stop just beyond the picnic area.

Lopez and Dylan both looked up.

Tim Bradford climbed out of the vehicle. His vest hung open, jaw set, hands flexing at his sides like he was physically trying to contain something.

“Lopez!”

His voice snapped through the air like a gunshot — sharp, commanding, pissed.

Angela froze mid-reach for her drink. Her smile vanished.

She turned toward Dylan with an uneasy glance. “Give me a sec.”

Dylan nodded, slowly lowering her cup, but her eyes never left Tim. She knew that walk. That energy. Something had gone very wrong.

Lopez met him halfway, intercepting him just before he stormed past the van. She kept her voice low, cautious. “Tim. What’s going on?”

Bradford didn’t sugar-coat it. “Why the hell did you let me hit the street with a rookie who folds under fire?”

Lopez flinched — barely — but Dylan caught it from the table.

“What are you talking about?” Angela asked, her stomach tightening.

“Jackson froze.” Tim’s voice was rising now, louder than it needed to be, hot with frustration. “We hit that warehouse, called out ‘LAPD,’ and the second bullets started flying, he dropped behind cover, covered his damn head and did nothing. Didn’t draw his weapon. Didn’t return fire. Didn’t even radio. Just shut down.”

Lopez swallowed hard. “I—” She hesitated. “I knew he had an issue with gunfire. Early on. Back in the first few weeks. But we worked through it. I thought it was handled.”

Tim’s eyes flared. “You thought wrong.”

Angela’s mouth opened, but she couldn’t find the words.

“I could’ve been killed,” he snapped. “We could’ve all been killed. You think I don’t know rookies mess up? Of course they do. But freezing like that in an active fire zone? That’s not just a mistake — that’s a dangerous blind spot. And you should’ve flagged it.”

“I didn’t hide it,” Lopez said quietly. “We worked through it. I saw him improve. I thought he’d gotten past it.”

“Well, today proved he hasn’t.”

Across the lot, Dylan sat still, gaze sharp. She didn’t move, didn’t interrupt, but her entire posture had changed — alert now, spine straight, fingers slowly flexing around her soda cup.

She could hear every word. So could half the lot.

Lopez’s voice dropped, the weight of it heavy. “You think I’d knowingly put you at risk?”

Tim didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched. “No. But that doesn’t make this better.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Lopez promised, regret lining her voice now. “I’ll handle it.”

Tim nodded once, clipped, then turned and stalked back toward his cruiser, tension still radiating from his frame like heat from asphalt.

Angela stood there a moment longer, blinking against the sun, before making her way back to Dylan — slower now, each step heavier.

She dropped into the seat with a quiet exhale and rubbed her temples.

“I thought he was ready,” she muttered. “I really thought we fixed it.”

Dylan was silent for a beat. Then, gently: “Some cracks don’t show until the pressure’s real.”

Angela glanced at her. “Bradford’s right to be pissed.”

“He is,” Dylan said evenly. “But you’re not the first to believe in someone and get proven wrong.”

Angela’s eyes drifted toward the squad car where Tim sat alone behind the wheel, gripping the steering wheel like it might anchor him.

“You think he’s okay?” she asked.

Dylan looked at Tim, her voice unreadable. “No. But that’s not the question he’s ready to answer.”

The lot was starting to thin out.

The post-lunch lull had settled, officers drifting back to their cruisers or stretching out a few more minutes in the rare California shade. Dylan stood a few paces from the burger van, arms folded, eyes tracking the patrol units as they loaded back up.

She spotted Jackson West lingering beside the passenger side of his and Bradford’s shop, face tight, posture tense — clearly still rattled. He kept glancing toward the ground, like the pavement might offer him answers. Or forgiveness.

Dylan stepped away from the table and casually made her way over.

“West,” she said softly, keeping her voice level. “You alright?”

Jackson startled, looked up. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Fine.”

“Liar,” Dylan replied calmly.

He gave a nervous chuckle, but didn’t deny it.

She leaned lightly against the car, looking ahead rather than at him. “I’ve seen that look before.”

Jackson frowned. “What look?”

“The one where you think one bad moment defines the rest of your life.”

Jackson’s throat bobbed. “It wasn’t just a moment. I froze. Completely.”

“And you think you’re the first?” she said, turning toward him now. “You think every single cop out there is born fearless? Invincible?”

“No,” Jackson murmured. “But Tim—Bradford—he’s not like that. He doesn’t tolerate fear.”

“No,” Dylan agreed. “He doesn’t. Because he’s scared of what it says about him. Not you.”

Before Jackson could respond, a familiar voice cut across the lot like a blade.

“Jenkins!”

Tim Bradford was marching toward them, face flushed, jaw locked.

Dylan sighed through her nose. “Here we go.”

Tim didn’t slow as he approached, his voice low but laced with fury. “Stay out of this.”

“I was talking to him,” Dylan replied, equally low. “Not you.”

“I don’t need you softening my rookie.”

Dylan pushed off the cruiser. “Maybe if you offered an ounce of actual support, he wouldn’t need someone else to do it.”

“Leave. Now.”

Dylan stared at him for a second, jaw tight, then turned to Jackson. “You’ll be alright. You’re not broken.”

Then she walked off without waiting for Tim’s reaction.

She found Lopez leaning against a light pole nearby, arms crossed, having clearly seen the whole thing.

“He’s in one of those moods,” Angela said.

Dylan scoffed. “He’s in one of those lives.”

Angela offered her a burger she hadn’t touched. “Peace offering?”

Dylan smirked. “Only if it comes with duct tape for his mouth.”

Later that day, the fluorescent lights of the locker room buzzed overhead as Tim changed out of his vest, shirt sticking to his skin after a long, tense shift.

The room was mostly empty.

Until Jackson walked in.

He hesitated by the row of lockers, then made his way over, standing a little too straight, his voice shaky but determined.

“Sir.”

Tim didn’t look up from re-strapping his sidearm. “What is it, West?”

“I just wanted to say… I know what happened today wasn’t acceptable. I know I screwed up. But I’m not giving up. I’m in this for the long haul. I just… I need some guidance.”

Tim finally looked up, meeting his eyes. Cold. Measured.

“I don’t do lost causes,” he said flatly.

Jackson flinched. “Sir—”

“You want a badge, prove you deserve it. Tomorrow, you show up and either act like a cop, or don’t bother showing up at all. Because if this happens again, it won’t just be your life on the line.”

Jackson’s face fell.

Then he nodded once, quietly. “Understood.”

He turned and left.

From behind a locker wall, Dylan stepped out.

She hadn’t meant to overhear — but she didn’t look sorry about it.

She folded her arms and stared at Tim, unimpressed. “That was brutal.”

Tim didn’t flinch. “It was honest.”

“It was unnecessary,” Dylan shot back. “You’re not training a robot. You’re training a person. One who just admitted he needs help.”

Tim snapped the locker shut, glaring. “He’s a cop. There’s no room for indecision when bullets are flying. You freeze, you die. Or worse, your partner dies.”

“I know that,” Dylan said, voice sharper now. “But he’s trying. You gave up on him before he even had a chance to process what happened.”

Tim’s voice dropped, low and cold. “I don’t have time to hand-hold people through panic. That’s not the job.”

“No,” Dylan said. “But it is the job to know when someone needs a hand and not a fist.”

The room crackled with tension.

Finally, Dylan shook her head, backing away. “No wonder you miss riding with me. I didn’t need to be perfect to get your respect — I just had to bleed.”

She turned and left.

Tim didn’t stop her.

But for the first time that day, the locker room felt colder.

And Bradford stood there, completely alone.

The morning sunlight was sharp and clear over Los Angeles, the city buzzing as it always did — too bright for how heavy some of its people felt. Jackson West had reported for duty on time, polished and proper as always, but a heaviness still clung to him. Not just the aftermath of freezing up during the bust, but the weight of disappointment — in himself, and maybe in how Bradford had looked at him afterward.

So when Tim Bradford told him they were taking a detour before patrol, Jackson expected another brutal reality check. Maybe a shooting range, or worse — a walk-through of the warehouse from the day before.

Instead, they pulled up outside a modest apartment block in Echo Park. Nothing fancy — rust along the railings, windows smudged with city grime, a building that had seen things.

Jackson followed Tim inside, silent and confused, until they stopped outside apartment 4B.

Tim knocked once. Twice.

The door opened a few inches — a cautious pair of eyes peeking out from behind the chain.

“Wallis. It’s me.”

The man behind the door blinked, then let out a breath of recognition and slowly unlatched the chain.

Wallis was short, round, pale-skinned with glasses too big for his face and a hoodie that looked two sizes too large. He shuffled back, waving them in. “Sorry. I don’t do well with… surprises.”

“You’re fine,” Tim said. “Thanks for letting us stop by.”

