Joey

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

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

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

“Bradford. Jenkins.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He glanced sideways, smirking. “No promises.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yo, what the fu—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dylan finally spoke. “Tim.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see what’s happening here—”

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

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

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

Dylan blinked. “You’re joking.”

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

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

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

“I’m going to throw up.”

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

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

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

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

Tim made a face. “You’re terrifying.”

“I’ve had years of practice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Noted,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You knew him well?” Dylan asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dylan swore. “He came prepared.”

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

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

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

Then— “There!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait—wait!”

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

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

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

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

Silence on the other end.

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

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

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

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

“You made the right call.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They both said it at once— kind of.

“The mall.” “The shopping centre.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The chase had ended. But the hunt had begun.

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

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

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

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

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

“LAPD — out of the way!”

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

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

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

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

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

It was Hawke. Near the back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jeremy!” Tim and Dylan shouted in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He is,” Tim cut in.

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

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

They nodded, already moving.

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

“He’s unraveling.”

Tim glanced at her. “And desperate.”

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

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

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

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

Then— “Don’t come any closer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took one step closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tim!” Dylan barked, eyes flashing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moments later— Footsteps. Running.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tim sighed, eyes fixed forward. “Jenkins—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angela smirked. “Here we go.”

Jackson glanced between them. “What about them?”

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

Angela laughed. “British charm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angela and Lucy both answered at once:

“Bradford.”

They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

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

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tim smirked. “Thought so.”

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

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

She turned, brows raising. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nell blinked. “Me?”

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

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

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

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

Nell cradled the gift like it was holy. “Thank you! Really. That’s—wow.”

Tim leaned a little closer, voice dipping into something just slightly lower, just slightly more suggestive. “So, listen… I was wondering if you could do me a tiny little favour.”

Nell tilted her head, nervous. “Um. Sure?”

“You know the T.O challenge today, right?” Tim asked, casual.

“Yeah, I heard,” she nodded, clutching the book like it might fly away.

“Well,” Tim said, flashing his most disarming grin, “it’d really help if you sent me and Jenkins any felony calls you get first. You know. So we can stay on top.”

Nell’s eyes widened. “Oh. Um. I don’t know. That might count as, like… dispatch favouritism.”

Tim smirked. Leaned in a little closer. “But I am your favourite,” he said in that dangerously soft voice. “Right?”

Dylan audibly scoffed behind him.

Nell turned bright red, grinning helplessly. “I—I guess I could forward a few priority calls your way…”

Tim winked. “Knew I could count on you.” As he turned, he gently placed a hand on Nell’s shoulder, then strolled out like he’d just picked up a dry cleaning order. Dylan was still standing there, arms folded, staring at him like he’d just sprouted devil horns.

Outside, she followed him toward their cruiser, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

Tim tossed the empty war bag into the trunk. “Worked, didn’t it?”

“I thought you didn’t ‘do’ charm,” she said. “Now I know it’s a tactical weapon.”

He shrugged. “Only when the mission demands it.”

Dylan scoffed again. “Poor girl looked like she was about to combust. Do you use that voice on everyone who stands in your way?”

He smirked, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Just the redheads.”

Dylan slid in beside him, laughing despite herself. “Remind me never to let you near dispatch unsupervised.”

“Oh, we’re supervised,” Tim said, flicking on the ignition. “By fate. And now, by every felony call in the city.”

Dylan leaned back in her seat, smirking. “Alright, Romeo. Let’s go win this stupid challenge.”

And with a spin of the wheel, the shop rolled out into the streets — the game on, the score zero-zero, but the odds? Firmly stacked in Team Bradford’s favour.

The inside of the shop was warm, quiet, and filled with the rhythmic hum of tires on asphalt as Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins cruised through their sector. The morning had been productive — a few low-level stops, some citations, and a clean misdemeanor arrest that got them three points. But it wasn’t enough. Not with the group chat blowing up.

Dylan’s phone buzzed again in her vest pocket. She sighed, pulled it out, and read aloud with a deadpan tone: “‘Team Lopez & Chen — 13 points, thank you very much.’” She scrolled. “Nolan and Yates are on 10. And Jackson? Somehow just hit 17. How the hell did West pull that off?”

Tim scoffed. “Fluke.”

She raised a brow. “Sounds like we’re falling behind, Captain.”

Tim kept his eyes on the road but smirked. “Right. Time to deploy our secret weapon.”

Dylan blinked. “Secret weapon?”

“Call Nell.”

Dylan gave him a look. “Seriously?”

“Absolutely,” Tim replied, already pulling his personal phone from the dash mount and handing it to her. “You’re driving the charm offensive this time.”

“I’d rather stick my hand in traffic,” she muttered, but dialled anyway, pressing the phone to her ear with a grimace. A beat. Then— “Hey, Nell!” Dylan said, all awkward cheer.

Tim leaned closer. “Put it on speaker.”

She did.

Nell’s voice came through, a little flustered. “Oh! Hey. Officer Jenkins, right?”

Tim leaned in again, pitch dropping into that voice — the smooth, teasing one Dylan was rapidly learning to recognise. “Nell,” he drawled. “I’m hurt. Have you… forgotten about me?”

Dylan immediately pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh God.”

Nell stammered through the line. “No! I mean — of course not! It’s just been quiet over here, I swear.”

“Mm,” Tim said, resting one hand lazily on the wheel, his tone low, velvety. “I was starting to think you were favouring Jackson’s team. And here I thought we had something special.”

Dylan visibly recoiled in her seat. “I’m going to throw myself out of the car.”

But before Nell could reply, her voice changed. Sharper now. “Hold on — call coming through. Possible armed robbery at a liquor store, suspect fleeing on foot. Third and Glendale.”

Tim straightened, tone immediately professional. “We’ll take it. Send us the call.”

“Copy that,” Nell replied, already dispatching the call across the board.

Tim hit the lights. Dylan was already buckling her seatbelt tighter. “That’s seven points if it sticks.”

Tim grinned. “Told you she’d come through.”

As they sped through the streets, weaving between cars with sirens wailing, Dylan stared out the window, jaw tight. She wasn’t sure what was more annoying — the fact that Tim’s stupid flirtation worked… Or the fact that watching him do it stirred something unexpected inside her. That stupid voice. That casual confidence. The way he leaned in, the flash of charm in his eyes — it was practiced, sure. But it wasn’t fake. And she hated that a small, irritating flutter had started somewhere low in her stomach. Butterflies. Nope. Absolutely not. She turned her head away, trying to shake it off. This was just a game. Tim Bradford was an excellent cop, a shameless flirt, and absolutely the wrong person to be getting flustered over. She’d seen men like him before. Except… she hadn’t. Not quite like this.

“Jenkins,” Tim said, glancing at her. “You okay?”

She blinked once. Then replied with a smirk. “Let’s just win this thing so I can go home and wash the sleaze off.”

Tim laughed — a real, deep laugh that curled around her spine in ways it shouldn’t. And as the shop rounded the corner toward the scene, sirens still blaring, Dylan squared her jaw and told herself to get her head in the game. It’s just adrenaline. Just adrenaline. Wasn’t it?

The cruiser carved through late morning traffic, lights flashing, sirens wailing in the distance as they approached the location Nell had given them. Tim Bradford was focused, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly near the siren controls. Dylan Jenkins sat in the passenger seat, her eyes scanning every corner they turned, the adrenaline building — but not just from the call. Something else was simmering too.

Dylan tapped her fingers once against her thigh before speaking. “Nell seems nice.”

Tim didn’t take his eyes off the road. “What’s your point?”

Dylan smirked faintly. “You really gonna play that card?”

“I’m driving,” he said flatly. “Not in the mood for riddles.”

“She likes you,” Dylan said simply. “It’s obvious.”

Tim exhaled through his nose. “She’s just doing me a favour.”

Dylan turned toward him slightly, brow arched. “Come on, Bradford. You gave her a present. Complimented her like she was on a runway. Dropped the voice.”

“What voice?” he asked, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

She gave him a look. “That voice. The one that makes people forget their own name,” she said. “You turned the full charm offensive on a dispatch officer to rig a friendly competition. That’s… pretty cold, even for you.”

Tim’s grip on the wheel tightened ever so slightly. “It’s just part of the game, Jenkins. She knows that.”

Dylan shook her head. “No, I don’t think she does. She’s sweet. Shy. She clearly thinks it means something.”

Tim finally glanced at her, annoyed. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to stop using people’s feelings just because you’re good at manipulating them,” she said, sharp but not cruel. “You’re better than that.”

That landed. Tim didn’t respond right away. His jaw was tight now. Eyes flicked back to the road. But before the silence could turn into something heated, Dylan’s gaze snapped forward. “Suspect. Two o’clock.” And just like that, the conversation died. The world narrowed into a singular focus. A man in a black hoodie, jeans, and gloves sprinted across an intersection two blocks ahead, weaving through cars, a crumpled brown duffel bag bouncing at his side.

Tim swerved hard, tires screeching as the cruiser jerked toward the sidewalk. Both officers burst from the vehicle before it had even come to a full stop. “LAPD! Stop!” Tim shouted, hand already on his weapon as he chased after him. Dylan sprinted beside him, boots pounding against pavement. Whatever awkward tension had existed in the car? It was gone now — burned away by the heat of pursuit. But even as they ran, adrenaline pumping and the call consuming their attention… Dylan’s words still echoed in the back of Tim’s mind. “You’re better than that.” And for some reason — that mattered.

The alley reeked of piss, old oil, and the faint sting of copper — the scent of blood from the suspect’s grazed elbow where he’d fallen trying to scale a fence. He hadn’t made it far. Tim Bradford had flanked left through the open loading dock, while Dylan Jenkins took the alley head-on, cutting the man off as he stumbled over discarded crates behind the liquor store he’d tried to rob. By the time he pulled the gun again — clumsy and desperate — Dylan already had hers aimed center-mass, calm and unflinching.

“Drop it. Now.”

He blinked. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Then the pistol slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. Dylan moved fast. She kicked the weapon away and shoved him against the brick wall, wrenching his hands behind his back with practiced force. Click. Click. Cuffs on.

Tim jogged up beside her a second later, breathing steady, eyes sharp. “Nice work.”

But Dylan didn’t answer. Because the suspect — mid-thirties, bloated face, eyes bloodshot, reeking of whiskey — had started mumbling to her. “You know what the problem is with the world?” he slurred, lips close to her ear as she kept him pinned. “Everyone thinks love’s supposed to fix you. Nah. Nothing fixes you like a bottle. Nothing. Not even the people who say they love you.” Dylan’s jaw twitched. “I had a wife. She begged me to get clean. Said she’d leave if I didn’t. So I let her.” He chuckled, bitter and warped. “Didn’t even hesitate. Booze stays. Booze don’t ask questions. Booze don’t care who you are.”

Tim saw something change in Dylan’s face. He saw it in the way her eyes hardened. Saw it in the sudden set of her shoulders, the shift in her grip. Like something snapped behind her calm.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low and cold. “Shut your mouth.”

The man laughed again, still leaning his weight on her like they were sharing a secret. “You get it, don’t you? That’s why you look so damn angry.”

She shoved him forward, not hard enough to hurt — just enough to make him stumble. He didn’t speak again.

Tim stepped closer, subtly placing a hand on her forearm, grounding her. “You okay?”

Dylan nodded once — too fast. “Fine.”

But Tim had seen that expression before. Not on suspects. On her. And though she didn’t say anything more, the look in her eyes said enough: the man’s words hadn’t just touched a nerve — they’d struck something buried deep. Something old. Something rotten. Something that sounded too much like her father. The words echoed in her mind, old and new overlapping like a bruise being pressed again: “It’s not me, Dylan, it’s the drink. The drink’s the only thing that gets me through.” “Don’t act like love’s enough. Love doesn’t pour into a glass, does it?” She looked away sharply.

Tim didn’t push. But his hand remained there, light and steady. “We’ve got him,” he said. Calm. Professional. “Let’s get him processed.”

She nodded again, slower this time. The suspect stumbled toward the cruiser, eyes glazed, still muttering — but Dylan didn’t hear the words anymore. She heard echoes. Heard ghosts. Tim opened the back door of the cruiser, and she helped guide the man inside. He didn’t resist. When the door slammed shut, Dylan stood still for a second longer than necessary, her breath shallow, hands flexing at her sides.

“You sure you’re okay?” Tim asked again, voice quieter now. Not a demand. Just an offer.

Dylan looked at him. Eyes colder than usual. But inside them, something hurt. “Let’s just win this damn challenge,” she muttered.

He didn’t press her again. But as they drove off, Tim kept glancing sideways — not at her hands, or her posture. He watched her eyes. Because something had shifted. And even if she wouldn’t say it… He’d felt it.

The burger van sat parked in its usual spot — the paint peeling from its sides, the smell of sizzling onions and cheap beef floating through the lot like a beacon. Officers gathered around the picnic benches and folding tables, radios clipped to vests and half-buttoned uniforms swaying in the breeze. The mid-shift energy was a blend of exhaustion and friendly competition. Today, it buzzed with more than just rivalry. Because Team Bradford & Jenkins had just pulled up. And something was… off.

Tim parked the cruiser and stepped out, stretching his shoulders. Dylan followed suit, but the moment her boots hit the pavement, she immediately pulled away — not toward him, not toward the usual gathering spot with their fellow training officers, but toward the farther table, where Jackson, Lucy, and Nolan were already mid-lunch, joking over sodas and comparing scores. Her silence spoke volumes. The air between her and Tim crackled — not with their usual playful tension, but something colder. Unresolved. Bitter.

Tim clocked it instantly. So did Angela Lopez, who approached with a drink in each hand and a furrow in her brow. “Hey,” she said, offering one to Dylan. “You okay?”

Dylan didn’t stop walking. “Not thirsty.”

Angela watched her go, concern deepening, before turning to Tim, who was now casually leaning against the side of the van like nothing had happened. Angela raised an eyebrow. “You two fight?”

“No,” Tim said coolly. “She just has a headache.”

Talia Bishop joined them, unimpressed. “She seemed fine at the last call.”

Tim shrugged, keeping his face unreadable. “Sun’s brutal today. Doesn’t take much.”

Angela narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying it, but decided not to press. Instead, she flopped down on the nearest bench with a dramatic sigh and held her hands out like she was accepting an award. “Well,” she declared, “Team Lopez & Chen have officially hit twenty-eight points.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, sitting beside her. “That so?”

“Twelve felony points. Two misdemeanors. And a guy who tried to run from us with a boot full of meth. Which I personally chased down, thank you very much.”

Talia groaned. “I told you, I’m not playing.”

Angela grinned. “And yet you’re still losing. That’s tough.”

Tim took a sip of his drink, watching Dylan from across the lot as she leaned into conversation with the rookies, head low, voice too quiet.

“Long shift left,” he muttered. “Plenty of time to turn it around.”

Angela smirked. “You sitting at seven, aren’t you?”

“Seven with a bullet,” he shot back. “And I’ve got Jenkins.”

Talia glanced sideways. “Who currently won’t look at you.”

“She’s just pacing herself,” Tim said flatly. “Like any good competitor.”

Lopez raised an eyebrow. “She’s pissed about something. And if it’s about the challenge, you better hope it doesn’t affect your chances, Romeo.”

Tim didn’t respond — not directly. But his jaw tightened, and his gaze flicked toward Dylan again. She was laughing now — or pretending to — at something Jackson said. But her fingers were tapping restlessly on the table. Her eyes never quite matched her smile. Tim knew that look. He’d seen it when suspects pressed buttons they didn’t understand. He’d seen it when her past bled through the cracks. And now? Now it was directed at him.

Angela leaned back, arms stretched across the back of the bench. “Face it, Bradford. You might have the best partner. But if she’s not talking to you?” She smirked. “You’re not winning anything today.”

The buzz of lunch at the burger van carried on like any other day — laughter, teasing, bites of greasy burgers between radio calls and scoreboard updates. But Lucy Chen sat quietly, barely touching her food, her dark eyes flicking across the table every so often to where Dylan Jenkins sat stiffly, surrounded by conversation but not in it. Dylan’s usual sharp wit had dulled to half-hearted sarcasm. Her posture was defensive — arms crossed, shoulders tight. Her foot tapped against the gravel, a subtle rhythm that belied the chaos under the surface. Lucy noticed everything. Always had. It was a curse and a gift of being raised by two psychologists. You learned to read tone, timing, body language — and Dylan was screaming without saying a word.

So, Lucy reached casually for her drink, bumped Dylan’s arm gently, and said, “Hey, want to walk with me to the van? I need more napkins.”

Dylan blinked, caught off guard. “You’ve got five right in front of you.”

“Yeah, well…” Lucy gave a weak smile. “They’re emotionally contaminated.”

Dylan gave a half-laugh — but she followed her anyway. They walked a short distance toward the van, then veered off to the far side, where the shade was deeper and the voices faded behind them. Lucy leaned against the brick wall of the adjacent building, napkins forgotten, and turned to face her. Dylan didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

Lucy tilted her head, voice soft. “You’re spiraling.”

Dylan blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re doing that thing. Tapping your foot, checking your phone like it’s going to rescue you, clenching your jaw like you’re fighting with a ghost. Something’s off.”

Dylan looked away. “I’m fine.”

“My mum says when people say ‘I’m fine’ but their body’s tense, it usually means they’re in emotional quicksand.”

Dylan smirked faintly. “Your mum’s very insightful.”

“My dad says it too.”

Dylan sighed, scrubbing a hand down her face. “You corner all your colleagues like this, or am I just lucky?”

“Only the ones pretending they’re fine when they’re not.” Lucy’s voice didn’t waver. “You don’t have to tell me. But I’m here if you want to.”

Dylan looked at her for a long moment. And something shifted — her posture softened, the deflective energy beginning to crack. And then, almost reluctantly: “We had a call this morning. Armed robbery. Guy was drunk, rambling. We cuffed him pretty quickly, but he just kept talking. Slurring stuff in my ear.” Lucy waited. “He kept going on about how alcohol’s better than love. That it doesn’t leave you. Doesn’t ask anything of you. That he let his wife walk out because she expected him to quit drinking, and he didn’t even care.” Her voice was low now. Brittle.

Lucy’s chest tightened. “That hit a nerve.”

Dylan gave a tight, humourless smile. “My dad was a drunk. Still is, I think. We don’t talk. Not since I left. He used to say stuff like that all the time — that we were the problem, not the bottle. That alcohol never disappointed him.” Lucy didn’t interrupt. She just let her speak. “And hearing it come out of that guy’s mouth today? It just… I don’t know. Punched a hole through me. Like time rewound.” Dylan shifted her weight, glancing away. “And then I got sharp with Bradford. Cold. Because I didn’t want to explain it, and he just kept being—him. All stoic and unreadable and stubborn.”

Silence stretched between them. Then Lucy said gently, “It doesn’t make you weak to want someone to see you.” Dylan blinked at her, thrown by the softness. “You’re human,” Lucy added. “And Tim? He may not always know what to say. But he pays attention. I’ve seen it. He’s probably still trying to figure out what the hell he did wrong.”

Dylan ran a hand through her hair, exhaling. “He didn’t do anything wrong. I just… projected. And now I’m acting like a brat because I don’t know how to be mad at a ghost, so I’m mad at the closest person instead.”

Lucy smiled faintly. “My mum says that too.”

Dylan huffed. “Your mum’s got all the answers.”

“She thinks she does. But I think you’ve got more than you realise.”

Dylan looked at her — really looked — and something softened. “Thanks, Chen.”

“Anytime.”

They stood in silence a moment longer, side by side in the shade.

Then Dylan said, dryly, “Alright. Let’s go pretend these napkins were an emergency.”

Lucy laughed, bumping her shoulder. “If anyone asks, I emotionally contaminated at least three.”

They walked back together, a little lighter, a little steadier. And for the first time that day, Dylan didn’t feel quite so alone.

The air inside the shop was cooler now, the A/C humming softly as the cruiser rolled back onto the main road. Post-lunch lull had settled over the city, the sun sitting heavy above the skyline, and for once — for the first time all day — Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins were silent. Not their usual silence. This one was loaded. Tim tapped the wheel lightly with his thumb, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She wasn’t scrolling her phone. Wasn’t giving one of her dry one-liners. She just sat there, arms folded loosely, eyes on the window, but not seeing it. And for Tim, that was more disconcerting than any raised voice or sarcastic jab.

He cleared his throat. “So…” She didn’t look over. “I need to know if I should be worried.”

That got her attention. Her brow furrowed. “Worried?”

“About your mood,” Tim said, not unkindly. “Because if we’re going to win this competition — and, you know, continue functioning as partners — I need to know if the storm cloud over your head is going to keep raining.”

Dylan blinked. “Seriously?”

Tim shrugged. “I’m not asking for a full therapy session. Just a weather forecast.”

Dylan gave a soft exhale, somewhere between amusement and surrender. “I’m fine.”

Tim let that sit for a beat. He stared ahead, then slowly pulled them into a quieter street, easing off the gas. Then, he said, “I don’t know what your past looks like. And I’m not asking. But what that guy said? All that crap about alcohol being more reliable than people?” He paused, jaw tight. “That’s not true. You need to know that.” She stared at him. No sarcasm. No retort. Just… quiet. The kind of quiet Tim had never seen on her. And maybe it was because she’d already broken earlier with Lucy, or maybe it was the way Tim said it — like it wasn’t a performance, like he wasn’t trying to fix her, just reach her — but Dylan nodded. Once. It was small. But it meant everything.

Tim didn’t push further. Didn’t need to. The moment hung there, delicate, as the cruiser slowly rolled past a row of faded storefronts. Then Dylan’s phone buzzed on the dash. She grabbed it, blinking out of whatever haze had held her.

“Yeah?”

A familiar voice crackled through the speaker. Nell. “Jenkins? Got something for you and Officer Bradford — possible B&E in progress, residential property near Atwater. Neighbour says they saw two men breaking through the back window.”

Dylan glanced over at Tim, who was already flipping on the lights. She smirked faintly. “Copy that, Nell. We’re en route.”

The sirens kicked up again, the hum of the engine rising with purpose. And just like that — they were back in motion. But this time, there was something different in the air between them. Not gone. Not fixed. But lighter. Understood. Stronger.

The street in Atwater Village was eerily still. A quiet block of suburban homes with neatly trimmed hedges and silent driveways. The sun cast long shadows across the pavement as Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins rolled up slowly, eyes scanning every corner. But the moment they turned into the cul-de-sac— Gunfire erupted. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

“Gun! Gun! Gun!” Dylan shouted, just as the windshield exploded into a spiderweb of shattered glass, bullets tearing through it in violent succession.

Tim didn’t hesitate — he reached across the centre console and shoved Dylan down, shielding her with his body as they ducked behind the dash. The whine of ricocheting rounds and screaming tires filled the air, hot brass clinking against the pavement. More bullets. More chaos.

“Stay down,” Tim growled, voice low and protective, even as his eyes never stopped tracking movement through the fractured glass.

Dylan, heart pounding against her ribcage, felt the weight of Tim over her — his arms braced to keep her protected, his breath steady, calculated, like this was just another day. “Windshield’s done,” she muttered, voice tight.

“Then we move.” As the gunfire slowed — a break, a reload, a hesitation — Tim reached for the door. “Go!”

Both officers threw open their doors at the same time, ducking low and using the ballistic panels as cover. Their weapons came up like clockwork. Two shooters were standing beside a black getaway van parked across the street — both armed, both firing recklessly. But after a few exchanged rounds from Tim and Dylan, the suspects turned and bolted behind the van.

“They’re falling back,” Dylan said, eyes narrowing. And then they disappeared — slamming into the back of the van and locking themselves inside.

“Bulletproof box,” Tim muttered, watching the glint of reinforced metal around the van’s rear.

Dylan swore. “We’re gonna have to wait for SWAT.”

Tim was already shaking his head. “No. No, this is our window.”

She glanced at him. “Bradford—”

“They think they’re safe,” he said, grabbing something from the tactical kit in the back of the shop. “Which means their guard is down.”

She followed his eyes as he pulled out a small canister of pepper spray — industrial grade. Dylan blinked. “You’re gonna gas them?”

Tim’s mouth curved into a grin. “I’m gonna smoke ‘em out.”

Moments later, the two were crouched low on either side of the van, quiet and invisible behind parked cars. Tim pointed to a small airflow slit just above the wheel well — likely overlooked during the van’s reinforcement.

Dylan nodded. “Let’s make it fast.”

Tim slithered forward, keeping his body low, and without a sound, he aimed the canister into the vent and sprayed — a long, powerful stream that hissed like a serpent. Nothing happened at first. Then— coughing. Loud, guttural. Panicked. Inside the van, chaos erupted — choking, gagging, one suspect yelling about not being able to see. Tim bolted back into position, gun raised, eyes sharp. Then— bam! The rear doors flew open, and both suspects stumbled out, blinded and coughing violently.

They didn’t make it two steps. Dylan was waiting. “LAPD! Hands where I can see ‘em! Down on the ground!” One dropped immediately, hacking and swiping at his eyes. The other hesitated—then tried to run. Too late. Dylan stepped forward and slammed him against the van, weapon still raised. “Try me.” He dropped.

Tim swept in beside her, cuffing both as backup arrived, lights flashing around them. Seventeen points. Felony arrests. Weapons recovered. Suspects in custody. Team Bradford was back in the lead.

Back inside the cruiser, adrenaline still coursing, Dylan slid into the passenger seat, catching her breath. Her face was flushed, eyes wide — and though she didn’t say it, she was impressed.

She turned to Tim. “That was reckless. Borderline illegal.”

Tim shrugged, smug as ever. “Creative problem-solving.”

She stared at him for a beat longer. Then, finally, she cracked a grin. “You’re such a menace.”

He smirked. “Seventeen points worth of menace.”

And as they pulled away from the scene, lights fading in their rearview mirror, Dylan leaned her head back and let out a long breath. The day wasn’t over. But something told her Team Bradford & Jenkins wasn’t done surprising people yet. Especially each other.

The street was dark, quiet — just past 10 p.m. The warm glow of porch lights cast shadows across the trimmed lawns of the upscale neighbourhood, and if not for the radio chatter still echoing in their ears, it could have passed for any peaceful night in the suburbs. Two cruisers pulled up in tandem, headlights dimmed, emergency lights off to avoid alerting the suspects. John Nolan and Talia Bishop stepped out of their unit first, already on high alert. Moments later, Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins exited theirs, expressions sharp, steps silent as they approached the house. They didn’t need words. One look at the front window told them everything. Blood. A long smear of it painted the inside of the glass like a warning. And just beyond it — through sheer curtains and fractured blinds — was hell.

A woman was tied to a chair in the living room, blood dripping from her mouth, her eyes swollen and wild with terror. A man beside her was already slumped sideways, bruises blooming across his face. And three masked intruders moved around them — one pacing, one yelling, and another punching the male victim again, vicious and unrelenting. And on the front step? The cleaner — face-down in a pool of blood. Throat slit. A mop bucket tipped over beside her, pink-stained water leaking down the brick.

Dylan crouched low, scanning every angle. “We’ve got hostages.”

Tim gave a short nod. “We interfere now, or these people don’t make it.”

Bishop stepped forward, voice quiet but clear. “We’ll breach the front and go low. You two get upstairs, clear top-down.”

Nolan, already gripping his weapon tighter than usual, gave a shaky nod. “Let’s do it.”

Tim and Dylan peeled off toward the side gate, moving quickly and silently. The wooden fence was tall, almost eight feet — enough to make it tricky. Tim knelt, cupping his hands.

“Up,” he whispered.

Dylan hesitated — only for a second — but he noticed. Still, she stepped in, bracing one hand on his shoulder. As he lifted, his hands naturally moved to her hips, guiding her up with practiced precision. What he didn’t see — couldn’t see in the dark — was how tense she went. Her jaw locked. Her breath hitched. She made it over and dropped lightly on the other side. Tim followed seconds later, landing beside her. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

“Alright?” he murmured.

“Fine,” she said tightly. Then softer, “Let’s move.”

They entered through a second-floor balcony — unlocked. Sloppy. The invaders weren’t pros, just desperate and violent. Inside, the hallway was dimly lit by a hallway nightlight. Every sound was magnified — the floorboards creaking beneath their steps, the muffled screams from downstairs, the static tension pressing in on them like a vice. Tim took point, gun raised, sweeping each room with military precision. Dylan followed close behind, eyes sharp, breath controlled. Then — movement. One of the suspects, young, lanky, armed with a kitchen knife, stepped out of a bedroom just ahead. He didn’t even see them. CRACK! Dylan struck fast, elbow to the back of his head before he could scream, taking him down with surgical precision. She cuffed him silently.

They moved forward — another room, another threat. A second man, clearly the leader, was on the phone, pacing the upstairs hallway. Tim lunged first, tackling him from behind. The suspect slammed against the wall with a grunt, the phone clattering to the ground. Before he could reach for the pistol tucked into his belt, Dylan kicked it away and shoved him into the wall, cuffing him with one hand. They met eyes for a split second. No words — just breath, movement, adrenaline.

Downstairs, a loud crash echoed.

Then: “Clear!” Bishop’s voice rang out.

Dylan exhaled.

Tim touched his radio. “Upstairs secure. Two in custody.”

Moments later, officers began flooding in through the front — lights sweeping the house, backup arriving in waves. Dylan leaned against the hallway wall, rolling her shoulder out. Her heart still thundered in her chest, but her hands? Steady. Her aim? Unshaken. Tim stood across from her, face lit by the strobing lights outside, breathing hard. They looked at each other for a beat longer than necessary.

Then he gave a nod — quiet, acknowledging, respectful. And for the first time since lunch, she nodded back.

The sun had dipped below the skyline, casting a golden-pink haze across the precinct lot. The heat of the day was finally easing, replaced by a cooler breeze that ruffled the edges of uniforms now replaced by jeans, hoodies, and well-worn t-shirts. The burger van glowed under its string of fairy lights, a gathering place that had become unofficial tradition. The scent of grilled onions and ketchup wafted lazily through the air, mingling with the low hum of laughter and banter as officers leaned against cruisers, picnic tables, and one another.

It had been a long day. A brutal one. But there was still one last order of business.

Angela Lopez, dressed in joggers and a denim jacket, climbed on top of one of the folding benches like a queen taking her throne. A half-eaten burger in one hand, her phone in the other, she cleared her throat dramatically.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and competitive maniacs,” she called out, “it is time.” The chatter hushed, heads turning. “I am here,” she continued, “to announce the results of today’s most ridiculous, questionably ethical, and completely unsanctioned competition.” Cheers and mock groans rippled through the group. Angela smirked, scrolling through her notes. “In last place — with a grand total of zero points, due to total lack of participation — Team Bishop.”

Talia raised her drink. “Proudly uninterested.”