Jackson entered slowly, eyes scanning the small apartment. It was spotless but dark, the windows covered with blackout curtains. Video game consoles were neatly stacked beside a TV, and the faint smell of takeout hung in the air.

“Wallis,” Tim said, gesturing to Jackson, “this is Officer Jackson West. Jackson — this is Wallis. He’s a good man who went through something real. Something he’s still working through.”

Wallis gave a sheepish smile and a nervous wave. “Hi.”

Jackson returned it with a polite nod. “Nice to meet you.”

Tim glanced at Wallis, voice softening. “You mind telling him what happened?”

Wallis hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the couch. “Couple years ago, I got jumped. Hate crime. Three guys. They waited for me outside my building. Didn’t like that I… existed, I guess.”

Jackson blinked, slowly lowering himself into the chair opposite.

“I had broken ribs. Lost a few teeth,” Wallis said, trying to keep it light. “Bradford found me. Made sure I got to the hospital. Checked in on me every week for months. Even when the case went cold.”

Tim stayed silent — arms crossed, eyes low. Letting the moment belong to Wallis.

Wallis continued. “Now? I can’t even open the door without picturing those guys again. I don’t go outside. Groceries, meds, work — it’s all delivery or remote. I live in a box of fear.”

Jackson’s expression shifted, something deeper unlocking behind his eyes. “I think I get that.”

Wallis looked up at him. “You froze, huh?”

Jackson nodded. “Yeah. In a shootout. And now I can’t stop thinking about how badly it could’ve gone. How I should’ve moved, should’ve drawn my weapon, done something.”

Wallis nodded. “Sounds like you’re thinking a lot about what you didn’t do. That’s the loop. It’ll kill you if you stay in it.”

“What do you do?”

Wallis gave a wry smile. “I do it anyway. Scared. Shaking. Sometimes crying. But I do one thing each week that scares me. It’s slow, and some days I fail. But I figure if I move through it just once, I’ve already won.”

Jackson absorbed that like a sponge. His shoulders weren’t quite so tense anymore.

“Thanks,” he said. “That… helps.”

Later that day, the squad gathered in the roll call room. Grey stood at the front with a whiteboard covered in intel and a projected map behind him.

“Alright,” Grey said, “we’ve got word of a sizable drug operation operating out of a residential house in Glassell Park. Mid-level supplier, running fentanyl-laced product through the East Side. We’re moving tonight. Tactically. Quiet. No heroics.”

The room rustled as officers shifted in their seats, nodding, focusing in.

Dylan Jenkins, sitting at the end of the second row, noticed something immediately.

Jackson West looked… different. Still reserved, still serious, but his shoulders weren’t hunched anymore. His jaw wasn’t clenched. His hands weren’t fidgeting in his lap.

She glanced sideways, toward Bradford, who sat like he always did — arms crossed, jaw locked, attention sharp.

But when she caught the faintest, most subtle flicker of Tim’s eyes drifting to Jackson — just for a second — it clicked.

After the briefing, as everyone stood to disperse, Dylan sidled up to Tim, her voice pitched just for him.

“You took him to see someone, didn’t you?”

Tim didn’t look at her. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She smirked. “You big softie.”

That made him snap his eyes to hers, jaw tightening. “I am not a softie.”

“You kind of are.”

“I took him to someone who’s been through it,” Tim muttered. “Doesn’t mean I’m braiding his hair and journaling about my feelings.”

Dylan grinned. “No, you’re just personally helping scared rookies face their trauma head-on. With community support. Very un-Bradford of you.”

He glared at her. “You done?”

“Oh, not even close,” she replied, patting him on the arm. “But I’ll let you stew in your accidental emotional growth for now.”

She walked off, still smiling.

Tim stared after her.

Grumbling to himself.

But he didn’t deny it.

Not this time.

The briefing room had the kind of buzz that only came with high-risk operations — quiet but charged, like the air just before a thunderstorm.

Sergeant Grey stood at the front with a large printed layout of a multi-level car park, each floor marked with red ink and annotations in his tidy, efficient handwriting. A drone photo hovered behind him on the projector — grainy, but clear enough to show the layout. Five levels. Dozens of cars. At least six points of entry and exit.

And, according to intel, one active drug deal happening in the chaos of mid-afternoon foot traffic.

“This is not your standard takedown,” Grey began. “No front doors to kick in, no guaranteed sight lines. They’re using the location for exactly one reason — chaos. The suspects know they can disappear fast if we don’t move right.”

He tapped the map.

“We believe the exchange is going to happen here,” he said, indicating a blind corner on the third floor, tucked between two supporting columns and shielded by parked cars. “There’ll be lookouts posted on either side — that’s our first problem. The second? It’s public. Civilians everywhere. We need eyes. Fast reaction time. Zero gunplay unless absolutely necessary.”

The room was tense. Focused.

Grey began assigning positions.

“Chen and Bishop, northeast stairwell. Nolan, Yates — top deck. Lopez, south exit ramp. Bradford and Jenkins—” he pointed to the lower west stairwell, just adjacent to a pedestrian bridge.

Dylan arched a brow, glancing across the room at Tim. He gave her a single, silent nod.

Grey finished his rundown, making it clear: once the signal was given — a visual confirmation of the handoff — every unit would converge. Quick, quiet, and tight.

No heroics.

No missed beats.

Two hours later, the sun was still high and unforgiving, baking the concrete structure of the car park like an oven.

Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins sat together in the shop, parked one block away. Their position was locked in — they’d be on foot, moving through the side stairwell once the suspects entered the third floor. For now, they waited. Radio quiet. Phones dark. Everyone on standby.

Tim sat behind the wheel, shades on, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in slow, measured beats.

Dylan had her vest half-unfastened, sipping on a bottle of warm water, eyes watching the pedestrian traffic beyond the windshield.

“Ever notice how stakeouts are always ninety percent boredom, ten percent near-death?” she muttered.

Tim didn’t look at her. “Try doing them with Nolan. Apparently he narrates the pigeons.”

Dylan smirked. “Bet you’d love that.”

“Absolutely not.”

There was a moment of quiet between them, not uncomfortable — just heavy with anticipation.

Dylan shifted slightly in her seat. “This one feels off.”

Tim glanced over. “How?”

“Too messy,” she said. “They’re not amateurs, but using a crowded car park in broad daylight? That’s erratic. Either they’re desperate, or they’re baiting.”

Tim gave a slow nod. “You think it’s a trap?”

“I think it’s a warning,” Dylan replied. “To someone. Maybe even us.”

Tim’s gaze lingered on her, thoughtful.

“Still,” she added, tightening the straps on her vest, “wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Tim’s mouth twitched slightly. “You like the chaos too much.”

“Only when I know who’s watching my back,” Dylan said simply.

Tim didn’t respond at first. He just looked back out the windshield, jaw flexing once.

Then, quietly, he said, “I’ve got you.”

The words weren’t sentimental.

But they didn’t have to be.

They were true.

A static crackled on the radio — Grey’s voice, low and sharp:

“Units be advised — suspects have arrived. Silver SUV, third level, west end. Eyes on. Prepare to move.”

Tim clicked on the dash cam. Dylan pulled her gloves tighter.

The hum in the air snapped to attention.

“Let’s go,” Tim said.

And they stepped out of the car — two shadows moving into the fray, calm in the storm, partners in the fire.

The car park stank of oil and sunbaked concrete, the kind of staleness that stuck in your throat. From their shadowed position behind a row of cars on the third floor, Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins moved with silent precision, each footstep calculated, bodies low and tight.

The air buzzed with tension.

They had eyes on the suspects now — three men, one holding a duffel bag, the other two scanning the lot with too much frequency to be mistaken for anything but muscle. One leaned against a pillar, tapping his boot anxiously. The other kept a nervous hand close to the hem of his oversized hoodie.

Tim muttered into his comm, “Visual confirmed. Suspects are in position. Package in hand.”

Grey’s voice crackled back: “Standby for signal.”

But the suspects must have caught a shadow, a flicker, something out of place — because in a single heartbeat, everything went to hell.

“Cops!”

Then—

Gunfire.

The deafening crack of it echoed through the concrete cavern.

Tim immediately shoved Dylan down behind the engine block of a black SUV as bullets pinged off metal and shattered windshields.

“Third level! Shots fired, shots fired!” Tim shouted into his comm, drawing his weapon and returning two sharp, clean shots toward the far wall.

Dylan was already moving — rolling across to better cover, taking up position at the rear wheel of a parked sedan. Her breaths came fast, shallow, but her grip was steady. Her eyes flicked to Tim’s position, checking on him.

And he was checking on her just as frequently.

Neither of them said it, but the fear was there — not for themselves, but for each other.

This was their first gunfight since the day they both bled into asphalt.

The last time, Dylan had dragged Tim out while bleeding herself.

The last time, Tim had nearly died.

That memory clung to both of them, silent and heavy.

Suddenly — movement.

One of the suspects broke from cover, sprinting across the open space toward the stairwell exit. Dylan pivoted sharply, gun raised, tracking him—

—and a second suspect turned and fired.

At her.

CRACK.

The bullet whizzed past her face — so close it clipped the edge of her vest strap. She threw herself behind a concrete pillar, her back slamming into it with a grunt.

“Dylan!” Tim’s voice sliced through the chaos, panicked, raw.

He lit up the shooter with three controlled bursts — two to the shoulder, one to the leg. The man went down hard, screaming.

Backup swarmed seconds later, a flood of officers closing in from every stairwell, guns raised, shouting commands. Suspects were cuffed, weapons kicked across concrete. The air reeked of smoke, rubber, and adrenaline.

And through it all, Tim was already moving toward her.

“Dylan—Dylan, talk to me.”

“I’m good,” she said hoarsely, pushing up from her cover, but he was already there — hands on her, pulling her behind another car, shielding her like the danger wasn’t already over.

She blinked, startled. “Tim, I’m fine—”

He didn’t listen.

His hands moved to her vest, checking her sides, her back, his fingers shaking slightly as he searched for blood.

“Take it off,” he muttered.

“I’m—”

“Take. It. Off.”

His voice was low, sharp, almost desperate.

So she did.

He yanked the vest off and ran his hands along her shirt, brushing her shoulder, ribs, waist — and then finally stopped. His hand lingered just above her stomach, pressing lightly.

Nothing.

No blood.

She placed her hand over his, stilling him.

“I’m okay,” she said, eyes steady on his.

His chest rose and fell like he couldn’t believe it yet — like he was waiting for the red to bloom somewhere anyway.

She softened. “You okay?”

He let out a slow breath. “Yeah. I just— it was close. Too close.”

Their hands were still touching. Her vest lay between them, forgotten on the ground.

Something passed between them then. Not just the rush of post-gunfight adrenaline. It was quieter. Heavier. Unspoken.

A kind of care that didn’t fit in their usual back-and-forth. Something unfamiliar, yet impossible to ignore.

Dylan was the first to pull back, sliding her vest back on and tightening the straps herself.

“You’re a menace when you go into protective mode,” she muttered.

Tim straightened, clearing his throat. “You almost got shot. Again.”

“And you looked like you were about to rip someone’s throat out with your bare hands.”

He shrugged. “Just part of the job.”

But neither of them believed that.

They didn’t say what it really was:

It was fear.

It was protectiveness.

It was something brewing that neither of them had language for.

And neither of them dared to name it.

Not yet.

The locker room was quiet, the day winding down, the adrenaline from the bust slowly giving way to exhaustion. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting pale reflections on the tiled floor. Most officers had already cleared out, heading home or to paperwork — but Dylan Jenkins sat on the edge of the bench, rolling her shoulder gingerly, trying to hide the grimace she didn’t want anyone to see.

Except Tim Bradford wasn’t just anyone.

He walked in without a word, a first aid kit tucked under one arm, a bottle of water in the other. His vest was half undone, shirt untucked, a line of sweat clinging to his jaw from the chaos of the day. But his eyes were on her.

She smirked. “Let me guess. Florence Nightingale routine?”

“I’d say ‘patching up my rookie,’ but you’d probably bite my hand.”

Dylan tilted her head. “Tempting.”

Still, she didn’t protest when he dropped the kit beside her and knelt slightly to her side, fingers tugging at the strap of her vest to pull it down and assess the bruising near her collarbone. The bullet had missed, but just barely — it had clipped her vest, grazed the edge of her skin, close enough to leave a wicked bruise already blooming beneath the fabric.

Tim’s hands were steady — at first. But then his fingers stilled.

Just below the bruise, a sliver of skin was visible — a fresh, pink scar, still healing. A reminder of the last time they’d been under fire.

The day they both got shot.

Only difference was… Dylan didn’t stop for herself that day.

She’d bled through her shirt, dragging him to cover, patching him up while ignoring her own wound.

Tim stared at the scar. The way it stretched just beneath the bruise, fresh but closed. Clean, but not forgotten.

His jaw tightened.

He wasn’t touching it, but he didn’t need to. The image alone sparked a flash of memory:

—her face pale, focused, bleeding and still firing rounds—

—her hand pressed to his hip wound, voice urgent in his ear—

—“I’ve got you, stay with me”—

—blood on her shirt, her hands, her eyes locked on his, even when her own body was failing—

“Tim?”

Her voice broke through the spiral.

He blinked, pulling his hand back, eyes flicking up to hers. She was watching him now — not confused, just quiet. Knowing.

He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

But she knew what he’d seen.

And she knew what it meant.

Before anything more could pass between them, the locker room door burst open.

“Aww, come on!” Angela Lopez strolled in, peeling off her gloves and grinning wide. “I knew it. I knew I’d walk in on some weirdly charged moment.”

Dylan rolled her eyes and pulled her vest the rest of the way off. “It’s not charged. He’s just overdramatic.”

Tim stood, trying to shake off the look in his eyes. “You were almost shot. Again.”

“And yet I wasn’t. You’re welcome.”

Angela raised an eyebrow, looking between them. “Well, whatever’s happening here, I’m glad you’re both still in one piece.”She walked over to Dylan, softer now. “Hey. Just wanted to say thanks. For today. For the backup. For the calm-in-the-storm thing you do so well.”

Dylan smirked. “You’re welcome. You’re not terrible either.”

Angela grinned. “I think we’re gonna get on really well.”

Dylan gave her a look. “We already do.”

Lopez patted her on the good shoulder, then turned to Bradford. “Don’t let her bully you too much, okay?”

Tim grunted. “She can try.”

Angela left with a wink, disappearing down the hallway, leaving a heavy silence behind.

Dylan glanced over at Tim as she started to strap her vest back on.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off her scar.

“You alright?” she asked, voice low.

He nodded once. “Yeah. Just… saw something I should’ve noticed sooner.”

She paused. Then added, gently, “It wasn’t your fault.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.

Instead, he bent down, zipped the first aid kit shut, and muttered, “Let’s get out of here.”

But as they walked toward the door side by side, his hand brushed hers — barely there, feather-light.

She didn’t move away.

And neither of them said a word about it.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

#oc #the rookie #tim bradford #jackson west #john nolan #lucy chen #tim bradford x reader #fanfic #oc x tim bradford #angela lopez #talia bishop #officer bradford #sergeant bradford #wade grey #sergeant grey #rookie x oc

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renegadesstuff · 1 month ago

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“That girl is the best thing that ever happened to you.” ❤️

#the rookie #tim bradford #timothy bradford #sergeant bradford #tim bradford edit #lucy chen #chenford #chenfordedit #therookieedit #the rookie series #the rookie parallel

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multifandom-gif · 9 days ago

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Tim bradford looking at the love of his life 🥹❤️

-> The Rookie - 7.18 “The Good, the Bad, and the Oscar”

#the way he looks at her 🥺🥺#the rookie #tim bradford #timothy bradford #sergeant bradford #tim bradford edit #chenford #chenfordedit #therookieedit #the rookie series #the rookie season 7 #7x18 #the good the bad and the oscar

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luckytearsandtequila · 1 month ago

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#tim bradford #lucy chen #chenford #the rookie #sergeant bradford

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karihighman · 3 months ago

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The Rookie 7x10 promo photos. ©️DGE / ABC.

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creamecafe · 3 months ago

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What do you mean The Rookie won't come out with a new episode tonight? That's what I looked forward to on Wednesdays 😭😭

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kamisobsessed · 5 months ago

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I'm binge watching The Rookie and I just fucking love Tim Bradford so much

#tim bradford #the rookie #sergeant bradford #officer bradford #eric winter #bradford #chenford #tim and lucy #tim the rookie #sgt bradford

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benedictconsultingbatch · 1 year ago

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Lucy said Sergeant Bradford with her WHOLE CHEST and I'm living for it

#the rookie #chenford #the rookie spoilers #lucy chen #sergeant bradford #minee

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cosmopolitan-thedrink · 12 days ago

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Miss me, Bunny?

A quick drabble i wrote based off an even quicker drabble i wrote

The shift had been brutal. multiple domestic calls, two civilians in the hospital, a pounding headache, aching muscles and on top of everything, Tim was late. He knew his angel would understand, being late is in the job description, but he promised her they’d watch Iron Chef and try her new type of tea. Driving home as fast as he (legally) can, his whole body dripping with guilt. his poor baby had to wait to watch, or even worse, watched without him.

He walks in the door as quietly as he can, eyes scanning the room for his Little Bunny. Not on the couch, not in the kitchen, not sitting outside. No, she’s sweetly curled up on his side of the bed, clutching his sweatshirt and wearing another one. There’s two cups on the table, one empty with a teabag to the side, one filled to the brim and growing colder by the second. The scent of fruity tea fills the air and somehow, that makes his heart ache too. The only sound in the room is her tiny snores that always come out more like little whines and the wind banging on the window. Occasionally, her body jolts with adorable little twitches, something he’d grown used to, although it’s not too fun to be kicked in the middle of the night.