“In third place,” Angela went on, “Team Nolan and Yates — with 22 points and at least one slightly illegal donut bribe.”

“Hey!” Nolan called. “That was strategy.”

Angela ignored him. “In second, Team Lopez and Chen — 28 points, three foot chases, one badly parked patrol car—”

Lucy raised her hand. “Not me.”

“Which means,” Angela announced, voice rising, “the winners, with a whopping 31 points, two felony busts, one hostage rescue, and some highly questionable flirtation with dispatch…” She grinned. “Team Bradford and Jenkins.”

A mix of applause, whistles, and good-natured groans filled the air. Jackson fake-bowed in their direction. Nolan started slow-clapping sarcastically. But Dylan barely heard it. Because beside her, Tim Bradford smiled. Not the usual smirk. Not the cocky, I-told-you-so grin. A real smile. Unfiltered. Honest. Just for a second. And it caught her completely off guard.

“Nice work, Jenkins,” he said, holding his hand up.

Dylan blinked, then returned the high five — sharp and solid. But as their hands dropped, his arm stayed up, and for just a brief moment, he slung it around her shoulders in a loose, casual way. Friendly. Harmless. Except it wasn’t. Because something fluttered in her stomach. Subtle — barely there. But real. And she hated it. Because this was Tim Bradford, for god’s sake. The moody, grumpy, bossy cop who yelled too much during foot chases, pushed too hard in training scenarios, and somehow pissed her off at least once every single day. And yet… Here he was. Arm around her shoulder, laughter in his chest, warmth radiating off him like it had any right to touch her so easily. And there she was. Standing still. Feeling it.

She forced a smirk. “You’re going to be unbearable about this tomorrow.”

Tim’s arm dropped, but his eyes didn’t lose their brightness. “You say that like I wasn’t already.”

She rolled her eyes and turned toward the van. “I need a drink. A cold one.” As she walked off, she didn’t look back. Didn’t have to. Because she could still feel the ghost of his arm over her shoulder. And those butterflies? Still fluttering. Still refusing to be ignored.

The chatter around the burger van slowly dwindled as the night deepened. Most of the squad had started peeling off — heading home, grabbing takeout, or lingering just long enough to brag one last time before calling it a day.

Dylan stood off to the side now, a soda in hand, the condensation dripping lazily down the side of the cup. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, and she was staring out across the dimly lit parking lot like it was saying something only she could hear. She wasn’t even sure why she was still here. But she hadn’t left. And neither had Tim.

He appeared beside her like he always did — quiet, present, infuriatingly observant. One hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding a burger he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there. With her.

Dylan finally glanced sideways. “You waiting to say ‘I told you so’ again?”

Tim shrugged. “Thought you were going to beat me to it.”

She smirked faintly, but didn’t hold it. “You’re lucky I like winning more than I like proving you wrong.”

“I’m not lucky,” he said. “I’m strategic.”

She let out a short laugh and shook her head. Silence settled between them again — but it wasn’t awkward. It was just… quieter. After the rush. After the shouting. After the guns and cuffs and the adrenaline. Now there was only this. Stillness. And maybe… something else.

“You did good today,” Tim said eventually, voice low.

“So did you.”

“I mean it,” he added, eyes on her now. “That call earlier? The hostage situation? You were locked in. You didn’t flinch. I trust you out there.”

Dylan’s chest tightened in a way she didn’t expect. She looked down at her soda.

“That means more than you think,” she said quietly.

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Another beat of quiet. She could feel him looking at her. She didn’t know what she expected to see — maybe smugness, maybe that usual Bradford ego — but when she looked up, his expression had shifted. He looked… almost soft. Unarmoured. Like maybe she wasn’t the only one feeling something strange in the pit of her stomach.

“About earlier,” she said suddenly, breaking eye contact. “When I was cold with you. That was me. Not you.”

Tim frowned slightly. “You don’t owe me an apology.”

“I know.” She met his eyes again. “But I’m giving you one anyway.”

He gave a slight nod — accepting, not dismissive. “Thanks.”

She nodded too, then looked away again, taking a slow sip from her drink.

A moment passed.

Then Tim leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice quieter now. “You sure you’re good?”

Dylan hesitated.

Then: “Yeah. Just… still figuring a few things out.”

“Anything I can do?”

She looked at him then — really looked — and for just a moment, the tension cracked.

“You already are,” she said.

And suddenly, the air between them changed.

Tim looked at her a moment longer. Then — gently, quietly — he nudged her shoulder with his.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Let’s.”

They walked back to their cars in silence. But something followed them. Something new. Something real. And neither of them dared say it yet. But both of them felt it. Louder than any siren.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

She wore her full uniform for the first time since the shooting—crisp blues, her badge catching the light on her chest. Her left arm was no longer in a sling, though she still moved it carefully, the stiff way someone does when their body remembers trauma before their brain does. The bruises had faded, but there were remnants in her posture, the tightness in her eyes, the way she instinctively scanned every room like something might explode.

Still, she looked sharp. Focused.

And she was glad to be back.

Sort of.

Her first stop wasn’t the bullpen, or the break room where Lucy had probably already stashed a welcome-back donut. It was the Watch Commander’s office—where she now stood outside the open door, knocking twice on the frame.

Sergeant Wade Grey looked up from behind his desk, his hands steepled over a manila folder.

“Detective Jenkins,” he said with a nod. “Come in.”

She stepped inside, arms crossed loosely, giving him that standard Dylan smirk that she used to deflect anything remotely emotional. “You called me in here to personally inspect my battle scars?”

Grey didn’t even blink. “No. I called you in here because before I send anyone back out onto my streets, I need confirmation they’re not just physically cleared—but mentally ready.”

Dylan sighed and dropped into the chair opposite his desk. “So, therapy mode today. Fantastic.”

He opened the folder and tapped the paper inside. “You passed your medical clearance. Shoulder’s healing well. Range of motion acceptable. No nerve damage. But none of this tells me what I actually need to know.”

“Which is?” she asked, already bracing.

“That you’re ready to come back and not pretend like getting shot didn’t affect you.”

Dylan scoffed. “Come on, Sarge. I’ve been through worse. This isn’t my first traumatic Tuesday.”

“I’m aware,” Grey said calmly. “I read your London file. The forced entry that went sideways. Your partner who bled out. That time you were held at knifepoint by a domestic suspect and refused to stand down. Your brother.”

Dylan’s smirk faltered. Just slightly.

“This,” Grey continued, “isn’t about what you can survive. You’ve already proven that. Repeatedly. This is about how you survive it. Whether you’re going to let this job eat you from the inside out like it has a thousand others who thought they were invincible.”

She shifted in the chair. “I’m not one of those people.”

“No?” Grey leaned forward, voice low. “You dragged a bleeding officer out of a gunfight while you were bleeding yourself. You didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t even notice—because your adrenaline was pumping so high, and your focus was so external, you ignored your own life being on the line. That doesn’t go away when the stitches come out.”

Dylan clenched her jaw. Looked away for the first time.

Grey studied her a beat longer, then softened—just a touch.

“You’re good, Jenkins. Damn good. But you’re not made of steel. Neither is Bradford.”

At that, her eyes flicked up. Sharp.

“He needs to take it easy too,” Grey said. “You both do. That kind of bond—what happened out there—that’s not just something you walk off. You took a bullet for him. He watched you go down right in front of him. You think either of you came out of that untouched?”

Dylan swallowed.

“No one’s telling you not to be here,” Grey added. “But slow down. Be smart. This job doesn’t reward martyrs—it buries them.”

She was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “You done psychoanalyzing me now, or should I get horizontal and talk about my childhood?”

Grey leaned back, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Just go easy on the hero complex for a few weeks.”

She stood slowly, the sarcasm already returning to her voice like armor. “I’ll try. Can’t promise anything if Tim gets sentimental again, though. Might have to throw myself into traffic.”

Grey smirked. “Welcome back, Jenkins.”

As she left the office, Dylan’s expression was unreadable—wry on the surface, but something quieter underneath.

Maybe Grey was right. Maybe flipping the switch didn’t work like it used to.

But if she was going to do this job right—again—she might need to start learning a different way to survive.

The moment Dylan Jenkins stepped out of Grey’s office, her head was buzzing — but not in the way it usually did before a shift. It wasn’t adrenaline. Not nerves. Just… noise. The kind of internal hum you get when someone touches a nerve you didn’t realise was still raw.

Grey’s words echoed behind her eyes: “This job doesn’t reward martyrs — it buries them.”

She tucked them away, buried deep behind her usual smirk, and headed toward the briefing room, where the rest of the squad was already beginning to filter in. The place was half-full when she slipped in and leaned against the back wall, one arm hanging loosely by her side, the other still stiff from the injury, though she was pretending otherwise.

At the front of the room, Sergeant Grey stood with his usual quiet authority, clipboard in hand. The second she walked in, his eyes met hers. A single nod.

Then, in his no-nonsense tone, he spoke.

“Alright, listen up. We’ve got a priority case from last night. Armed robbery, downtown. Citizens’ Bank on Seventh. Five masked suspects. Got away with over eighty grand in cash.”

A few murmurs rippled across the room.

Grey held up a hand, then motioned toward the aide next to him, who began passing out photocopied stills from CCTV footage. Blurry, grainy images showed figures in tattered, grimy clothes — makeup smeared across their faces, fake blood splashed over ripped shirts.

Zombies.

Dylan squinted at the grainy image as the sheet landed in her hand. “Oh, for f—”

“Yeah,” Grey said, hearing her before she finished. “Halloween came early.”

A chuckle floated from somewhere near the front. Tim Bradford, seated with arms folded across his chest, gave Dylan a look — amused, knowing — but said nothing. She returned it with an eye-roll.

“These five suspects,” Grey continued, “stormed the bank at 2:37 a.m., full ‘undead’ getup, armed with handguns. One fired into the ceiling. No casualties, no injuries, but they cleared the vault in under four minutes and vanished before patrol arrived.”

“Witnesses?” someone asked.

“Only one worth anything,” Grey said. “Night janitor. Said they moved like they’d done it before. Coordinated. Not amateurs.”

Dylan tapped her sheet with one finger. “So we’re looking for a pack of criminal thespians?”

Before Grey could respond, the door at the side of the room opened, and in walked Captain Andersen — composed, elegant, eyes sharp as ever.

The room stiffened slightly. Her presence always commanded attention, not through volume, but precision.

Her gaze scanned the group quickly — and then stopped squarely on Dylan.

“Detective Jenkins,” she said, her voice firm but warm.

Dylan straightened instinctively.

“Glad to see you back on your feet.”

“Ma’am,” Dylan replied with a respectful nod.

“If you need anything,” Andersen continued, walking toward the front of the room, “you come directly to me. Any resources, any support — medical or otherwise. Understood?”

There was a beat of silence. Dylan could feel a few heads turn in her direction. Not pitying — just… watching.

“I appreciate that,” she said, calm and measured. “But I’m good.”

Andersen studied her for half a second longer, then gave a curt nod and turned to the group.

“Regarding the robbery,” she said, taking over from Grey with seamless authority. “Intel suggests the suspects are part of a fringe performance collective — formerly tied to small-time theft and vandalism. They call themselves the ‘Dead Awake’ Crew. Most of their previous run-ins have been harmless. Art school dropouts with a flair for dramatics.”

Someone near the front snorted.

“They’re not a joke anymore,” Andersen said coolly. “They’re armed. Organised. And they’ve just pulled off the cleanest bank robbery we’ve seen this year.”

Tim’s brow furrowed as he glanced at the photo again. “Why now? Why escalate?”

“That’s what you’re going to find out,” Andersen replied. “Grey will coordinate the ground work. Jenkins — I want you plugged in on the criminal psych angle. Dig into their previous group affiliations. Bradford, you’ll partner.”

Dylan blinked. Her eyes shifted sideways — and locked with Tim’s.

He raised an eyebrow.

Of course.

Grey clapped the clipboard shut. “You know your assignments. I want updates by end of shift. Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped. Conversations bubbled. Officers began filing out, some excited by the bizarre case, others rolling their eyes at the thought of chasing down zombie-costumed robbers.

As Dylan folded her copy of the CCTV stills, Tim walked by and smirked at her.

“So. Back on the clock.”

“Back in the frying pan,” she muttered.

“You know, if you wanted attention, you could’ve just worn a cape,” he added, falling in step beside her as they walked toward the exit.

She shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m saving the cape for the press conference. Think it’ll match my bullet scar?”

Tim chuckled.

And just like that — the day began.

But beneath the sarcasm and weirdness of zombie crews, Dylan felt something settle inside her. She was back. Still healing. Still raw.

But back.

And this time, she wasn’t doing it alone.

The afternoon sun cast long streaks of light through the windshield of the patrol car as it cruised slowly down Melrose, weaving through a maze of street vendors, graffiti-tagged alleyways, and the occasional jaywalker with a death wish. It was the kind of shift that felt deceptively calm—no high-speed chases, no shootouts, no chaos. Just simmering tension beneath the surface.

In the front seat, Dylan Jenkins sat slouched with one leg bent against the dash, flipping through case notes for the “Dead Awake” robbery. Her shoulder twinged every now and then, but she ignored it. She wasn’t about to mention it. Not after the looks she’d been getting all day.

Beside her, Tim Bradford drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the radio, gaze scanning the street with practiced calm.

For a while, the only sound was the distant chatter of dispatch and the occasional rustle of paper in Dylan’s lap.

Then Tim cleared his throat.

“You uh… bleeding out again, or just brooding dramatically?”

Dylan’s eyes flicked toward him, unimpressed. “Wow. Subtle.”

He didn’t look at her. “Just asking. You’ve been quiet.”

“Because I’m reading.”

“You hate paperwork.”

“And yet it still makes better company than you.”

Tim smirked, but she could tell he was still watching her—really watching. His eyes drifted toward her shoulder, toward the way she shifted every so often, like the seat wasn’t quite right. She could feel it—his concern tucked beneath sarcasm, like it always was.

“I’m fine, Tim,” she said flatly.

“You sure?”

“Don’t start,” she snapped, sharper than intended. “If one more person asks me if I’m okay like I’m made of glass, I’m going to scream.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say you were made of glass.”

“Didn’t have to.” She dropped the files onto her lap and turned slightly toward him, the fire behind her voice impossible to miss. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t handle it. You think Grey would’ve cleared me if I wasn’t ready? You don’t see me fussing over you, and you got shot too, or did we all just forget that part?”

Tim was quiet.

The tension between them hung in the cab, thick and heavy, until finally—he exhaled.

“Alright,” he said, nodding slowly. “Fair.”

Dylan looked away again, jaw tight. Her fingers drummed against the case file, restlessness creeping in. She hated this part. The hovering. The worry. People thinking they were being kind when really, they were just picking at the scab before it healed.

A beat passed.

Two.

Then, softly—almost too soft to hear over the hum of the engine—Tim said, “Good to have you back.”

Dylan turned her head slowly.

Her expression shifted, just a touch. Still guarded. But something about his tone caught her off guard. It wasn’t a joke. Wasn’t performative. Just honest. A little raw around the edges.

Her lips curled into a slow, smug smile.

“Of course it is,” she muttered, turning back to the window. “Your life’s boring without me.”

Tim let out a short laugh. Quiet. But real.

“I’ll give you that.”

They didn’t say anything more for a while.

Didn’t have to.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, or heavy. It was something else. Something earned.

The kind of silence that lives between two people who’ve been through something together—and come out the other side still on the same page.

Not partners in name only anymore.

Something deeper.

Something real.