The small commotion of him coming home somehow drags her from sleep so he’s met with those adorable sleepy eyes he adores so much blinking up at him. Tim can feel his cold heart melt into a gooey puddle on the floor. this angel of a girl is turning him into a softie. But at the moment, he can’t find it in him to complain.

All she can do in her groggy state is hold out her arms with a small whine, doing grabbing hands and puppy eyes for his attention.

“miss me that much, bunny?”

“Mhmm. You’re late”

“i know baby, i’m sorry. how about we get some sleep and i’ll take you out to breakfast in the morning?”

He murmurs as he crawls into bed with his sweetheart, wrapping her up in a warm cocoon of arms and legs, holding her gently but firmly. She simply lets out a small grunt of approval, already dozing off again

( @kennedyweagle asked to be tagged :3)

#comfort fic #tim bradford #tim bradford x reader #the rookie #sergeant bradford #sleepy intimacy

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deelightful54 · 18 days ago

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There's some comfort in knowing that, for all the personal growth we've seen, Tim is still Tim.

#Training officer #sergeant Bradford #the rookie #season 7 #tim bradford #the rookie season 7

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realityjoey · 2 months ago

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SEASON 1, EPISODE 2: “CRASH COURSE”

Morning roll call was usually a mix of groggy faces, half-drunk coffee, and the soft buzz of officers murmuring about early calls or late-night paperwork. But today, the atmosphere carried a quiet anticipation—a hum of something brewing just under the surface.

The briefing room was full, rows of uniformed officers perched on the edge of plastic chairs, some leaning back with crossed arms, others hunched over paper cups of vending machine sludge. Tim Bradford stood in his usual position near the back, impassive. Talia Bishop and Angela Lopez flanked him, whispering something between smirks. The rookies—Nolan, Lucy, and Jackson—sat toward the front.

And then there was Dylan Jenkins.

In her uniform again, clean and sharp, hair pulled back into a sleek low ponytail, she stood off to the side with her arms crossed. She looked alert, ready. Detached—but not unaware.

Sergeant Grey stepped up to the podium, clearing his throat.

“Alright, people,” he said, voice echoing just slightly. “Before we get into assignments, I have something… enlightening to share.”

A murmur passed through the room.

Grey gestured toward the monitor that hung in the corner of the room—usually used for maps or departmental notices. Today, it glowed with a paused video frame and the LAPD watermark in the corner.

Grey turned back to the crowd, expression unreadable. “Now, I warn you. What you’re about to see is brutal. Possibly traumatic. If anyone here is emotionally fragile, consider looking away.”

Chuckles rippled through the room.

John Nolan frowned slightly, shifting in his seat.

Then Grey pressed play.

The footage started with a shaky shot of a narrow alleyway, the video jolting up and down as someone ran. Voices crackled over the radio.

The camera turned a sharp corner—and suddenly there was the suspect in the black hoodie, sprinting ahead.

Nolan’s voice could be heard, breathless. “Suspect heading eastbound on Temple!”

The body cam jolted again as Nolan tried to close the distance—then came the fence.

Everyone leaned forward.

On screen, Nolan made a heroic attempt to scale the chain-link fence… and failed. Spectacularly. His foot caught near the top, his body tipped sideways, and he landed awkwardly in a pile of cardboard boxes, arms flailing like a freshly landed fish.

The room erupted.

Laughter burst from nearly every corner. Officers slapped desks, shoulders shook, and a few people whistled. Even Tim cracked a rare smile. Lucy gasped between laughs. “Oh no, John! You didn’t tell us it looked like that!”

Jackson winced through a grin. “You good, bro?”

Nolan buried his face in his hand, groaning.

Dylan raised an eyebrow from her spot against the wall, her lips twitching into a half-smile. “Textbook form,” she said dryly. “If the textbook was written by a drunk giraffe.”

The laughter grew louder.

Grey let the room enjoy itself for a moment before raising a hand for silence. “Alright, alright. Let’s bring some balance to the universe.”

The footage on the screen cut forward—and then resumed from another angle.

This time, the camera was more stable. Tim’s perspective. The suspect appeared again, running hard—then, cutting in front of the screen, Dylan surged into frame.

A blur of motion—long strides, relentless pace—until she launched herself off the ground.

The room quieted.

The flying tackle was clean, powerful. Her body collided with the suspect mid-run, taking them both down in a spray of dust and gravel. The screen rattled slightly from the impact. Then: her voice, sharp and calm.

“LAPD. Stay down.”

The suspect was already on his stomach, groaning. Dylan sat up, brushed gravel from her elbow, and snapped the cuffs on like it was just another Tuesday.

Grey paused the footage.

“And that,” he said, gesturing at the screen with the remote like a conductor finishing a symphony, “is how you stop a runner.”

There was a beat—then applause.

Actual applause.

Not forced or sarcastic, but genuine. A few officers whooped. Someone at the back gave a slow clap. Even the veterans were nodding.

Dylan didn’t move. She just lifted her chin slightly, arms still crossed, expression unreadable—but her eyes? They burned with quiet pride.

For Nolan, it was a moment of humility. A harsh, funny lesson. His body still ached from the fall, and now it was immortalised in high-def for the entire department. But he took it in stride. Because this was the job—mistakes, learning curves, bruised egos and all.

And for Dylan, it was something else entirely.

She hadn’t come to the LAPD to impress anyone. She wasn’t trying to prove herself—not in the usual way. But in that moment, as she stood watching the room respond to her, something inside her shifted.

This wasn’t just her starting over. This was her planting a flag. Making it clear that she wasn’t just here to blend in. She was here to leave a mark.

Grey switched off the monitor and turned back to the room. “Now that we’ve learned what not to do and what to aim for, let’s get to work.”

As people started to rise, murmuring and laughing, Dylan stepped forward to meet the rest of her group.

Tim passed her, muttered, “Show-off.”

She didn’t look at him. “Jealous.”

And as they filed out of the briefing room, one thing was clear:

Dylan Jenkins was no longer just the Brit.

She was a detective the LAPD was starting to talk about—and not because of where she came from, but because of what she could do.

The sun sat low and mean in the sky, casting sharp shadows across the city as the LAPD scrambled into action.

Sergeant Grey’s voice still echoed in Dylan’s ears as she sat beside Tim in the patrol car, pulling on her gloves and adjusting her vest.

“Target is Eric Barlowe. Violated parole. Armed, dangerous, no hesitation with violence. I want him brought in today.”

Tim had said very little after roll call, only that they weren’t diving into the manhunt just yet. Dylan had sensed something in his tone—something measured, deliberate. Like he was setting the board before making his first move.

They turned down a back alley in Echo Park, the kind with graffiti tags, trash bins, and too many broken windows. Tim pulled the car to a stop near a crumbling brick building and cut the engine.

“Why are we here?” Dylan asked, eyes narrowing.

Tim didn’t answer right away. He just stepped out of the car, motioning for her to follow. She did, warily, keeping a hand near her holster.

They walked through a rusted gate and into the mouth of the alley. A tall, twitchy man in a ripped hoodie was waiting there, hands jammed into his pockets, a cigarette clinging to his lip.

“Jenkins,” Tim said casually, nodding toward the man. “Meet Travis. Small-time dealer. Caught him twice. Knows better than to run.”

Travis shifted on his feet. “Yo, Bradford. Long time.”

“Travis,” Tim said. “Got anything on you?”

“Maybe.”

Tim turned to Dylan. “Go ahead. Pat him down.”

Dylan blinked. “Are we arresting him?”

“Nope,” Tim said, stepping back. “Just checking him out. Think of it as… a test.”

Her expression darkened.

But she stepped forward anyway.

“Hands where I can see them,” she said to Travis, voice clipped.

Travis complied, raising his arms lazily, clearly amused. “Damn. English accent. Didn’t think I was gonna get flirted with today.”

Dylan ignored him, stepping in and beginning the pat down. She moved with the precision of someone who’d done this hundreds of times—quick, methodical, efficient.

But then his tone changed. Darker.

“You got hands like silk,” Travis murmured. “Bet you taste just as smooth.”

Dylan’s jaw tensed. “Say that again and you’ll be picking up your teeth with broken fingers.”

But Travis wasn’t done. His hand suddenly shot down, grabbing at her wrist.

In the same breath, he lunged.

They crashed against the alley wall, the fight sudden and vicious. Dylan twisted her body, slamming her elbow into his ribs, but he came back fast—faster than she’d expected. His fist clipped her jaw, then another swung at her ribs.

She staggered but didn’t fall.

Blood in her mouth. Familiar. Her vision tunneled—just for a second.

London. Brick hallway. That night she almost didn’t get back up.

But this wasn’t London.

She pivoted hard, dropped low, and drove her shoulder into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled, coughing, and she came up swinging—two fast jabs to the jaw, a knee to the thigh, and then she slammed his face into the alley wall.

He groaned, dazed.

She didn’t hesitate. Spun him, yanked his arms back, and cuffed him, pressing her forearm into his shoulder blades.

“Anything else you want to say about my hands?” she hissed into his ear.

Travis just wheezed.

She stepped back, breathing hard, face cut and lip bleeding slightly. But her eyes—those were colder than ever.

Tim hadn’t moved.

He stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching it all. No interference. No help.

Just a test.

Dylan looked at Travis, now slumped and cuffed against the wall.

Then she looked at Bradford.

“You knew he’d push back,” she said, wiping her lip. “Didn’t you?”

Tim shrugged. “Didn’t know how far. Figured we’d find out.”

Her jaw clenched. “So this wasn’t about drugs. This was about me.”

He met her gaze, unreadable. “It was about knowing who I’m riding with.”

“I told you I’ve done this before.”

“And now I’ve seen it.”

Dylan stepped toward him, fists still clenched. “You wanted to know if I could handle myself? You risked me getting stabbed just to answer a question you were too insecure to ask outright?”

“If he’d pulled a weapon, I would’ve stepped in.”

“But you didn’t,” she snapped.

They stared at each other for a moment—hot, breathless, angry.

Tim didn’t flinch. “You’re not a rookie. I don’t get to hold your hand. You say you’ve been through worse? Then I needed to see it.”

Dylan let the words settle, her heart still thundering in her chest. He wasn’t apologising. He never would. But there was something behind his eyes—not cruelty, but calculation. Wariness. Trust issues wrapped in duty.

She turned away, chest heaving. “Next time you want to know if I can fight, ask. I’ll show you without the bloodshed.”

She walked back toward the cruiser, leaving him standing there.

Travis groaned behind him, still cuffed, still stunned.

Tim looked down at the dealer, then back at Dylan’s retreating figure.

She’d passed the test. Brutally.

But the cost?

He wasn’t sure yet.

The alley still buzzed with leftover adrenaline. Dylan Jenkins walked briskly alongside Tim Bradford, guiding the cuffed dealer toward their patrol car. The man was still muttering under his breath, but Dylan ignored him—her jaw was sore, her knuckles raw, and her patience worn thin. She was already halfway through mentally writing a very pointed speech to deliver to Tim about ambush “tests” when—

“Let him go!”

The voice cut through the air like a wire pulled taut.

Both Dylan and Tim stopped.

At the mouth of the alley stood a woman—thin, jittery, with dirty-blonde hair hanging in lank strands over her shoulders. Her clothes were layered and mismatched, as if she’d dressed in the dark. Her eyes were wide and wild, darting between Dylan and Tim, then locking onto the man in cuffs.

Beside her, Tim… froze.

His whole body changed—every rigid, commanding line softened at once. His shoulders dropped. His breathing shallowed. He looked like he’d been shot without a bullet being fired.

He took a step forward, voice cracking open like glass.

“Isabel?”

Dylan’s gaze snapped to him. The tone he used—it was like nothing she’d heard from him before. Not the cold command. Not the clipped control.

This was raw. Fragile.

The woman flinched at the name, her jaw tightening.

Tim kept walking—slow, hesitant. Like one wrong move would scare her away.

“Isabel,” he said again, softer this time. “It’s me. It’s Tim.”

And there it was—everything fell into place.

Dylan’s eyes widened slightly. This wasn’t just a ghost from his past. This was personal. Intimate.

“I’ve been looking all over the place for you,” Tim said. His voice was cracking now. Desperate and delicate. “I wanted to find you— just to see if you’re okay. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” she snapped, eyes wild.

Tim flinched. “I just want to help. Let me help you. We can get you into rehab.”

Isabel looked away. Her hands trembled as she ran them through her hair. “I don’t need goddamn rehab.”

Dylan stood frozen, watching the scene unfold like a spectator in a theatre that had suddenly turned real. She’d seen pain. She’d seen heartbreak. But this—this was grief. Living and breathing and walking.

“I begged you to let me help,” Tim whispered. “I begged you, Isabel. I begged you then, and I’m begging you now.”

Isabel turned back to him, her voice sharp, desperate. “You wanted to fix me. Not help me. There’s a difference.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Then let me help now.”

She laughed again, but this time it sounded like it hurt. “You got money?”

Tim blinked. “What?”

“That’s what I need, Tim. Not your guilt. Not your speeches. You want to help, so give me all your cash.”

There was a long pause. A horrible silence where everything that had ever been said between them hung in the air like smoke.

Then, slowly, Tim reached for his wallet. His hands were shaking as he muttered something incoherent.

He counted out a few twenties. Hesitated.

Isabel stepped forward, eyes locked on the bills.

He held them out. “Just… don’t disappear again. Please.”

She snatched the money from his hand like a starving animal. Then she turned and ran. Down the alley. Gone.

Just like that.

The dealer in cuffs started to snort, amused. “Damn, man. Was that your—?”

“Shut your mouth,” Dylan growled, her voice like ice.

But her focus was on Tim.

He stood there, unmoving, the empty air where she’d been still stretched between his hands. His eyes were glassy. Wet. He didn’t cry—not openly. But the tears fell anyway, silent and slow, trailing down his cheeks and catching in the stubble on his jaw.

Dylan stepped closer, but didn’t touch him. She just stood beside him.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said gently.

He didn’t answer. Just wiped his face with the back of his hand and nodded once, as if he was trying to pull himself back into shape. As if the last five minutes hadn’t shattered him in front of her.

“That was my wife,” he said finally. Quiet. Hollow. “I haven’t seen her in almost a year. She got deep into the drugs… deeper than I could follow.”

Dylan exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry.”

Tim laughed bitterly. “I told myself I’d never let her end up like this. That I could save her.”

Dylan looked down the alley, where Isabel had disappeared.

“You tried,” she said. “And you still would, if she let you.”

He nodded again. But it felt empty.

The kind of nod people give when they’re trying to convince themselves they can breathe through the pain.

They walked the rest of the way to the cruiser in silence. Tim’s hands didn’t stop shaking until they were halfway back to the precinct.

And Dylan didn’t say another word.

Because she knew this wasn’t something words could fix.

Only time.

And maybe, just maybe, someone who didn’t walk away.

The silence left behind in Isabel’s wake was deafening.

For a moment, Dylan Jenkins stood still, the cuffed drug dealer beside her still catching his breath, the only sound his quiet chuckle as if he’d just watched the finale of a tragic soap opera.

Then Tim Bradford turned to her, his voice hoarse.

“Let him go.”

Dylan blinked. “What?”

Tim’s jaw was set, eyes fixed on the alley wall like if he didn’t look at her, he wouldn’t break. “Just do it.”

She hesitated.

The man they’d fought to restrain—who’d taken swings at her, insulted her, earned those cuffs—stood smugly, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he couldn’t believe his luck.

Dylan opened her mouth to protest, to remind Tim that this man wasn’t just a throwaway side job, but a dealer contributing to the same streets that had chewed Isabel up and spat her out.

But something in Tim’s face stopped her.

It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t authority. It was the fragile, trembling grip of a man whose world had cracked open right in front of someone who wasn’t supposed to see it.

So, reluctantly, Dylan pulled the key from her belt and stepped toward the dealer.

“You get one break,” she warned coldly. “Use it wisely.”

The cuffs clicked open, and the dealer flexed his wrists with a smug grin. “Y’all are real generous today.”

Dylan stepped back, and the man took the opportunity, darting off down the alley without a second glance.

Tim had already turned and headed for the cruiser.

He got in, slammed the door behind him harder than he probably meant to, then slouched in the driver’s seat, his head falling back against the rest.

He took one breath. Then another.

Inhale. Exhale.

But each breath came out shakier than the last.

His eyes were shut tight. His jaw clenched. His lips parted like he was trying to hold in a scream—or a sob. His knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel, not in anger, but desperation. As if the leather might hold him together when everything else wanted to fall apart.

He couldn’t break down. Not here. Not now.

Not in front of her.

He was her training officer. Her anchor. The hard-ass, the example. If she saw this—really saw this—how could she ever respect him? Listen to him? Trust him to lead?

He tried to slow his breathing, but the effort made his throat tighten more. His lip trembled. He bit down on it, hard, trying to force the weakness back where it came from.

Outside, Dylan stood by the cruiser, taking her time.

She didn’t want to crowd him. Didn’t want to make him flinch, or speak when there was nothing she could say.

Because she knew that look.

She’d seen it before—in her own mirror.

When her dad had vanished into the bottle. Slowly at first. Then all at once.