The call had come in just after lunch. A Code 44 — entrapment. Unusual location: a bank ATM vestibule. Even more unusual? The trapped subject was not a thief, but a repair technician who’d somehow gotten wedged inside the back of an ATM overnight after crawling in to fix a malfunction.

By the time Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins pulled up in their shop, the sidewalk outside the small neighborhood bank was buzzing with confused onlookers, two twitchy bank managers, and one extremely muffled voice yelling something about “airflow” from within the ATM booth.

“Only in L.A.,” Tim muttered as he slammed the door shut.

Dylan squinted at the glass-walled enclosure just off the main lobby, where the clunky metal ATM sat bolted into the wall like an angry refrigerator. “How the hell does someone get stuck inside an ATM?”

“Apparently he crawled in through the maintenance hatch, the latch jammed, and no one noticed he didn’t leave last night,” Tim replied, reading from the report. “He’s been stuck in there for almost twelve hours. And his oxygen’s running out.”

Dylan blinked. “There’s no air vents?”

“Not proper ones. Machine’s designed for security, not comfort.” Tim turned to the flustered manager. “Fire department?”

“On their way,” the man said, wiping sweat from his temple. “But ETA’s another ten minutes. They’re dealing with a multi-vehicle pileup on the 101.”

Tim glanced back at the ATM, then at the tiny speaker where a garbled voice was shouting something about “suffocating in here!”

“Ten minutes is too long,” he muttered. Then, to Dylan: “Get the breaching kit from the trunk. We’re breaking him out.”

Dylan’s eyebrows shot up. “You want us to hammer down the wall of a bank?”

Tim was already striding toward the shop. “The part of the wall surrounding the ATM, not the safe. Don’t get dramatic.”

“I’m British. We invented dramatic,” she muttered, but followed him.

Moments later, both of them were back in the vestibule, geared up with mini sledgehammers, crowbars, and a tactical pry bar. The bank staff looked uneasy. Tim ignored them.

“Start on that left panel,” he instructed, “right where the power cables meet the base. It’s weakest there.”

Dylan nodded and braced herself, gripping the sledge with her good arm and using the injured one for balance. She swung — once, twice — and felt a sharp jolt of pain sear down her shoulder and into her chest.

The third hit didn’t come.

She stood still, breathing hard, jaw clenched, her body locked in place by the flare of agony. The old bullet wound pulsed beneath her skin, deep and raw despite the healing. She stared at the wall, not moving, her hammer gripped tightly in one hand.

Tim’s voice came from beside her. Calm. Steady.

“You good?”

She didn’t look at him.

“I’ve got it,” she muttered, teeth gritted.

Tim watched her carefully. “You’re compensating. Your grip’s off.”

“I said I’ve got it.”

She lifted the hammer again — but stopped halfway. Her shoulder gave a warning throb, and she knew: one more hit, and she’d be down.

Silence lingered for a moment.

Then, without a word, Tim stepped forward.

He gently took the hammer from her hand. Didn’t meet her eyes. Didn’t mock. Didn’t offer sympathy.

Just got to work.

Swing.

Swing.

Swing.

With practiced rhythm, he drove into the panel where Dylan had started, the metal groaning under each impact. Cracks spread through the drywall and insulation until, finally, a panel gave way with a crunching pop.

A loud gasp came from inside the ATM as fresh air rushed through the opening. “Oh thank God! I thought I was gonna die in here!”

“Hold tight,” Tim called, grabbing the crowbar to widen the gap.

Within two minutes, they’d peeled away enough of the surrounding wall to slide the technician out — drenched in sweat, wide-eyed, and babbling his thanks like he’d just been reborn.

EMS took him from there.

Tim set the tools aside, breathing hard. Dust clung to his sleeves. Sweat beaded on his brow.

He finally turned to Dylan.

She hadn’t moved much. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were fixed on a spot on the wall that no longer existed.

“I was fine,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Tim replied, brushing dust off his vest. “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

She looked at him then. Not angry. Not even annoyed. Just tired.

And grateful, in a way she didn’t say aloud.

Tim didn’t push.

Didn’t press.

They walked back to the shop in silence.

And though she wouldn’t admit it — not even under interrogation — letting him take over just this once didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like partnership.

The kind built one busted ATM at a time.

The drive back from the ATM call had been quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, or even heavy — just tired. They both smelled like drywall dust and sweat, and Dylan’s shoulder still pulsed like it had its own heartbeat. But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

They were almost back on patrol, cruising down a wide East L.A. street, when Tim’s phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen, and the change was instant.

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. His back straightened. His whole body seemed to lock into place — like a building bracing for an earthquake.

Dylan noticed it immediately.

“You good?” she asked, brows furrowing.

He didn’t answer. Just clicked on the Bluetooth and answered with a tight, “Yeah. It’s Bradford.”

A voice crackled through. Too muffled for Dylan to make out the words. But she didn’t need to hear them to understand.

His jaw clenched.

Then: “Which hospital?”

More garbled words.

Tim’s entire demeanor shifted. A flash of something in his eyes — fear, fury, panic. He ended the call with a stiff jab of his finger and floored the accelerator.

The car lurched forward, tires screeching slightly as he cut across two lanes and gunned it through a yellow light turning red.

Dylan gripped the dash. “Jesus — Bradford. What the hell’s going on?”

His voice was clipped, dry. But underneath, it cracked. “Emergency Room. County General.”

Dylan didn’t ask questions. She just buckled her seatbelt and braced.

They pulled up to the emergency bay minutes later, the cruiser barely in park before Tim threw open the door and stormed into the hospital. Dylan followed at a slower pace, more cautious — watching him from behind, watching his shoulders tense with every step.

Inside, the fluorescent lights were brutal, and the waiting room buzzed with distant cries, the rustle of paperwork, and the low wail of someone down the corridor.

Tim went straight to the front desk.

“I’m looking for Isabel Bradford,” he said, voice steady but barely contained. “She was brought in maybe thirty minutes ago. OD.”

The nurse didn’t even blink. “Room 14.”

He didn’t thank her. Just turned on his heel and marched toward the hall.

Dylan followed — a few paces back now, unsure of where she stood in this. But instinct told her not to leave. Not yet.

As Tim reached Room 14, the door opened — and there she was.

Isabel.

She looked even worse than last time. Gaunt. Pale. Her skin had a yellow-grey tint, and her eyes were dull, ringed in dark bruises like smoke. She was wearing hospital scrubs now, thin socks on her feet, arms trembling slightly as she moved.

She froze when she saw Tim.

Her lips pressed together in a bitter line. “Oh. Of course.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He reached for her arm — gently, but firmly — and guided her back into the room, closing the door behind them.

Dylan was left in the hallway, just outside. But the walls were thin. The door wasn’t fully latched. And the moment Tim spoke, she heard it all.

“You OD’d.” Tim’s voice cracked — not with rage, but with heartbreak. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are that someone even found you?”

“I didn’t ask to be found,” Isabel replied, her voice hollow, tired.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he snapped. “You’re trying to disappear, and if you keep doing this — you will.”

There was a long pause. Then he went on, voice rising, emotional.

“Do you know how many dead junkies I bring in every month? Alone. Blue-lipped. Ice cold. No ID. No family. Just another bagged body someone has to zip up while the rest of the world shrugs.”

“Tim—”

“No. You don’t get to cut me off this time.” His voice cracked. “You think I don’t get it? You don’t want to come home. You don’t want help. Fine. I can’t drag you back. But what do you think this is doing to the people who still love you?”

Silence.

“To me?” he added, voice low now. Broken. “You think this doesn’t rip me apart every time I wonder if the next OD call I get is going to be you?”

Another pause.

Then Isabel spoke, flat and cold.

“Save the tough love for someone else.”

Tim’s breath caught.

“I’m not your responsibility anymore,” she went on. “I stopped being your wife the day I left. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I don’t—owe—you?” he echoed, stunned.

She laughed bitterly. “Stop trying to be my white knight, Tim. You couldn’t save me then. You can’t save me now. Just let it go.”

And then the door burst open.

Isabel stormed past Dylan without even a glance, scrubs flapping, hospital socks skidding slightly on the tile.

Tim stood inside the room, staring at nothing. Shoulders heaving.

Dylan didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

She just stood outside the door, quiet — still.

The hallway outside Room 14 still buzzed with fluorescent light and low murmurs, but Dylan didn’t hear any of it.

She was frozen, eyes locked on the corridor where Isabel Bradford had just stormed off, shoulders tense, body vibrating with the sting of what she’d heard behind the door.

Inside that hospital room, a silence had fallen — sharp and echoing.

Then—

BANG.

A crack echoed through the wall, deep and jarring. Dylan flinched.

She didn’t wait.

She pushed open the door to see Tim, standing in the center of the room, fist buried in the drywall, knuckles scraped and red, his entire frame heaving with barely suppressed rage.

The wall had dented around the impact — a jagged, angry wound matching the look in his eyes.

“Tim,” she said quietly, closing the door behind her.

He didn’t turn. Just stared at the wall like he might punch it again.

Her voice was lower this time. Calmer. “You alright?”

He yanked his hand from the hole, shaking out his fingers. The skin over his knuckles was already turning red, the kind of bruising that would bloom purple by morning.

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

Dylan blinked. The sharpness in his voice wasn’t surprising — but it was too sharp, too immediate. It wasn’t defense. It was deflection.

She took a step closer. “Yeah, okay, but if you’re planning on breaking every hospital wall we visit, I’d appreciate a heads up. I’ll bring gloves.”

He turned sharply toward her, jaw clenched. His face was pale with fury and frustration, his eyes rimmed red — but no tears. Tim Bradford didn’t cry. He just imploded quietly.

“I said I’m fine.”

“Sure,” she said coolly. “Which is why your hand is bleeding and your jaw looks like it’s about to snap in half.”

He shook his head, biting down the snarl of emotion bubbling behind his eyes.

“You didn’t need to follow me in here.”

“No,” she replied, crossing her arms, “but I did.”

His eyes met hers then — a flicker of something raw and barely contained.

That was when it hit her.

He was exactly like her.

Stubborn to the bone.

Too proud to admit when something cut too deep.

Too afraid of what would happen if they stopped to feel it all.

And maybe that was why she didn’t back down.

But before she could say anything else, his radio crackled.

Dispatch, crisp and cold:

“7-Adam-19, Units in the area respond.”

Tim grabbed it instantly.

“7-Adam-19 responding. En route.”

Dylan stared. “Seriously? After that?”

He was already heading to the door. “We’re still on duty.”

“Tim—”

“I’m fine, Jenkins.”

He didn’t wait for her. Just walked out, leaving her in the quiet wreckage of a hospital room that had seen too many kinds of pain in one day.

She looked at the hole in the wall. The dust still floating in the air. The smudge of blood on the plaster.

Then she exhaled, grabbed her jacket, and followed him.

Because stubborn or not, he didn’t need to be alone right now.

Even if he didn’t say it — especially if he didn’t.

Echo and Franklin wasn’t exactly the glitziest part of town on a good day — but tonight, it looked like trouble had parked itself and cracked open a few beers.

As Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins pulled up to the curb, they were greeted by the low thrum of engines and the roar of masculine laughter. Chrome flashed under the streetlights. A pack of six bikers, all thick-necked, denim-vested, and clearly drunk, stood outside a rundown bar, smashing bottles against the curb and revving their bikes like they were gunning for a drag race in the middle of the sidewalk.

The Dead Bastards.

Dylan eyed them through the windshield. “Charming.”

Tim didn’t respond right away. He gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, jaw still locked from the hospital. His expression was unreadable — which told Dylan exactly what she needed to know.

“You sure you’re good to do this?” she asked quietly.

He unbuckled his seatbelt. “Yeah.”

She didn’t move.

“Tim,” she said, softer now. “After Isabel—”

“I said I’m fine.”

His voice wasn’t sharp this time — it was flat. Cold. Like he was trying to cut off the feeling before it reached the surface.

Dylan glanced out at the bikers again. One of them was already watching the cruiser, arms crossed, a toothpick hanging from his mouth like a dare.

“This group have a rep?” she asked.

Tim nodded once. “Dead Bastards. Local outlaw motorcycle club. Half of them have records. Guns, fights, DUI, some armed robbery. But not all of them are in yet.”

Dylan raised a brow. “Prospects?”

“Exactly. The way it works,” Tim continued, finally slipping back into his calm, informative rhythm, “is that to earn your patch — full membership — a prospect has to commit a felony. But not just any felony. It has to be done in front of patched members.”

Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “So this isn’t just some drunk guys posturing.”

Tim shook his head once, eyes still on the group. “No. This is an initiation waiting to happen.”

Dylan leaned back in her seat, scanning the cluster of bodies, the barely-contained aggression. One guy — younger, twitchier — kept flexing his fists. He didn’t have a vest. No patch.

She followed the logic quickly. “The unpatched one’s going to swing at us.”

“Probably.”

“Then we should call backup.”

Tim turned to her, expression unreadable. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Dylan gave him a flat look. “That’s not an answer. That’s a reckless one-liner.”

He was already opening the door.

“Bradford.”

He looked back at her. That edge of fire still smoldered beneath the surface, his knuckles bruised from the wall, his heart still bleeding from the hospital.

But his voice was calm when he said, “I’m not letting today spill into this. You cover my six, I’ll cover yours.”

Dylan didn’t believe him. Not fully. But she knew she wasn’t letting him go in alone.

She stepped out of the car.

The bikers turned toward them like wolves scenting blood.

“Evenin’, officers,” one of the patched men called, voice oily. “Come to join the party?”

“Party’s over,” Tim said, approaching with hands raised just far enough to show calm, not submission. “You’re loitering, you’re drunk, and you’re blocking the sidewalk. Get on your bikes and leave.”

The young prospect stepped forward.

Exactly as predicted.

“Or what?” he sneered. “You gonna arrest me for breathing too loud?”

Dylan stepped up beside Tim, her hand hovering near her belt. “No. But the minute you take a swing, I’m going to be the one putting you face-first into the asphalt.”

The biker grinned, stepping closer. “You sound fun. Maybe you cuff me nice and slow.”

Tim’s voice dropped. Low. Dangerous. “You make one move toward her, and you won’t like how I handle it.”

Tension snapped like wire pulled tight.

The moment the prospect stepped forward, chest puffed and nostrils flared, Dylan could feel it.

Tim Bradford wasn’t diffusing the situation.

He was feeding off it.

The tight set of his jaw. The way he squared his stance. The way he looked at the younger man like he wanted him to make the first move.

Then came the words.

“Alright,” Tim said, loud enough for everyone to hear, tone razor-sharp. “Here’s the deal. We fight. If I win, you get cuffed and booked. If you win, you walk. No charges. Just me and you.”

Dylan’s head snapped toward him. “Bradford.” She warned, for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

He ignored her. Eyes locked on the prospect.

The biker’s lips curled. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

It was reckless. Impulsive. So stupidly out of character it chilled Dylan’s blood.

The biker didn’t hesitate. He lunged.

Fists collided with ribs. Boots scraped against gravel. Tim and the prospect slammed into each other with the weight of barely-contained violence, grunting and growling as they swung.

The crowd surged, forming a circle of shouts and jeers. Dylan tried to push through, hand on her radio, “10-10 in progress,” already in her mouth — but something about the look in Tim’s eyes stopped her cold.

This wasn’t just a fight.

This was a man bleeding out emotionally, and trying to stuff it all back inside with his fists.

Tim took a hard jab to the side — right near his healing bullet wound — and staggered. His grunt of pain was sharp, but he kept going, ducking low and driving his shoulder into the biker’s gut, both of them crashing to the ground in a scuffle of limbs and curses.