She knew the way your chest tightened when you saw someone you loved become someone you couldn’t reach anymore. Knew the helplessness, the guilt, the way it made you question your own worth. The shame of still loving someone who kept choosing the thing that was destroying them.

Her father had been an alcoholic. Loud, cruel, impossible to please. But when he was sober? He was her hero. Which made it all the worse.

She’d spent years trying to fix him. Years learning she couldn’t.

So now, she waited.

Gave Tim time to put the pieces back together. Not to spare him embarrassment, but because she respected him more for breaking.

The fact that he cared—that he still tried to reach Isabel after everything—meant more to her than any badge, any takedown, any test he could throw at her.

After a long moment, she finally opened the passenger side door and slid in, her movements calm and quiet. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t mention the tears he’d blinked away. Didn’t call attention to the way his breathing was almost back to normal—but not quite.

She simply buckled her seatbelt.

Then, after a pause, said softly, “My dad was an alcoholic. Got sober once, stayed that way for about two years. Slipped again the day I graduated the Academy. Missed the whole ceremony.”

She didn’t say it to comfort. Just to let him know: I see you. You’re not alone in this.

Tim stared ahead, his hands still tight on the wheel.

After a moment, he finally spoke.

“What happened to him?”

“He drank himself into a seizure a few months later,” Dylan said, matter-of-fact. “He lived. But that was the last time I tried to save him.”

The silence between them stretched again—but this time, it wasn’t sharp.

It was steady. Shared.

Tim nodded once. And when he spoke again, his voice had steadied too.

“We’ve got a fugitive to catch.”

Dylan gave him a glance. “You ready?”

He looked at her. Just a moment. A flicker of something unspoken in his eyes.

Then he nodded again. “Yeah.”

And this time, she believed him.

The late afternoon sun baked the pavement in golden haze as the cruiser rolled to a stop at the mouth of a quiet side street in East Hollywood. The block looked abandoned—silent, eerie, the kind of stillness that put seasoned cops on edge.

Dylan Jenkins sat up straighter in the passenger seat, her eyes narrowing on a blacked-out Chevy Tahoe idling directly across from them.

Four figures sat inside.

One in the driver’s seat—wide-shouldered, profile unmistakable.

Eric Barlowe.

Dylan reached for the radio.

“This is 7-Adam-19,” she said, voice clipped but calm. “Visual on the suspect—Barlowe—parked in a black SUV at the corner of El Centro and Marathon. Four occupants. Appears armed. Requesting immediate backup.”

The radio crackled.

“Copy that, 7-Adam-19. Units en route. ETA four minutes.”

Tim’s voice was already tight as he threw the car into park, hand resting on the grip of his sidearm. “Four minutes is too long.”

They stepped out of the cruiser in unison, each moving behind their open doors for cover. Guns drawn. Eyes locked.

Tim’s voice boomed across the quiet street.

“Eric Barlowe! LAPD! Step out of the vehicle and show me your hands—now!”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then—Barlowe looked up. Just a flick of his eyes, a glance at Tim, then Dylan. Smirking.

And in one fluid, chilling motion—he reached down, yanked up a sleek black automatic weapon, and opened fire.

The sound was deafening.

Bullets shredded through the stillness like a buzz saw. Glass exploded, the cruiser windows shattering into a thousand glittering pieces. Dylan dropped immediately behind the door, weapon raised, heart pounding.

“Shots fired! Shots fired! Officer under fire!” she yelled into the radio, voice drowned under the sharp bark of gunfire.

Tim returned fire, but they were massively outgunned. Barlowe’s crew joined in, bullets pinging off the cruiser’s frame, tearing into metal, ricocheting off asphalt.

Then—a grunt.

Tim’s.

Dylan looked just in time to see him stumble backward, the side of his body twisting violently as a bullet slammed into his hip through the car door’s shattered window. He hit the ground hard, groaning, clutching his side.

Dylan didn’t think—she moved.

Still ducking, she sprinted through the hail of bullets, skidding to her knees at his side. Her hands were already on the radio clipped to her shoulder.

“Officer down! Officer down! Repeat, Officer Bradford has been shot. Requesting immediate medical and tactical support. We’re pinned!”

Tim was pale, teeth clenched, blood soaking rapidly through his uniform. His breathing was sharp, uneven.

“I’m fine,” he gasped. “Just—just focus on them—”

“Shut up,” Dylan snapped, returning fire over the top of the cruiser as she shielded his body with her own. Her gun barked three, four times—targeting flashes of movement in the Tahoe’s windows. She hit something; one of Barlowe’s crew shouted in pain.

But there were still too many of them.

She dropped low again and looped her arms under Tim’s armpits.

“Alright,” she whispered to him, voice ragged but controlled. “I’m dragging you. Stay awake. Scream at me later.”

With all the strength she could muster, Dylan began dragging him across the asphalt, inch by painful inch, toward the rear tire well of the cruiser, using it for maximum cover. Bullets whizzed past, splintering concrete, pinging off metal.

“Come on, come on—” she muttered under her breath, teeth gritted.

Tim groaned, his weight slumping more heavily into her arms.

Once they were tucked in behind the rear wheel, she dropped beside him, panting, sweat and blood streaking her face. She looked down at the wound—bleeding fast.

She made a split-second decision, yanked off her uniform shirt, leaving herself in a black tank beneath. Folding the fabric into a makeshift pad, she pressed it hard against the gunshot wound.

Tim flinched, hissing in pain.

“Keep pressure on it,” he whispered.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Dylan remarked.

Then—sirens.

A fleet of black-and-whites screamed around the corner, tires squealing. Barlowe’s gang reacted fast. The driver threw the Tahoe into gear and peeled off, two other vehicles speeding behind them, spraying one last barrage of bullets into the air as they fled.

Backup officers spilled out of their cruisers behind Dylan and Tim, weapons raised, taking defensive positions, shouts erupting across the block.

But Dylan didn’t move.

She stayed crouched beside Tim, still applying pressure, her arms slick with blood, chest heaving.

His eyes fluttered up to hers, blurry. But focused.

“You good?” she asked softly.

Tim gave her a faint, pained smirk. “You dragged me like a sack of potatoes.”

“You are a sack of potatoes,” she shot back, voice shaking. “A heavy, stubborn one.”

And then, finally, her hands eased just slightly as the paramedics rushed in.

But even as they took over, Dylan didn’t step away. She stayed beside him, hand still braced against his chest.

Because in that moment, there was no badge hierarchy, no rank, no tests.

Just two cops. And a bond forged not in trust—but in fire.

The flashing lights of black-and-white cruisers painted the street in stuttering red and blue as backup swarmed the scene. Officers spilled from their vehicles, weapons raised, eyes scanning for threats—but the immediate danger had already peeled away down a side street.

Barlowe was on the run.

Down on the asphalt behind the cruiser, Tim Bradford lay propped up slightly against the rear tire well, a paramedic trying to assess the gunshot wound to his hip. He winced as the pressure increased on the torn muscle, but when he caught movement from the corner of his eye, he turned his head.

Nolan and Bishop had arrived.

John jogged up, wide-eyed and already kneeling beside Tim. “Are you okay?”

Tim gave him a look. Equal parts pain and exasperation.

“No, I got shot!” he snapped, his voice laced with sarcasm and a wince.

Nolan raised his hands. “Right. Got it. Dumb question.”

Tim’s expression shifted quickly, urgency breaking through the pain. “Barlowe’s on foot. That alley to the east—he’s moving fast!”

Then he turned his head and shouted past them, toward where Dylan crouched, breath still ragged and skin slick with sweat and blood.

“Go get him, Jenkins. Go!”

She didn’t hesitate.

She rose fast, gun still in hand, and took off down the street—Bishop, Nolan, and Lopez right behind her.

Their boots pounded the pavement in rhythm, sirens still echoing in the distance. The scent of cordite and hot asphalt filled the air. They pushed hard, weaving around wrecked trash bins and ducking under hanging wires.

But after only a few strides, something shifted in Dylan.

Her vision tilted slightly.

Her footsteps—once solid and deliberate—grew clumsy.

Her breath hitched, shallow now, and she felt a strange cold spreading across her back and shoulder. Her gun wavered in her grip, but she kept pushing.

Until she couldn’t.

Her legs buckled beneath her mid-stride. She stumbled, then dropped to her knees. A second later, her body collapsed sideways onto the asphalt with a hard, jarring thud—not far from where Tim lay.

“Dylan!” Nolan cried out behind her, skidding to a halt.

“Officer down!” Bishop bellowed into her radio, already turning back.

Tim’s head whipped around at the sound. His entire body tensed as he caught sight of her motionless figure lying across the pavement, blood blooming in a dark red circle across her shoulder, seeping fast through the black fabric of her tank top.

His voice cracked as he called out, “Jenkins!”

Paramedics shouted in confusion as they shifted their attention from Tim to the second wounded officer.

Lopez dropped to Dylan’s side first, checking for a pulse, gently shaking her.

“She’s alive!” she shouted. “She’s—Jesus, she’s been shot! Left shoulder!”

Nolan was already helping roll Dylan gently onto her back. Her eyes fluttered, blinking in a daze.

She muttered something incoherent.

“Hey, hey, Jenkins—stay with me,” Nolan said, panic creeping into his voice. “You’re okay. We’ve got you. You’re gonna be alright.”

“She didn’t say anything,” Bishop muttered, pressing a hand down over the wound. “She didn’t even know.”

“She was too focused on Tim,” Lucy’s voice added from behind, wide-eyed as she caught up to the scene.

Tim’s eyes locked on Dylan, who now lay just yards away from him. His breathing picked up, a furious ache blooming in his chest that had nothing to do with the bullet in his hip.

“You idiot,” he whispered hoarsely. “You should’ve said something. You were bleeding the whole damn time.”

But even as he said it, he knew.

He knew what it meant to put someone else first. To ignore your own pain because the person beside you was worse off. Because they mattered.

He’d done it a hundred times.

Now she had, too.

Paramedics dropped beside her, working fast—cutting away her shirt, checking for an exit wound. “Clean shot,” one of them said. “But she’s lost a lot of blood.”

They worked to stabilize her, oxygen mask over her face, bandages pressed tightly to her shoulder.

Tim watched helplessly, the taste of iron in his mouth from clenching his jaw so hard.

This wasn’t just about a chase gone wrong.

This was the moment that shattered the wall he’d built around himself.

Because now he wasn’t looking at a rival. Or a rookie. Or a smartass detective who gave him just as much grief as he gave her.

He was looking at his partner.

And she had bled for him.

The intensive care unit was unnervingly quiet.

Harsh, sterile light hummed overhead while the faint beep of monitors echoed down the polished corridor. The air smelled like antiseptic and fatigue.

Inside room 403, Dylan Jenkins lay motionless in the hospital bed. An IV line snaked into her arm, and a thick bandage wrapped tightly around her shoulder, stark against the paleness of her skin. A sling cradled her left arm against her chest. Her breathing was steady, but the rise and fall of her chest looked laboured—like even that much effort had a price.

She was doped up, drifting somewhere between lucidity and morphine fog.

But her eyes opened slowly as the door creaked open.

“Alright, sleeping beauty,” came a familiar voice, hushed but teasing, “you look like crap.”

Lucy Chen stepped in first, followed by Jackson West, with John Nolan bringing up the rear. All three still wore remnants of their uniforms, weary from the shift but unable to go home until they saw her.

Dylan blinked at them, eyelids heavy. “You lot lose a bet or something?”

Lucy laughed. “Oh good, you’re still sarcastic. I was worried the bullet might’ve done something to your personality.”

“Only shot my shoulder, not my charm.”

Jackson stepped forward, placing a small, slightly-wilted bouquet on the table beside her. “We brought you flowers. Nolan picked them.”

“I panicked and went with daisies,” John added.

Dylan arched a brow. “Touching. I’ll treasure them forever—unless they attract bees, in which case, one of you is getting punched.”

They talked for a while longer—Lucy filling her in on precinct gossip, Jackson reenacting Barlowe’s capture with dramatic flair, Nolan trying to subtly check on how she was really doing. Dylan played along, grateful for the company, even as her limbs felt heavy and her eyes kept wanting to drift shut.

Eventually, Lucy glanced at her phone and winced. “We’ve gotta go, or Sergeant Grey’s going to hunt us down for skipping paperwork.”

They lingered at the door a moment longer.

Nolan spoke last. “You did good, Jenkins. You saved him.”

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded.

And then the door closed, and the silence returned.

Ten minutes later, there was a soft rattle just outside her room—wheels squeaking faintly against the tile.

Tim Bradford was a sight.

Still pale, hospital gown hanging awkwardly off his tall frame, a fresh dressing peeking out from the hem near his hip. He wheeled himself slowly into the room, one hand bracing the armrest, jaw clenched in concentration. He looked like he hated every second of needing help. But he was here.

Dylan cracked open one eye. “Well, well,” she croaked. “Didn’t think they let grumpy patients wander the halls unsupervised.”

Tim gave a long exhale through his nose as he parked himself beside her bed. “There was a nurse. I ditched her.”

Dylan grinned faintly. “You’re such a rebel.”

Tim didn’t look at her right away. He sat in silence, hands on his lap, staring at the monitor beside her bed like it might explain something he couldn’t say out loud.

Eventually, he spoke. Rough. Quiet.

“I saw the footage.”

Dylan blinked slowly.

“The moment I hit the ground… you ran for me. In the middle of all that—bullets flying—you chose me. Dragged me out. Took a round yourself and still kept going.” His eyes flicked up, finally meeting hers. “You didn’t even flinch.”

Dylan’s voice was hoarse. “Wasn’t gonna let you bleed out in front of me. Would’ve ruined the whole shift.”

Tim huffed. A whisper of a laugh, more breath than sound.

He looked down again. Fidgeted.

Then, finally, he muttered, “…Don’t do that again.”

Dylan frowned. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t put yourself between me and a bullet. Not like that.” His voice was low, gravelly. “You could’ve died.”

Dylan was quiet for a beat, then lifted her good arm with great effort and gestured vaguely around the sterile room.

“Well,” she said, voice thick with sarcasm, “cheers for the appreciation. I’ll just go ahead and cancel my medal ceremony, yeah?”

Tim smirked faintly, even as his jaw clenched. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Dylan replied, voice softer now. “I do.”

They sat in silence for a long moment.

Outside, a nurse passed by, oblivious. Machines beeped steadily. The world kept spinning.

Inside that room, two people who had spent days pushing each other, testing each other, watching each other with suspicion—sat still.

Something had changed— slightly.

Tim finally leaned his head back against the chair and muttered, “Next time, we both duck.”

Dylan smiled faintly, eyelids fluttering.

“Next time,” she whispered, already drifting again, “you can carry me.”

And for once, Tim didn’t argue.

He just stayed by her side.

Because whether they were ready to admit it or not—this was what partnership looked like.

And they had it.

A couple days later, the sterile buzz of the intensive care unit gave way to the subdued chaos of a discharge day.

Tim Bradford sat on the edge of his hospital bed, fully dressed but clearly unimpressed, arms crossed over his chest like a man being forced into an unspeakable humiliation.

Across the room, a nurse stood holding a wheelchair, expression firm.

“You’re not leaving without it,” she said. “Policy.”

“I’m fine,” Tim muttered, scowling.

“You were shot.”

“Grazed.”

“Through the hip.”

“I’ve walked off worse.”

She raised a brow. “Then consider this a break for your bruised ego.”

Before Tim could respond, Dylan Jenkins walked herself into the doorway, smug as anything, her right arm still cradled in a black sling and her hair pulled messily back. She looked equally wrecked and radiant, somehow pulling off hospital exhaustion with effortless British sarcasm.

“Well, well,” she said, eyes twinkling as she took in the scene. “Look at this. Officer Bradford being rolled out like a royal.”

Tim glared at her. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I’m going to.”

With a slow grin, Dylan limped into the room, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair with her good arm.

The nurse looked mildly concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay to—?”

“Yup,” Dylan cut in brightly. “Doctor said I’m fit for wheeling disgruntled men out of buildings. Just said to avoid brawls and breakdancing.”

Tim sighed. Loudly.

“I can walk.”

Dylan leaned over his shoulder, voice low and wickedly amused. “Come on. Let me have this.”

And so, begrudgingly, Tim allowed himself to be wheeled out of the ICU, arms folded like a sulking child, as Dylan Jenkins—clearly enjoying herself far too much—maneuvered the chair through the corridors one-handed, her sling shifting as she navigated around corners like she was on a scenic tour.

“I could be dying, you know,” she said conversationally.

“You’re not.”

“Still. Think of this as me milking what’s left of my near-death experience. Let me have my moment.”

As they reached the hospital lobby, Angela Lopez and Talia Bishop walked in through the sliding doors, both in jeans and off-duty hoodies, grinning like cats who’d just found cream.

“Oh my god,” Lopez said, whipping out her phone. “Is this a Bradford in a wheelchair sighting? Rare footage?”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Lopez—no.”

Click.

Too late.

“You blinked,” Bishop said dryly, peering at the screen. “We’ll have to take another one.”

Tim groaned, but Dylan just grinned over his shoulder, triumphant.

“He’s going straight to the LAPD retirement pamphlet,” she said.

Lopez and Bishop laughed as they helped both patients into the car—Tim slowly, with a stiffness he refused to acknowledge, and Dylan with a limp and a stubborn tilt to her chin.