The prospect landed two more punches — one to Tim’s ribs, another to his jaw — before Tim rolled, mounted him, and slammed his fist down hard enough to split the guy’s eyebrow.

Blood sprayed.

The cheering stopped.

And in the hush that followed, Tim yanked the biker’s arms behind his back and cuffed him, breathing like a warhorse, face flushed with fury and pain.

The silence between Tim and Dylan was deafening as they walked back to the cruiser.

Dylan’s boots stomped hard against the pavement. Tim moved slower, one hand pressed discreetly to his side — trying, and failing, to hide the fact that he’d reopened something beneath the stitches.

They reached the car.

Dylan spun on him.

“What the hell was that?”

Tim said nothing at first. He reached for the door, wincing. Then, without looking at her: “Handled it.”

She stepped in front of him. “That wasn’t handling it. That was picking a fight with a wannabe criminal so you could bleed out your emotions on the sidewalk.”

He looked up then — eyes sharp, defensive. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“No,” she snapped. “It didn’t. It made you reckless. It made you stupid. And it made me watch while you tried to implode because you can’t deal with the fact that Isabel OD’d.”

He stiffened.

“You think that was police work?” she went on, relentless. “That was a fucking therapy session with fists.”

Tim said nothing.

Dylan stepped closer, her voice low now — tighter, furious, but barely trembling. “I’ve seen what this kind of thinking does to good cops. First you chase the adrenaline, then you start believing it’s the only thing that makes you feel anything. You’ll stop calling for backup. You’ll stop thinking about protocol. And one day, someone’s gonna end up dead.”

Still, he didn’t look at her. Just kept his eyes on the cruiser.

So she hit him with the last card.

“If you ever pull something like that again,” she said, voice cold and sure, “I’m telling Grey.”

That got his attention.

He looked at her now — really looked.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

And behind all that righteous anger was something else — fear. Not just for him. But for the version of herself she recognized in him.

Finally, after a long, taut moment, he nodded. A shallow, heavy nod.

“Got it,” he said quietly.

Dylan exhaled and turned away, opening the car door.

“Good.”

And as they sat in the silence of the cruiser, neither of them spoke.

But something had shifted.

Because for the first time, Tim Bradford had been slapped with the truth — not from a superior, or a therapist, or an ex.

But from someone who actually saw him.

And wouldn’t let him fall.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the haze of downtown L.A., casting long shadows across the cracked concrete and flickering neon signs. Tim Bradford pulled the shop into a grim-looking side street just south of Pico — the kind of neighborhood that reeked of hopelessness and long-faded ambition.

Dylan Jenkins sat in the passenger seat, gaze flicking between Tim and the crumbling apartment block they’d parked in front of.

“Where are we?” she asked cautiously.

Tim didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small white box, sealed and labelled in bold: NARCAN – NALOXONE NASAL SPRAY.

Dylan’s heart sank.

“Tim…”

“It’s nothing,” he cut in, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “I’ll be two minutes. Stay in the car.”

“Seriously?” she said, her voice sharp. “You brought me here without telling me? You’re just going to march into a junkie den with a gift bag of Narcan?”

Tim paused, his hand on the door.

“It’s not a gift,” he snapped. “It’s life-saving.”

“And it’s enabling,” Dylan said, matching his tone. “You’re not helping her — you’re just keeping her alive long enough to do it again.”

He turned back toward her, the heat rising in his face. “You don’t get to stand there and judge me. You don’t know how it feels.”

“Don’t I?”

That silenced him.

Dylan opened her door and stepped out, letting it slam behind her. She faced him full-on now, her voice quieter but dead serious.

“You think you’re the only one who’s ever watched someone you love disappear into an addiction? My dad drank himself into a seizure when I was seventeen. I found him. I smelled the blood before I saw it. He didn’t want saving either. But I didn’t go bringing him whiskey just because I wanted to feel close to him.”

Tim’s shoulders rose and fell with shallow breaths. He looked away, jaw tight.

Dylan kept going. “I get it, Bradford. You love her. You feel responsible. And you think if you can just keep her alive a little longer, maybe one day she’ll pull herself out.”

“She might,” he muttered.

“Or she might die, and you’ll have spent the last six months slowly destroying yourself trying to stop it. She left, Tim. She left you. And I am not going to let you throw yourself into her fire and drag me in after you.”

His eyes flashed. “This is my choice. Not yours.”

“No, it’s not,” Dylan snapped. “You’re supposed to be training me. Showing me how American policing works. Not dragging me into some twisted vigilante-style Florence Nightingale routine because you’re too angry at yourself to let go.”

The silence between them was brutal. A slow-building static that hummed against their skin.

Tim looked down at the Narcan box in his hand like it was both a weapon and a lifeline.

Dylan stepped closer, her voice lowering. “You don’t want to see how she’s living. You don’t want to see what she’s let into her life. You’re holding on to a version of Isabel that doesn’t exist anymore.”

She held out her hand.

“Give it to me. I’ll take it up.”

Tim looked at her, torn — the internal battle playing out behind his eyes: love vs logic, grief vs duty, past vs present.

Then, reluctantly, he handed her the box.

Dylan nodded. “I’ll be back in five.”

She turned and walked toward the building, shoulders squared, eyes forward.

And Tim?

He stood frozen beside the cruiser, watching the woman who was supposed to be his trainee step into the kind of mess he’d tried so hard to clean up — and finally realized:

Maybe she was training him too.

The stairwell of the apartment block smelled like damp concrete and stale cigarette smoke. The kind of building where the light flickered overhead, and you kept one hand near your weapon, even when things seemed quiet.

Dylan Jenkins climbed slowly, the Narcan box tucked under one arm, her free hand brushing the railing. She didn’t like being here — not just because of the building or what she might find, but because it wasn’t her mess.

It was Tim’s.

But someone had to clean it up today.

She reached the third floor, found apartment 3B, and knocked.

It took a moment before the door cracked open, chain still attached. Behind it, Isabel peered through with glassy eyes and a hollowed-out face that seemed even thinner than it had a few hours ago.

She blinked. “Oh.”

Dylan held up the box. “Delivery.”

Isabel stared at it, then slowly unlatched the chain and opened the door.

Dylan stepped in — cautious, controlled — and took in the room.

It was… not what she expected.

There were no needles on the floor. No filth. No blaring music or strangers passed out on the couch. In fact, it was tidy. The curtains were drawn, the air stale but not rancid. Still, it had that quiet, sterile kind of sadness that Dylan recognized from her dad’s flat back in London, the way addicts sometimes lived in limbo between pretending to function and slowly dying.

She placed the Narcan box on the counter.

Isabel lingered in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her hoodie swallowed her, sleeves tugged over shaking hands.

“He send you to check on me?” she asked.

“No,” Dylan replied. “He told me to stay in the car. I decided not to.”

Isabel huffed a soft laugh. “Sounds like him.”

There was silence for a moment, thick and pulsing.

Then Dylan said, “You used to be a cop?”

Isabel’s head lifted, eyes narrowing. “He told you that?”

“No. You’ve got old certifications on your fridge. CPR expiry. Defensive tactics flyer. Something told me you didn’t just pick those up for fun.”

Isabel’s posture sagged slightly. “Yeah. I was LAPD. Before everything went to hell.”

“Is that how you met Tim?”

“Academy,” she said, voice dull. “He was the uptight one. I was the wild one. He said it balanced us.”

Dylan nodded slowly. “And now you’re here. Getting Narcan hand-delivered by the next woman stuck cleaning up your mess.” That hit. Isabel flinched. Dylan didn’t soften. “He got shot, you know.”

Isabel’s eyes widened.

“Saving someone. Because that’s what he does. He saves people. But today he almost got himself killed again, and I think part of him would’ve been okay with that if it meant not feeling this anymore.”

Isabel blinked fast, lips parting like she wanted to speak — but no words came.

Dylan stepped closer.

“You’re not just ruining your life. You’re ruining his. And the worst part is — he’ll keep letting you.”

There was a long pause, full of brittle tension.

Then Isabel whispered, barely audible: “Tell him not to come back.”

Dylan stared at her for a beat. Searching for something — maybe regret, maybe fight. But all she saw was emptiness. A hollow shape of someone who used to be something else.

She nodded once. “I will.”

Then she turned and left.

Back at the cruiser, Tim was waiting behind the wheel, one arm resting on the window. He didn’t look at her as she got in.

The silence stretched.

One minute. Two.

Then Dylan said, “She was a cop.”

Tim exhaled sharply, like someone had pulled the air from his lungs.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Met her at the Academy. Thought I was lucky. She was… smart. Sharp. Wild. I thought she was just tired all the time. Out late. I assumed she was having an affair. Never thought it was the drugs.”

He looked out the windshield, eyes distant.

“By the time I figured it out, the hook was already in deep.”

Dylan stared ahead too, resting her arm along the door. “Her place is alright. Clean. Tidy. Doesn’t look like a trap house.”

Tim mumbled, “Thanks.” They didn’t speak again for the rest of the drive.

But the air between them had changed. Less fire. More gravity.

Tim had let her in, even just a little.

And Dylan had seen the truth up close — the thing eating him alive.

And now?

Now, it belonged to both of them.

The sun had long dipped beneath the skyline when they finally returned to the precinct.

The bullpen had thinned out. Radios quieted. The sound of ringing phones had faded into an eerie hum of end-of-shift exhaustion. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed softly — too bright for a room this tired.

Dylan Jenkins slipped away toward the locker room first, her movements sharper than usual, jaw clenched just a little too tight.

It wasn’t until she tugged off her outer shirt — stained from dust, sweat, and the day’s chaos — that she saw it.

Blood.

Her white undershirt was soaked along her shoulder. A fresh bloom of deep red.

“Shit,” she hissed, digging into her locker and grabbing the nearest wad of paper towels she could find. She pressed them over the reopened wound, swearing under her breath, trying to slow her pulse — trying to stop the bleeding.

It had torn. Probably during the scuffle. She’d felt the pull, the ache, but ignored it.

Because of course she did.

She pressed harder, gritting her teeth.

The door creaked behind her.

She didn’t look up — didn’t need to.

Tim Bradford’s voice was quiet. “Dylan?”

She didn’t answer at first, too busy trying to mop up the blood, the tissues already turning crimson.

When she finally turned around, he was already halfway across the room, his expression falling instantly from its usual stoicism to pure concern.

His gaze flicked from her face to her shoulder, where blood was now sliding down her bicep in slow, stubborn rivulets.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“No shit, Detective.”

“You tore it.”

“Mm-hm.”

“You need to sit down.”

“I’m fine—”

“Sit down.”

His voice was firm, not angry — not yet — but threaded with something else.

Guilt.

Tim crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the first aid kit from the wall without waiting for her permission.

She sat on the bench, annoyed, breath shallow. “You don’t have to—”

“You shouldn’t have been in that fight.”

Dylan flinched — not from his touch, but from the truth in his tone. “I didn’t even fight. It must’ve just twinged during the heat of the moment. Maybe I got shoved… I don’t know. I was fine until I wasn’t,” she muttered.

Tim knelt in front of her, opening a sterile pad. “That’s not good enough. You should’ve said something earlier.”

She looked down at him. “And what? Have you tell me to take another week off while you fight your way through every emotionally-charged biker gang in the state?”

He looked up at her, eyes narrowed.

“Touché.”

She smirked, despite herself.

Then winced when he dabbed at the wound. “Ow. Gentle.”

“You’re the one who took the bullet for your T.O.”

“You’re the one who was so dramatic I had to focus on you.” She teased.

He sighed, shaking his head.

But the moment didn’t last long.

The door opened again.

Sergeant Grey walked in, arms crossed, brow raised, surveying the scene with all the practiced disappointment of a father finding his kids elbow-deep in trouble.

“Well,” he said. “Is this the part where I get to say ‘I told you so?’”

Dylan didn’t miss a beat. “If you must.”

Grey walked in slowly, eyes locking on the blood, then drifting to Tim’s face.

He didn’t need to say a word. He knew what kind of day it had been. Knew about Isabel, knew the pressure Tim was under, and now saw his officer bleeding again because neither of them could stop throwing themselves into things they weren’t ready to face.

Grey rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re both a pair of stubborn idiots, you know that?”

“Absolutely,” Dylan said, deadpan.

Tim was still focused on securing the bandage, but his hands slowed slightly.

Grey exhaled. “I was going to give you two separate lectures.”

Dylan arched a brow. “Still planning to?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Grey said. “But I’m thinking we do it over three pints instead of one. I have a feeling it’ll go down smoother.”

Tim looked up, a flicker of gratitude behind his worn-out expression.

“Your treat?” Dylan asked.

Grey smirked. “You wish.”

And for the first time that day, in the still of the locker room with bloodstained gauze and raw emotion still in the air, Tim and Dylan laughed — not because things were okay.

But because for once, it felt like maybe they weren’t carrying it alone.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

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

He continued without missing a beat. “They come in bright-eyed, fresh out the Academy, full of dreams and idealism—and I get to crush it all before lunch. It’s a public service, really.”

It wasn’t malice—at least not entirely. Tim Bradford didn’t hate rookies. He just believed that the real world didn’t have time for coddling. His job was to break them down and see what was left. Some would survive. Most wouldn’t. He was okay with that.

As they stepped into the locker room, Tim’s eyes scanned for his first target. It didn’t take long. Down the row, Jackson West stood at his locker, carefully unpacking his gear like he was setting up a display in a museum. Everything about him screamed new: the freshly pressed uniform, the shiny boots, the nervous little glances at his surroundings.

Tim zeroed in.

“West,” he barked.

Jackson turned, startled but composed. “Yes, sir?”

“You even know how to load your weapon, or should I prep some coloring books for you?”

Jackson straightened, his posture flawless. “Top of my class, sir. Certified and field-ready.”

Tim squinted, waiting for the flinch, the nervous smile, the over-eager stammer. But Jackson met his gaze with surprising confidence.

Tim’s jaw tensed. “Right.”

He gave a slight, dismissive wave and turned away, muttering under his breath. “Goddamn overachievers…”

He barely took two steps before he spotted someone else. A figure crouched further down the locker row, back turned, organizing her gear with quiet efficiency. Long legs in fitted black jeans, hair tied up, a casual shoulder holster slung across her body. She was humming to herself—something British, upbeat, and completely out of place in the grimy LAPD locker room.

Tim didn’t recognize her. That meant she was new. Another rookie.

Perfect.

He strode over, voice loaded with sarcasm.

“You lost, Rookie? Locker room’s not a damn concert.”

The woman stood slowly, not flinching, not rushing. She turned, and Tim’s words caught somewhere in his throat.

She was… unexpected.

Sharp green eyes met his without a hint of hesitation. A faint scar arched near one brow, and her expression was calm, almost amused. She looked him over once—cool and measured—and then spoke in a clipped, clearly British accent that managed to sound both tired and vaguely threatening.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said dryly. “Though if this is how you welcome new officers, I’m starting to understand the dropout rate.”

Tim frowned. “You’re not a rookie?”

“Nope.”

“Then who the hell are you?”

She reached into her locker and slapped her badge onto the shelf. He glanced down. Detective Dylan Jenkins.

“Transferred in last week,” she said, like she was reading his mind. “Ten years in the Met. Homicide. And if you’re planning on trying to scare me off, you’ll have to get in line behind a few armed robbers, five ex-boyfriends, and my mother.”

Tim blinked.

She smirked.

“Nice try, though, tough guy. I’d give it a six out of ten. Maybe you’ll scare someone next time.”

He straightened instinctively, trying to regain ground, but her grin widened slightly—confident, unbothered.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, one brow raised.

“I think you’re funny.”

She slammed her locker shut with one hand and brushed past him without another glance, pausing only to nod politely at the two stunned officers still lingering nearby.

“Morning, lads,” she said smoothly, walking away like she owned the place.

Tim stared after her, momentarily speechless. The two officers exchanged looks behind him, clearly trying not to smile.

“Think you just met your match,” one of them muttered.

Tim didn’t look back. “She’s not gonna last.”

But even as he said it, he knew he was lying. She was going to last—and more than that, she was going to make his life a hell of a lot more complicated.

Ten minutes later, the bullpen was filled with the low buzz of conversation and the occasional scrape of chairs as officers gathered for morning roll call. The precinct’s large briefing room smelled of stale coffee, leather, and ink—familiar and grounding. Officers lined up loosely in rows, some standing with arms folded, others slouched in their chairs, tapping pens or scrolling idly on their phones.

At the front of the room, Sergeant Wade Grey stepped up to the podium with the quiet authority of a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to be respected.

“All right,” he began, voice cutting clean through the chatter. “Settle down.”

The room quieted almost instantly.

Grey scanned the room. “Got some fresh blood today, so let’s play nice. Or at least pretend.”

A few dry chuckles rippled across the room.

He gestured to the side, where three fresh-faced rookies stood against the wall like kids on the first day of school.

“First up: Officer John Nolan. Former construction business owner. Late bloomer, some might say. But don’t underestimate him.”

Nolan gave a polite nod, shifting a little awkwardly under the weight of so many stares. Older than the other two by at least fifteen years, he looked calm but out of place.

“Next: Jackson West. Top marks at the Academy. You may recognize the name—yes, he’s the son of Commander West. But no, he didn’t ask for special treatment. Let’s keep it that way.”

Jackson stood straighter, clearly proud but trying not to show it.

“And finally, Lucy Chen. Smart. Sharp. She’ll be learning fast—because she’ll have to.”

Lucy smiled faintly, the kind of smile that said she wasn’t here to be underestimated.

The room gave a mild smattering of interest—respectful enough, but unsurprised. Rookie intros were routine.

Then Grey turned back toward the wall. “And lastly, we have Detective Dylan Jenkins.”

Every head turned.

She stepped forward, hands casually in the pockets of her fitted jacket, chin tilted up just slightly. Calm, poised, completely unbothered by the full attention of a room filled with seasoned LAPD officers.

“Detective Jenkins joins us from the Metropolitan Police in London,” Grey continued. “Ten years on the job. Homicide. Multiple commendations. She’s not a rookie—but she is new to the way we do things here. Keep that in mind.”

Someone in the back let out a low whistle. Someone else muttered, “Damn,” under their breath.

Tim Bradford, arms crossed, leaned back slightly where he stood in the far corner, jaw tight. She didn’t even glance at him.

Grey’s voice cut back in. “Pairings for today: Chen, you’re with Officer Yates. West, you’re riding with Lopez. Nolan—Bishop’s got you.”

Each of the rookies stepped forward to meet their assigned Training Officers.

Then Grey paused.

“And Jenkins,” he said, “you’ll be partnered with Officer Bradford.”

There was a beat of silence.

Tim’s head snapped toward Grey like he hadn’t heard right. “Excuse me?”

Dylan turned her head, arching a brow at him like it was Christmas morning.

Grey didn’t blink. “You heard me. You’ll be responsible for giving her a crash course in LAPD procedures and American policing. She’s got the experience, but she needs to learn our way of doing things.”

Tim didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just stared at Grey like he might be able to stare him into changing his mind.

It didn’t work.

“Dismissed,” Grey said.

The room burst into motion—officers peeling off, meeting partners, heading to squad cars and desks. Dylan didn’t move straight away. Instead, she waited until they were nearly alone in the room.

Bradford still hadn’t said anything. His arms were crossed tightly now, jaw clenched, like he was holding back a hundred different arguments.

“Something wrong, Officer?” Dylan asked, ever-so-innocent.

He narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t funny.”

She smiled. “Didn’t say it was. But it is poetic.”

Before he could respond, Grey stepped down from the podium and approached the pair.

“Before you throw a tantrum, Bradford, let me be clear,” he said. “This isn’t a punishment. It’s a challenge. Jenkins isn’t some green rookie you can scare into submission. She’s here to learn the system, not the job. She already knows how to handle herself.”

Tim didn’t reply, but the tension in his shoulders said plenty.

Grey turned to Dylan. “You’ll report to Captain Andersen eventually, but for the next few weeks, you’ll shadow Bradford. He knows our protocols better than anyone. Consider this your American immersion course.”

Dylan nodded. “Understood.”

Grey gave Tim a final look—something between a warning and a dare—then walked away.

Tim let out a breath, turning to face her fully.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he said.

She smirked, already walking past him. “I rarely do.”

And just like that, Dylan Jenkins became the first person in a long time to truly throw Tim Bradford off his game.

And she knew it.

The patrol car rumbled steadily through the streets of downtown L.A., sun creeping higher above the skyline, casting long shadows against the cracked pavement. Inside the shop, the silence between Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Tim drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, his eyes scanning the streets like a hawk. He hadn’t said much since they pulled out of the precinct. Neither had she. The only sounds were the low static of the police radio and the occasional blare of traffic outside.

Dylan sat in the passenger seat, back straight, one arm draped over the door. She watched the passing storefronts and unfamiliar intersections with quiet interest, but her expression was unreadable. Stoic, detached. The silence didn’t bother her. She’d worked cases in the Met where whole days went by with only the sound of rain and crime scene tape flapping in the wind.

But she could feel him looking at her now and then. Weighing her.

Eventually, his voice broke the quiet.

“So,” Tim said, eyes still on the road, “why America?”

Dylan didn’t turn her head. “Weather’s nice.”

He glanced at her. “You don’t strike me as the palm trees and beach yoga type.”

She smiled faintly. “Well, I was deciding between here and Arizona, but I thought my accent would be wasted in the desert.”

He huffed a short breath. A noncommittal sound. He didn’t push. Not yet.

The silence returned—for about thirty seconds.

Then Tim suddenly slammed on the brakes.

The tires screeched slightly, the car jolting to a halt. Dylan’s hand instinctively grabbed the dash, her other already reaching for her holster.

“What the—” she started, but Tim cut her off.

“I’ve been shot,” he said, voice strained and loud. “Bleeding out. You need to call for help. Where are we?”

Dylan blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Where are we?” he snapped. “I’m losing blood, Jenkins. Tick tock.”

She stared at him, jaw tightening. It took her half a second too long to orient herself. The street signs were small and high, a layout nothing like the numbered, gridded roads she’d grown up with in London.

She looked left, right, spotted a cross street and muttered it aloud.

Tim leaned back in his seat, dropping the act like it was a coat he was done wearing. “Too slow. Now I’m dead, and it’s your fault.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He checked the mirror and pulled back into traffic without another word.

“You did that fake act just to test me?”

“It’s not fake when it happens for real,” he said coolly. “I’m not here to hold your hand, Jenkins. You need to know the city like the back of your hand. If I go down, or you do, or someone else does, every second counts. You freeze like that on the job, someone ends up in a body bag.”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond immediately. He could feel the tension radiating off her now. Controlled. Contained. But real.

“I’ve done ten years of this job,” she said finally, voice low. “And I didn’t survive it by freezing.”

Tim didn’t look at her. “This isn’t London.”

“No,” she agreed coldly. “It’s a circus where apparently training means getting sucker-punched with imaginary trauma at a red light.”

Tim allowed himself a small smirk. “You’ll thank me later.”

She turned her head to look out the window, biting down the thousand things she wanted to say. She wasn’t rattled. She was pissed. But more than that, she understood what he was doing. He was setting the tone. Drawing a line. Making it clear that she wasn’t above the tests—not in his car.

But if he thought she’d fold under pressure, he had no idea who the hell he was dealing with.

Unbeknownst to Dylan, this was only the beginning. The first of many “Tim Tests” that would come at her hard and fast—each one carefully designed not just to teach, but to challenge. Push. Provoke.

And if Tim Bradford was looking for someone to break, he’d picked the wrong woman.

The tension in the car simmered like a pot on the edge of boiling.

After Dylan’s failure to name their exact location fast enough for Tim’s liking, the silence between them had turned icy, sharp-edged. He drove without speaking. She sat rigid in the passenger seat, jaw clenched, staring dead ahead at the road unspooling in front of them.

Then, without warning, Tim pulled over.

Not a smooth coast to the curb. A firm, deliberate stop. The car idled.

Dylan turned to him, annoyed. “Now what?”

“Out,” Tim said simply.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get out.”

She scoffed, arms folding across her chest. “You’re taking the piss.”

He turned in his seat to face her, eyes cool and unmoved. “You want to learn this city? Walk it. You don’t get to rely on GPS when someone’s bleeding out in your arms and you’ve got ten seconds to call in help. You don’t know where you are? Then get out and start learning.”

She stared at him like she was trying to decide whether to punch him or laugh. Probably both.

“That’s your solution? Kick me out like a bad date?”

Tim didn’t blink. “Walk until you know where you are. Then you can get back in.”

Dylan stared at him for another beat, jaw working. Then, with a sharp exhale, she threw open the door and stepped out. The door slammed behind her like a gunshot.

The moment the door shut, Tim shifted the car into drive and rolled forward. Not far. Just enough to stay next to her. His pace was excruciatingly slow, the cruiser crawling beside her like an overbearing chaperone.

She walked with purpose—long strides, fists clenched, eyes scanning street signs and landmarks. She knew what this was. A test. Another one. She was sick of the games, but damn if she’d let him win.

After about a minute of the awkward, silent crawl, Tim finally spoke again.

“Why did you really move to L.A.?”

She didn’t look at him. “I told you. The weather.”

“No, you didn’t. That was sarcasm.”

A beat passed.

She kept walking, boots hitting the pavement hard.

“I’m not here to play twenty questions,” she muttered.

“Good,” he said, still watching her. “Because I don’t care about the small talk. I care about who I’m riding with. Who’s got my back. And right now, I don’t know a damn thing about you—except that you don’t know where the hell you are.”

She stopped walking. Finally. Turned to face him. Her green eyes were narrowed, fierce.

“You want the truth?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’d be a start.”

She walked over to the passenger door but didn’t get in. She leaned down slightly so they were eye to eye through the open window.

“I moved because I needed a fresh start. Because staying in London meant suffocating in a job that broke my family apart, living on minimum wage, and hoping for the day that some screwed up junkie stabbed me in just the right place to put an end to it all.” Her voice was low now. Controlled, but edged with something darker. Something that had weight behind it.

“Or maybe,” she added, “because I was running from something. Or someone. You don’t need to know the details— and you never will.”

Tim studied her for a moment. He didn’t ask anything else. Didn’t push. Just nodded once.

“Get in.” He said.

She opened the door and slid back into the passenger seat without a word.

For a while, the car was quiet again.

But this time, it wasn’t silence loaded with resentment. It was silence thick with understanding. Not a truce, exactly—but something close.

The engine hummed as they pulled back into traffic.

Tim didn’t look at her when he spoke next, eyes still focused on the road.

“You ever pull that sarcasm crap when someone’s bleeding out next to you again, I’ll make you walk the whole damn district.”

Dylan scoffed, “You know you weren’t actually bleeding out, right? Or are you so caught up in your little tests that—“

Tim glared at her, raising his eyebrows sternly.

Dylan smirked faintly, eyes on the window.

“Noted.” She nodded, dramatically.

The afternoon sun bore down on the city, making the asphalt shimmer and the air inside the patrol car thick with heat. Tim and Dylan had fallen into a more tolerable silence now, the earlier tension dulled but not quite gone. The day had been quiet—too quiet, as Tim would put it.

Then the radio crackled to life, sharp and urgent.

“7-Adam-15, requesting backup! Suspect on foot, heading eastbound on Temple. Male, Hispanic, black hoodie—repeat, on foot. Bishop’s in pursuit. We need units!”

It was Nolan’s voice. Breathless, strained, panicked in a way that made Tim’s eyes sharpen.

Tim flicked the lights on and slammed the car into motion. “7-Adam-19, responding. We’re two blocks out.”

Dylan was already shifting in her seat, focused. The streets blurred past in a rush, sirens slicing through traffic as they closed in.

Moments later, Tim screeched the cruiser to a halt near the edge of a narrow alleyway. Dylan was out of the passenger seat before he’d fully stopped, feet hitting the ground hard.

They heard the shouting before they saw them—Bishop’s sharp commands echoing through the maze of buildings. A dark figure darted across the alley ahead of them, sweat-slick and fast.

“There!” Tim shouted, breaking into a sprint.

But Dylan was already moving.

She surged ahead like a bullet, legs pounding against the pavement, sleek and focused. Her breath was steady. Controlled. She passed Nolan, who was huffing heavily, a few steps behind Bishop, already starting to lag.

Nolan blinked in surprise as she tore past him. “She’s fast,” he muttered—mostly to himself.

Tim was close behind, but even he had to admit: she was impressive.

The suspect cut hard through an alley and bolted into a construction site. Dylan didn’t hesitate. She ducked under scaffolding, vaulted a low barrier, and stayed on him, eyes locked on his back like a predator on prey.

The suspect glanced back—once. A mistake.

He turned to cut left toward a side fence.

Dylan saw the opening.

She didn’t stop to think. She launched.

Her feet left the ground, body horizontal mid-air as she slammed into the suspect’s back with a perfect flying tackle that sent them both crashing to the gravel. Dust exploded around them, the suspect groaning as Dylan pinned him hard to the ground, one arm twisted behind his back before he even knew what hit him.

“LAPD! Stay down!” she barked, already reaching for the cuffs.

Tim skidded to a stop just as she snapped the bracelets around the guy’s wrists and yanked him to his knees.

Behind them, Nolan let out a frustrated grunt.

Tim glanced back and stifled a smirk.

John Nolan was dangling halfway up a chain-link fence, his shirt caught on the metal, one leg awkwardly stuck mid-climb. He looked like a cat who’d second-guessed jumping a wall but couldn’t find the way down.

“Welcome to the arrest.” Tim called out, dry amusement in his voice.

“I… yeah,” Nolan muttered, trying to pry himself loose.

Dylan pulled the suspect to his feet, dusted herself off, and shot Tim a look.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

Tim exhaled, shrugging. “Not bad.”

Dylan raised a brow. “Not bad? That was textbook.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim muttered. “We’ll get you a medal later.”

She grinned, flushed from the chase, hair sticking to her forehead, knuckles scraped—but victorious.

As they led the suspect back toward the cruiser, Nolan finally managed to untangle himself and drop to the ground with a huff, looking sheepish. Bishop arrived moments later, eyeing the cuffed perp and raising a brow at Dylan.

“Remind me to request her next time I’m chasing someone,” she said.

Dylan just shrugged, casual. “Love a good chase. Thrilling.”

Tim tried to act unaffected, but he could feel it: the slow shift in his perception. She wasn’t just surviving the Tim Bradford Trials—she was passing them. With grit, skill, and a smirk that said she wasn’t afraid of him or the job.

Midday sun hung high, casting long shadows over the cracked parking lot where the smell of sizzling onions and chargrilled meat wafted through the warm breeze. The unmistakable buzz of a food truck lunch break had taken over, and for once, the LAPD officers had a moment to breathe.