They dropped Tim off first, at his clean-cut apartment complex in Silver Lake. Lopez helped him out while Dylan stayed in the back seat, watching silently as Tim paused before shutting the door.

He looked at her for a beat.

“Take it easy.”

She smirked. “You too. Or your nurse will hunt you down.”

The door closed.

Then it was her turn.

The car slowed in front of a squat, two-story apartment block on the edge of Koreatown—run-down, old, but intact. The kind of place where the walls were too thin and the paint peeled a little at the corners. But it had a roof. And privacy. And most importantly, it was hers.

Lopez frowned as she took in the building. “This where you’re staying?”

Dylan nodded. “Yep.”

“Not exactly luxury.”

“No,” Dylan said, already getting out, “but the rats keep to their side of the hallway, and the water’s only occasionally brown. I call that a win.”

Bishop opened her mouth, then closed it again. Dylan wasn’t embarrassed—she wore the truth like armor. She didn’t need their pity.

She just needed to get inside and get horizontal.

As she reached the entrance, Dylan turned back slightly, half-smiling.

“Thanks for the lift. I owe you one.”

“Just one?” Lopez teased.

“Alright, two. But if you don’t show enough people that photo of Tim, I’ll take them back.”

Bishop saluted with two fingers. “Noted.”

Then the car pulled away, and Dylan was alone.

She limped up the stairs, fumbled with her keys, and stepped into her apartment.

It was small. Sparse. A beat-up couch, a mattress on the floor, a few personal touches—a photo in a cracked frame, an old scarf on the coat hook, a mug shaped like a grenade.

She dropped her bag, sank onto the bed, and exhaled.

Pain pulsed through her shoulder, but beneath it was something quieter.

Something like pride.

She’d survived. She’d fought. She’d saved someone.

And Tim Bradford, of all people, had said thank you.

Even if it came dressed as a grumble in a wheelchair.

Day eleven.

That’s how long it had been since Dylan Jenkins had been discharged from the hospital, stitched up, bandaged, and sent home with a bottle of painkillers and a warning not to overdo it.

For ten and a half of those days, she’d done exactly that: stayed in bed, watched reruns of Frasier, and lived off cereal bars, black coffee, and self-pity. Her shoulder throbbed less now. The bruises were turning yellow. The stitches were still ugly, but healing. And the worst of the pain had dulled into an ache that reminded her she was alive.

But now her fridge was empty.

And she was starving.

And if she didn’t eat something greasy and utterly void of nutritional value in the next ten minutes, she was going to scream.

So, she dragged herself into jeans, a crumpled hoodie she hadn’t washed since the shooting, and laced up her boots with one hand. The sling still held her left arm tight to her side. Her keys jingled as she snatched them up, and she mumbled curses as she clumsily unlocked her car, slid behind the wheel, and pulled out into traffic—driving one-handed, with the general mood of a bear that had just woken up from hibernation.

Ten minutes later, she pulled into a battered strip mall with a glowing red sign that read:

“UNCLE RAY’S FRIED DELIGHTS — Open ‘Til You Regret It.”

Perfect.

She shuffled inside, the bell above the door chiming obnoxiously loud, and blinked in the harsh fluorescent light.

The smell hit first—fried chicken, grease, old oil, and something vaguely resembling cheese.

She was halfway through muttering to herself about artery-clogging America when a voice rang out from a booth near the back.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally left her cave.”

Tim Bradford.

Slouched slightly in a booth, cradling a styrofoam cup of what was probably black coffee, looking way too smug for someone who clearly hadn’t slept properly in days. His hoodie was dark, his hair slightly tousled, and the bandage peeking out from under his shirt told her he wasn’t doing that much better than her.

Dylan sighed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Tim took a slow sip. “Didn’t think you were the ‘Fried Delights’ type. I had you pegged for kale and tea that tastes like regret.”

She approached the counter, ignoring him completely as she squinted at the laminated menu. Her stomach growled.

Behind her, Tim kept going. “Let me guess—grilled cheese, fries, extra salt to match your attitude?”

She turned slowly, fixing him with a look. “You must be really bored if you’re heckling women in takeaways.”

Tim raised a brow. “Just the ones who’ve dragged me through gunfire.”

She finally ordered—chicken tenders, fries, extra hot sauce—then slid into the booth opposite him without asking. Her legs were tired, and the room was spinning just slightly. She didn’t trust herself to stay upright any longer.

They sat in silence for a moment, just long enough for the tension to curl between them like cigarette smoke.

Tim tapped his fingers on his cup. “You look like hell.”

“You don’t look much better,” she replied.

“Still got one working arm,” he said, lifting it dramatically.

She raised her brows. “So do I. I’m just not flaunting it like an idiot.”

He smirked. “Tell me, Jenkins—was it the hunger or the loneliness that finally drove you out of hiding?”

She rolled her eyes. “If I’d known you were here, I’d have eaten a tube of toothpaste and called it a meal.”

But behind her dry wit and sharp words, there was a faint flicker of warmth. Of familiarity.

Tim leaned back slightly. “You keeping up with your meds?”

Her eyes flicked to his. “What, you stalking me now?”

He shrugged. “Just asking. You look like the type to skip the painkillers and try to muscle through it.”

She didn’t answer.

That told him everything.

He exhaled slowly. “You need to rest properly. Let it heal.”

She looked at him. Really looked. He was trying to sound casual, still playing the sarcastic card, still keeping everything wrapped in layers of gruffness and jabs. But she saw through it.

She saw it in the way he kept glancing at her sling when he thought she wasn’t looking. In the way he shifted like he was still sore. In the way his voice softened—just slightly—when he said her name.

There was concern in him.

The kind neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

And it lived between every sarcastic jab.

Dylan’s food was called from the counter. She got up slowly, retrieved the brown paper bag, and returned to the booth. She opened it and took one greasy fry with her good hand, popping it into her mouth before leaning back and eyeing him.

“You always this annoying?”

“Only when I’m worried.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

There it was.

She paused, blinking slowly, then tilted her head, amused. “Aw. Was that an emotion, Bradford? Want me to alert the media?”

He groaned and sipped his coffee again. “Forget it.”

“No, no,” she said, picking up another fry. “You care. I’m touched. Truly.”

They lapsed into silence again—comfortable, this time.

And then Dylan grinned, wide and smug. “Still not sharing my fries with you.”

Tim smirked. “Didn’t ask. They smell like regret.”

“But they taste like survival,” she said, holding one up like a trophy.

And across the greasy table, in the most unlikely place, two wounded cops—one sarcastic Brit, one brooding American—shared a moment of genuine, unspoken understanding.

They weren’t friends.

Not quite.

But maybe, they were becoming something that mattered more.

It was just after 9 p.m. on a Sunday night, and Dylan Jenkins was slumped sideways on her battered couch, one blanket draped over her legs and an unfinished bottle of Coke balanced precariously on the armrest. A late-night documentary flickered on her TV, the narrator speaking in a soft British accent that made her homesick for all of two seconds before she tuned it out again.

Her shoulder still ached in dull pulses beneath the sling, but the worst of the pain had faded. Her stitches were healing. The bruises were fading from purple to yellow. Her appetite had returned with a vengeance, and her stubborn streak was itching to move again.

She hadn’t left the apartment all day.

Hadn’t planned to.

Until her phone buzzed.

She squinted at the screen as it lit up.

Unknown Number:

Back on duty tomorrow. 0700. Hope you’ve been sleeping in, because that ends tonight.

Her stomach dropped with the kind of dread reserved for dental appointments and interrogation rooms. There was only one person who’d text her like that.

She tapped back slowly.

You got my number how, exactly?

The response came almost immediately.

Bradford:

Department contact list. Welcome to the age of modern surveillance.

Dylan snorted, fingers already moving over the screen.

Jenkins:

You are such a pain in my ass.

There was a pause. Three dots. Then—

Bradford:

That’s my job.

She stared at the screen, jaw twitching slightly, somewhere between amused and annoyed. It was such a Tim Bradford response—dry, self-assured, mildly infuriating. And it landed exactly how he meant it to: reminding her, in the subtlest way, that they were back to reality tomorrow. No more takeaway food and naps. No more hospital walls and half-baked excuses.

Just the streets. The badge. The uniform.

And the Tests. She knew they were coming.

If he’d sent “get a good night’s sleep,” what he really meant was,

I’m going to make you run five scenarios before your second coffee, drag you into some morally grey standoff, and throw at least one philosophical speech at your head before noon.

She sighed, tossing her phone onto the blanket beside her and grabbing the Coke instead. One sip. Then another.

The phone buzzed again.

Bradford:

Seriously. Rest. You’re good. But I’m going to need you sharp.

She stared at that one a bit longer.

There wasn’t a joke in it. No smug jab.

Just something honest. Quiet. Almost respectful.

She didn’t reply.

But she smiled.

Just slightly.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

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