The burger van—“Benny’s Burgers: Home of the Widowmaker”—was an unassuming, slightly greasy legend among the precinct. A busted neon sign flickered above the window, and the owner, a wiry man with more tattoos than teeth, barked out orders with a cheerful lack of hygiene.

The training officers and their rookies had spilled out around a few weather-worn picnic tables scattered nearby. Drinks sweated in the heat, fries were fought over, and the tension of the morning’s chases and patrols had relaxed into laughter and easy conversation.

At one of the tables, Jackson West, John Nolan, Lucy Chen, and Dylan Jenkins sat together, trays in front of them, legs stretched out under the table.

“So, is it true,” Jackson asked, leaning forward conspiratorially, “that your sirens back home sound like a dying goose?”

Dylan, mid-bite of her burger, chewed thoughtfully before answering with a smirk. “More like a goose having a panic attack. It’s less intimidating, more… confusing. Great way to clear traffic, though—people pull over just to make it stop.”

Lucy laughed, nearly choking on her soda. “God, I love your accent. It makes even horrifying sirens sound interesting.”

“Tell that to the blokes I’ve arrested mid-chase,” Dylan said, raising her brows. “Nothing interesting about getting tackled by someone yelling at you in full Cockney rage.”

“You tackled someone earlier today,” Nolan pointed out, pointing at her with a fry. “That was—honestly? Epic.”

Jackson nodded. “Straight up NFL highlight reel.”

Dylan shrugged, modestly brushing a fry through some ketchup. “He was running. I don’t like runners.”

Lucy grinned. “You and Bradford are kind of perfect for each other, you know.”

Dylan gave her a sharp look. “Don’t say that. I’ll lose my appetite.”

They all laughed. Even Nolan, who was clearly still recovering from getting caught on a fence, chuckled with mock humility. “Okay, but real talk—what’s it actually like working in London?”

Dylan leaned back a bit, tilting her head toward the sky, as if summoning ten years of stories.

“Rainy,” she said at last. “Political. Fast-paced. And rougher than most people think. A lot more paperwork. A lot less guns. You don’t realize how much adrenaline you get from being armed until suddenly you’re not.”

Lucy nodded slowly, fascinated. “Did you always want to be a detective?”

“No,” Dylan replied honestly. “I wanted to be a writer. Or a vet. But then my brother got arrested when I was sixteen, and I realized the only people making a difference were the ones on the inside.”

There was a pause. Not somber, exactly—but heavier.

Lucy reached out and touched her arm lightly. “Well… I’m glad you chose this path. You’re kinda badass.”

Dylan smiled, genuinely. “Thanks, Luce. You’re not so bad yourself.”

At a nearby bench, just far enough away to hear the laughter without being part of it, Tim Bradford, Angela Lopez, and Talia Bishop sat with their own burgers and drinks.

Angela, sipping her iced tea, glanced over at the rookies’ table, eyes landing squarely on Dylan. “So. Your Brit is settling in.”

Tim didn’t look up. “She’s not my Brit.”

Talia smirked. “But she is in your shop. And from what I saw earlier, she’s putting your pride to the test.”

Bradford ripped a bite out of his burger like it had personally offended him. “She’s fast. I’ll give her that.”

Angela raised a brow. “Fast? Tim, she tackled a suspect like she was some kind of athlete.”

“And cuffed him clean,” Talia added. “No hesitation.”

Tim grunted, chewing slower now. He hated admitting it, but the woman was competent. More than competent. She moved like someone who’d been in high-stakes situations for years. Controlled, precise. Even when she was pissed off—which, to be fair, seemed to be a constant state around him—she never lost her focus.

“She’s got instincts,” he muttered, finally conceding. “But she’s also had ten years on the job, so all of this is the bare minimum.”

Angela leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “She’s also bonded with the rookies. Chen’s practically got hearts in her eyes.”

“She’s sharp,” Talia agreed. “A little raw, but sharp. There’s something under all that sarcasm and leather.”

“Trauma,” Tim said flatly. “I can tell.”

Angela looked at him. “You’d know.” She muttered.

He gave her a look. “Funny.”

The three of them sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, watching as Dylan tossed a fry at Lucy and Lucy mock-gasped in betrayal.

Talia leaned back and said, “You’re not gonna break her, Bradford. Not like the others.”

Tim didn’t answer right away. He just kept watching.

“You never know.” he said finally.

“Oh, we know she won’t break.” Angela smirked. “But maybe… she’ll break you.”

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it.

The fluorescent lights in the locker room buzzed softly overhead, casting a sterile glow on the cold metal lockers and tiled floor. Most of the day shift officers had already cleared out, leaving the room still and quiet—an odd contrast to the chaos of the shift that had just ended.

Dylan Jenkins stood in front of her locker, the door open wide, the contents nearly cleared out. She’d changed out of her LAPD uniform and into a fitted black leather jacket, faded jeans, and ankle boots—her usual armor of civvy clothes. Her badge and gun were already locked away, and she was stuffing the last of her belongings into a worn canvas shoulder bag.

Her hair was down now, loose waves tumbling over her shoulders. Without the rigid silhouette of her uniform, she looked less like the no-nonsense detective who’d tackled a suspect to the ground that morning, and more like someone you might mistake for a musician or a freelance journalist. She liked that—kept people guessing.

The locker room door creaked open behind her.

She didn’t turn.

“Either say something or stop hovering,” she said flatly.

There was a pause. Then a familiar voice—Jackson West—chuckled nervously.

“You know, for someone with such a charming accent, you’re kind of scary sometimes.”

Dylan turned slightly, arching a brow as Jackson and Lucy Chen approached. Lucy had changed into a casual hoodie and jeans, hair up in a ponytail, but her expression was bright and familiar. Jackson, still in his Academy-issued sweatshirt, looked a little more subdued.

Dylan tilted her head. “You two stalking me now, or is this some LAPD hazing ritual?”

“Neither,” Lucy said, smiling. “We just wanted to see if you were free tonight.”

Dylan zipped up her bag. “Define ‘free.’”

“We’re all heading out for drinks,” Jackson said. “It’s not your first day, obviously, but it’s ours. Thought we’d celebrate surviving it—and, you know, buy Nolan a beer before he completely spirals.”

Dylan frowned slightly. “Nolan?”

Lucy’s expression softened. “He saw his first death on the job today. Some guy got stabbed to death. He didn’t say much, but… it hit him.”

Dylan let out a quiet breath. She remembered that moment. Everyone did. That first time death wasn’t just a photo on a file, but a body on the floor—still warm, eyes open, no longer human.

She closed her locker door and leaned against it.

“First one’s always the hardest,” she said quietly. “He okay?”

“He’s pretending he is,” Jackson said. “But he’s not. So we figured drinks. Something light. Laugh a little. Remind ourselves we made it through.”

Lucy looked at Dylan, hopeful. “You should come.”

Dylan studied them both for a moment. There was no pity in their expressions—just the openness of people still soft around the edges, still new enough to believe that sharing the weight might make it easier to carry.

She wasn’t used to being invited. Or included.

In London, it had been coffee at her desk. A bottle of something bitter at home. Silence.

But here—this wasn’t about her. It was about Nolan. About the fact that this job didn’t just break you in—it shaped you, with or without your permission.

“Alright,” she said, pushing off the locker. “But I’m not dancing, and I’m not doing karaoke.”

Lucy grinned. “No promises.”

Jackson smiled. “I’m just impressed you said yes.”

Dylan slung her bag over her shoulder. “Don’t make me regret it.”

As they walked out of the locker room together, the laughter between the three of them echoed off the walls—soft, genuine, and new.

And behind them, in the now-empty room, the silence lingered a little less heavily.

The bar wasn’t fancy—half the neon lights outside were broken, and the air inside was thick with cheap beer, over-loud music, and the low murmur of conversations that ranged from laughter to heated pool-table debates.

But it was familiar. Comfortable.

One of those off-duty cop haunts tucked just far enough from the precinct that it didn’t feel like an extension of the job, but close enough that you could still show up in uniform and no one would bat an eye.

Dylan Jenkins sat on a weathered leather booth seat near the back, one arm draped casually along the backrest, a half-empty whiskey sour in her hand. Her jacket was slung over the chair beside her, boots crossed at the ankles under the table. She looked relaxed—but she was always watching.

Across the table, John Nolan nursed a beer quietly, eyes a little distant, his expression thoughtful even when he smiled. Lucy Chen sat beside him, leaning into his space like a sister might, and Jackson West was halfway through telling a story, hands animated and voice rising and falling with dramatic flair.

“And then,” Jackson said, eyes wide, “my FTO walks into the locker room, sees me in full gear, and goes, ‘You look like you’re playing dress-up in your daddy’s clothes.’ In front of everyone!”

Dylan let out a low laugh. “Ouch.”

“I almost turned around and quit on the spot,” Jackson said. “But I’d already paid the dry cleaning bill.”

Even Nolan chuckled at that, shaking his head. “They really don’t hold back.”

Lucy grinned. “The Academy was just… chaos. Remember that time they made us do the obstacle course in full gear during a heatwave?”

“Someone passed out,” Jackson added.

“Two someones,” Lucy corrected. “One of them fell into the tire pit.”

They all laughed again, and even Nolan’s face seemed to lift a little.

Dylan took another sip of her drink, her smirk faint but present. “You lot are soft.”

Lucy leaned in. “Oh yeah? What was it like in London, then? Come on. Tell us a story.”

Jackson nodded eagerly. “A real one. Like, something wild.”

Dylan raised a brow, thoughtful for a moment. Then her eyes gleamed.

“Alright,” she said, voice smooth with that unshakable accent. “You want dark? I’ll give you dark. But don’t blame me if you never look at kebab shops the same way again.”

That got their attention.

“So,” she began, “this one time, I was working surveillance on a guy suspected of trafficking arms through fake food deliveries. Sounds stupid, but it worked—he had a kebab van, right? Parked it all over South London. Every time someone ordered a double lamb with chili sauce, he’d drop off a silenced Glock instead.”

Jackson’s eyes widened.

“Anyway, one night, I’m parked outside in this freezing car, sipping the worst coffee you’ve ever tasted, and I see our guy dragging something heavy out of the van.”

“Drugs?” Lucy guessed.

“Body,” Dylan corrected flatly, like she was discussing the weather. “Wrapped in cling film. Tosses it into a wheelie bin like it’s Tuesday’s leftovers.”

Jackson made a face.

Lucy leaned in, fascinated. “What did you do?”

“I radioed it in. My backup, of course, was ‘stuck in traffic’—which in London means they were three blocks away, couldn’t be arsed to run, and we were understaffed. So I went in alone.”

Nolan blinked. “Alone?”

“Yeah,” Dylan said with a shrug. “Pulled my baton, because guess what? I wasn’t armed back then. He swung a carving knife at me, screamed something about MI6 trying to poison his kebab meat. I took a lamb spit to the face and still cuffed him.”

There was a stunned silence.

Then Lucy burst out laughing. “Oh my god. You’re insane.”

“I was hungry,” Dylan said, completely deadpan. “The real tragedy? The kebab van got impounded before I got my dinner.”

Even Nolan laughed now, his expression lighter than it had been all night.

The tension he’d been carrying all shift—the haunted look in his eyes from the guy who’d been stabbed—seemed to soften around the edges, not gone, but less sharp. Lucy gave him a soft, sideways smile and touched his arm briefly. He returned the gesture, grateful.

At the bar, people noticed Dylan—of course they did.

Men stole second glances. Women raised eyebrows. The way she carried herself was hard to ignore: the sharp jawline, the casual elegance, the effortless cool of someone who didn’t need attention but always got it. With her whiskey glass in hand and that impossibly smooth accent, she looked like a walking contradiction—tough as hell, but disarmingly charming.

And yet—her gaze never wandered. Her attention never left the table. Not for the guy by the bar trying to make eye contact. Not for the waitress who “accidentally” brushed against her.

Her focus was here, with them.

With Lucy, who kept telling stories about rookie training mishaps and snorted when she laughed too hard.

With Jackson, who asked too many questions but meant well.

With Nolan, who had seen something today that changed him—and needed to be around people who understood that.

Dylan sat back slightly in the booth, letting the hum of the bar drift around her. The laughter, the dim lighting, the comfort of shared experience. It had been a long time since she’d felt this—not just included, but accepted.

She’d walked into the LAPD expecting to feel like an outsider. And maybe she still was. But tonight?

Tonight felt like a start.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

They ditched their uniforms and responsibility for the night, swapping in for jeans, leather jackets, and a carefree attitude. The bar was loud, packed, and pulsing with music, and for a few hours, it was easy to forget about the world outside. They leaned into the thrill of the night, letting the drinks flow and the music carry them. Buck kept Riley close, his arm wrapped around her waist as they laughed at jokes that only made sense in their haze, swaying to the beat. Riley’s head buzzed with warmth, feeling lighter than she had in days.

But as the night went on, the laughter turned into louder, sloppier exchanges, and the drinks kept coming, long past the point where either of them should have stopped. At some point, they stumbled out of the bar, clinging to each other for balance, their playful banter tipping into frustration.

“I told you not to order that last round,” Riley slurred, trying to jab a finger into Buck’s chest but missing slightly. “You always have to push it!”

Buck snorted, swaying on his feet. “Yeah? Well, you didn’t have to drink it, did you?”

They bickered under the neon glow of the bar’s sign, their words losing any real edge as they tried to make their way to the side of the parking lot. They were too far gone to remember how to get home, or even where Buck’s truck was parked. That’s when Riley, fumbling with her phone, accidentally called Athena.

Athena Grant-Nash was in the middle of a quiet evening at home when her phone buzzed. Seeing Riley’s name on the screen, she answered immediately, but all she could make out were muddled voices and Riley saying something about being “stuck in a parking lot.” Athena’s eyes narrowed as she pieced together the situation, glancing at Bobby, who sighed knowingly.

“They need a lift,” she said, her voice tinged with exasperation. Bobby got up, already grabbing his jacket, and the two set out to find their wayward firefighters.

When they arrived, Athena and Bobby were greeted by the sight of Buck and Riley leaning against each other, giggling in a way that would’ve been sweet if it weren’t for the obvious fact that they were beyond drunk. Riley had her arm looped around Buck’s neck, playfully ruffling his hair, while Buck tried (and failed) to regain his balance.

Athena folded her arms, her face stern as she called out, “Do you two have any idea what time it is?”

Both Buck and Riley straightened up as much as they could, looking like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Riley tried to muster a smile, but it faltered under Athena’s unimpressed gaze.

“Uh, hey, Athena. Bobby,” Buck said, attempting to sound casual, but the slur in his voice gave him away. “We were just—”

“—Making fools of yourselves in a parking lot?” Athena cut him off sharply. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? You’re lucky you’re not out here with strangers looking to take advantage of two drunk idiots.”

Bobby, while quieter, stepped closer, looking at them with a mixture of concern and disappointment. “I know it’s been a rough week. But drinking yourselves into oblivion doesn’t make it any better,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of understanding but also the sternness of a father figure. “You face enough danger on the job. You don’t need to add to it on your nights off.”

Riley, cheeks flushed from both the alcohol and the embarrassment, ducked her head. Buck rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. They knew he was right. They hadn’t meant to spiral; it just… happened.

Athena shook her head, her expression softening slightly. “You’ve got to take better care of yourselves. You can’t keep pushing until you break. And if you ever need a ride, or just a place to talk, you know you can call us without waiting until you’re this far gone.”

With a sigh, Bobby helped Riley into the backseat of their car while Athena guided Buck around to the other side. The ride home was filled with the low rumble of the engine and the gentle wisdom of Bobby’s words. He reminded them that it was okay to be overwhelmed, that they could lean on their friends—on their family—when things got tough. Athena’s interjections were sharp but caring, reminding them that recklessness didn’t suit them, that they were too important to be so careless.

By the time they reached Buck’s apartment, Riley’s head was resting on Buck’s shoulder, eyes half-closed. Buck mumbled a thank-you as he helped Riley out of the car, his tone full of sincerity.

“Don’t mention it,” Bobby said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just be smarter next time, alright?”

“We will,” Riley promised, her voice small but genuine, and Athena offered a small, approving nod before they drove away.

The next morning, the sun was far too bright, and both Buck and Riley woke with matching groans. The hangovers were brutal, but as they sat together at the kitchen counter, sharing a glass of water and some painkillers, there was a warmth in their hearts that went beyond their misery.

Buck nudged Riley’s shoulder, giving her a lopsided smile. “Guess we really messed up, huh?”

Riley leaned into him, closing her eyes against the pounding in her head. “Yeah. But it was kinda nice to hear that they care, even when we’re idiots.”

Buck wrapped an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’re lucky. Not everyone gets that kind of support.”

Riley nodded, sinking into his embrace as they sat there in the quiet, grateful for the people who had their backs—even when they needed a push in the right direction. And though the week had been rough, and the hangover a reminder of their poor choices, they couldn’t help but feel a little more grounded, knowing that no matter how tough things got, they weren’t facing it alone.

The next morning was a harsh reality check. The sun crept through the blinds of Buck’s apartment, slicing through the darkened room and hitting both Riley and Buck right in their aching heads. They groaned almost in unison, clinging to their pillows like it might shield them from the consequences of their night out.

Riley buried her face deeper into the pillow, muttering something under her breath, while Buck slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed, squinting against the intrusive light. He winced as he moved, every slight shift sending a dull throb through his skull. Riley peeked out from under the pillow, bleary-eyed and groaning, her voice hoarse from the night before.

“Buck, remind me never to drink that much again,” she muttered, clutching the pillow tighter.

Buck chuckled, though it quickly turned into a wince. “Yeah, yeah, right back at you. Think we’ll actually keep that promise this time?”

Before she could answer, there was a knock at the door. Buck dragged himself up, pulling on a shirt, and shuffled over, half expecting it to be a concerned neighbor. But when he opened the door, Bobby and Athena stood there, looking far too awake and far too prepared for the mess inside. Bobby carried a small bag, while Athena held a thermos that steamed with the promise of something warm.

“Thought you two might need some help recovering,” Bobby said, his tone a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you’re awake,” Athena added, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her sharp eyes scanned the scene, taking in the empty glasses and discarded jackets strewn across the floor. Riley gave her a sheepish wave from her spot on the couch, face still buried in the pillow.

“Uh, thanks?” Buck managed, looking between them as Bobby set the bag down on the kitchen counter. The familiar smell of Bobby’s famous hangover cure—homemade broth and fresh rolls—wafted through the space, making both Buck’s and Riley’s stomachs rumble in anticipation.

“You kids need a proper meal in you,” Bobby said, not unkindly. “And maybe a reminder that there are better ways to cope than drinking yourselves under the table.”

Athena smirked slightly, crossing her arms. “We figured it’d be better to bring breakfast than leave you to suffer alone.”

Bobby moved around the kitchen with the ease of someone who had done this many times before, heating the broth and cutting up fruit. He poured water and handed out small, gentle reminders to take it slow, to sip the fluids rather than chug them down. Buck tried to help, but every time he lifted a dish or reached for something, Athena would give him a look that sent him right back to his seat.

“You sit down before you break something,” she instructed, guiding him back to the couch beside Riley. “The last thing you need is to trip over your own feet and end up with a concussion.”

Buck rolled his eyes playfully but followed orders, collapsing back down next to Riley, who reached out to grab his hand. He squeezed it back, offering her a small smile as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

Bobby soon brought over two steaming bowls of broth, setting them down on the coffee table. “Eat up, both of you. It’s got everything you need to feel human again.”

Riley forced herself up, taking the bowl gratefully. “Thanks, Bobby. Really. And… sorry about last night.”

Bobby’s expression softened, but he didn’t let her off the hook completely. “I understand why you wanted to blow off some steam, but you two have to remember that there are better ways to handle stress. You’ve got people who care about you—use us before it gets to this point, alright?”

Riley nodded, a little more subdued, and Buck echoed her sentiment. They sipped at the broth, the warmth helping to ease the ache in their heads and the lingering queasiness in their stomachs. Athena handed them each a glass of water, standing over them like a hawk until they finished every last drop.

“You both scared us last night, you know that?” Athena said after a while, her voice softer than usual. “Seeing you out there, not even able to walk straight—it reminded me how much you go through on the job. But you can’t let those pressures take you down like this. We want you around for the long haul, got it?”

Buck looked up at her, his expression sincere. “We got it, Athena. We’ll do better.”

Riley nodded along, swallowing a bit more of the broth. “We’re lucky to have you both, even when we don’t deserve it.”

Athena’s expression softened, and she ruffled Riley’s hair gently, a rare show of affection. “It’s not about deserving it. It’s about family looking out for each other. Now, finish up that broth, and try to rest. We’ll keep the place quiet.”

For the next couple of hours, Bobby and Athena stayed, cleaning up the apartment, chatting quietly while Buck and Riley dozed off on the couch. The couple clung to each other as they slept, comforted by the presence of their pseudo-parents bustling around, taking care of the mess they’d made—literally and figuratively.

When they woke again in the early afternoon, the apartment was tidied, and a note from Bobby sat on the counter, reminding them to drink more water and call if they needed anything. Riley read it aloud, her voice cracking with emotion, and Buck pulled her close, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

They still felt like a mess, but it was a little easier to manage with Bobby and Athena’s reminders echoing in their minds. As they sat together, sipping yet another glass of water, they both felt a deep gratitude—knowing that even in their lowest moments, they had a family willing to pick them up.

Riley couldn’t resist his enthusiasm, especially when she saw her siblings’ faces light up. Ollie, at 15, tried to act uninterested but couldn’t hide the excitement gleaming in his eyes. Miles, always curious, was already asking a million questions about snowflakes, while Lily, the youngest, kept bouncing on her toes, her nose pressed against the window.

“All right, all right,” Riley relented with a laugh, “let’s do it.”

After bundling everyone up in mismatched scarves, gloves, and hats that Buck had scrounged up, they all tumbled outside into the crisp, cold air. The yard, usually green and sun-drenched, was now a blank canvas of white. Miles scooped up a handful of snow, marveling at its softness, while Lily shrieked with delight as she attempted to catch snowflakes on her tongue.

Buck quickly set to work, teaching them the art of snowman-making. “You gotta start small and then roll it until it’s huge,” he instructed, his breath fogging in the air. Riley watched from a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest, a smile playing on her lips as she took in the scene.

Together, they built a lopsided snowman, complete with sticks for arms and a crooked grin made of rocks that Lily meticulously arranged. Ollie, pretending to be too cool to join in, eventually got into the spirit, helping to balance a floppy hat on the snowman’s head.

“Not bad, not bad,” Buck declared, stepping back to admire their creation. “But there’s one more thing we’ve got to do…”

He leaned down, scooping up a handful of snow and expertly shaping it into a snowball. Before Riley could react, he lobbed it gently at her shoulder, sending a soft puff of snow scattering.

“Oh, it’s on,” Riley replied, her tone playful. She immediately retaliated, aiming a snowball at Buck, which caught him squarely on the chest. That was all the encouragement the kids needed—soon, the air was filled with flying snowballs, everyone ducking and weaving behind trees and snow-covered bushes.

Buck was the most competitive, dodging and throwing snowballs with precision. Lily and Miles teamed up against him, while Riley and Ollie found themselves in a fierce battle. But amidst the chaos, Riley spotted her chance. She snuck up behind Buck, launching herself at him with a triumphant shout. They both tumbled into a snowdrift, sending a flurry of snow into the air as they landed.

Buck looked up at Riley, who was grinning down at him, snowflakes clinging to her hair. “Not fair, Anderson,” he teased, though his voice was filled with affection.

“Who said anything about playing fair?” she shot back, her breath coming out in little puffs.

For a moment, the world felt quiet around them, the laughter of the kids and the gentle hush of the snow creating a bubble of peace. Riley helped Buck to his feet, and they both took a moment to watch as Ollie, Miles, and Lily continued their snowball fight, their joyful shouts echoing through the chilly air.

Eventually, with numb fingers and red noses, everyone trudged back inside, kicking off their snow-covered boots at the door. Buck got to work making hot chocolate, stirring in extra marshmallows for the kids while Riley handed out warm blankets. The living room soon filled with the rich scent of cocoa, mingling with the laughter of the siblings as they recounted their snowball fight.

Buck joined Riley on the couch, handing her a mug before pulling her into his side, his arm draped over her shoulders. They watched as Lily and Miles tried to outdo each other with stories of who threw the best snowball, while Ollie listened with an indulgent smile.

“Thanks for this,” Riley murmured softly, leaning into Buck’s warmth. Her voice was quiet, almost shy, as she watched the easy way he interacted with her siblings.

Buck turned to look at her, his expression gentle. “You don’t have to thank me, Riley. I love seeing them like this… and you too. It’s like—like we’re making new memories, you know?”

She looked up at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his eyes. For a moment, she struggled with the words, but Buck’s gaze was steady, encouraging her to continue. “Yeah,” she admitted finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “It feels like… like we’re building something. A family.”

He squeezed her shoulder, his smile widening. “I like that. A family. It’s got a nice ring to it.”

Riley’s eyes softened, and she rested her head against his shoulder, letting out a content sigh. “Yeah, it really does.”

As the evening continued, the warmth of the fire and the laughter of her siblings filled the room, mingling with the comfort of Buck’s presence beside her. Riley realized that maybe, despite all the chaos, they were finding their way together. And with Buck by her side, she felt like she could handle anything—snow days, siblings, and the new memories they’d build, one moment at a time.

As the evening wound down and the warmth from the fire seeped into the room, Riley’s siblings began to feel the drowsiness that comes with a day full of excitement and cold. Lily, clutching her now-empty mug of hot chocolate, glanced up at Buck, her eyes big and sleepy. She shuffled over to where he sat on the couch, pulling on his sleeve.

“Thank you for today, Buck,” she said softly, her voice small but sincere. “It was… the best day ever.”

Miles nodded enthusiastically, standing beside his sister. “Yeah, thanks, Buck. I never thought we’d ever have a snow day like this. It was… really fun.”

Even Ollie, who had tried to play it cool all day, gave a genuine smile and added, “Seriously, man, it meant a lot. Thanks for making it special.”

Buck’s expression softened as he looked at the three of them. His usual playful demeanor faded into something deeper, something vulnerable. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Instead, he let out a shaky breath and pulled all three of them into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around their small frames.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he managed, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m just—just glad you all had a good time.”

The kids squeezed him back, their little arms wrapped around him. Lily pressed her cheek against his shoulder, while Miles patted him on the back awkwardly, and Ollie clapped him on the shoulder with a quiet but heartfelt, “You’re the best, Buck.”

After a long moment, they pulled away, their eyes drooping with sleep. Riley smiled softly at the scene, her heart swelling with affection for all of them. She gave each of them a quick hug goodnight, her fingers lingering on their cheeks as she made sure they weren’t too cold from their time in the snow.

“Go on up, get changed into something warm,” she said gently, guiding them toward the stairs. “I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

The kids trooped upstairs, their footsteps growing softer as they disappeared down the hallway. Riley turned back to Buck, who was still sitting on the couch, staring down at his hands. She noticed the way he swiped at his eyes, trying to be discreet, but the sheen of tears was unmistakable.

“Hey,” she said softly, moving to sit beside him. She placed a hand on his knee, her thumb rubbing soothing circles through the fabric of his jeans. “Are you okay?”

Buck swallowed hard and nodded, but when he looked up at her, his eyes were wet, a tear slipping down his cheek before he could catch it. He let out a shaky laugh, brushing at his face with the back of his hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Just… I don’t know. That meant a lot to me. Them thanking me like that.”

Riley’s expression softened, and she shifted closer, pressing her shoulder against his. “I think you’ve made a bigger impact on them than you realize, Buck.”

He turned to her, his voice barely above a whisper, raw with emotion. “I never really had a lot of good memories like that growing up, you know? It’s just… It makes me so happy to know I could give them something like this. Something they’ll look back on and smile about.”

She reached up, cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing away a stray tear. “You’re doing more than just giving them memories, Buck. You’re showing them what it’s like to have someone who really cares, someone who makes them feel safe and loved.”

Buck leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a moment as if trying to absorb her words. When he opened them again, there was a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze, but also a warmth that mirrored the firelight flickering nearby. “I just want them to feel… I don’t know, like they matter. Like they’re not alone.”

Riley’s heart ached at the sincerity in his voice. She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple, lingering there as she whispered, “They’re lucky to have you. We’re all lucky to have you.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer, and they sat like that for a while, listening to the crackle of the fire and the muffled laughter of the kids drifting down the stairs as they settled in for the night. The snow outside continued to fall softly, turning the world beyond their window into a peaceful, frozen landscape.

And in that quiet, shared moment, Buck realized that maybe, just maybe, he was finally finding the kind of happiness he had always searched for—a life filled with love, laughter, and the kind of warmth that lingered long after the snow melted away.

The next morning, the firehouse was buzzing with its usual energy—crews getting gear in order, the scent of coffee wafting through the station, and the steady hum of morning chatter. But today, there was an extra spark in Buck’s step as he strode into the common area, a wide grin plastered on his face and his phone clutched in his hand.

Hen, standing by the coffee machine, noticed the spring in his step immediately and raised an eyebrow. “What’s got you so chipper, Buck? Win the lottery?”

“Oh, better than that,” Buck replied, his excitement almost spilling over as he pulled up a photo on his phone. He quickly joined Hen, Eddie, Chimney, and Bobby at the table, practically thrusting his phone into their hands. “Look! We had a snow day yesterday with Riley’s siblings. They’d never seen snow before, so I took a ton of pictures.”

The first photo showed Riley laughing, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold as she helped Miles place a hat on their snowman. Her smile was wide and genuine, and even through the screen, the warmth in her eyes was palpable. The next was a candid shot of Ollie, caught mid-snowball throw, his expression a mixture of concentration and glee. And then there was a photo of Lily, beaming as she clung to Buck’s leg, both of them covered in a fine dusting of snow after their tumble into the snowdrift.

Chimney let out a low whistle as he swiped through the photos. “Man, look at you, playing dad out there. They look like they’re having the time of their lives.”

Hen nudged Buck playfully with her elbow. “And you’re beaming like a proud papa, Buck. I mean, you look totally smitten.”

Buck’s grin grew even wider, if that was possible, as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, yeah, I love those kids. It’s just… it felt good, you know? Seeing them that happy. I wanted them to have a memory like that.”

Eddie, who had been studying the photos with a soft smile, gave Buck a knowing look. “And I bet Riley was pretty happy too, seeing you make her siblings feel like that.”

“She was,” Buck admitted, his voice softer, a hint of something deeper in his tone. “It was nice, just… feeling like we’re all in this together. Like, we’re not just… I don’t know, dating or whatever. It’s like we’re building a life, you know?”

Bobby, who had been listening quietly from the side, placed a hand on Buck’s shoulder, his expression warm. “Sounds like you’re finding something real, Buck. It’s good to see you so happy.”

The sincerity in Bobby’s words made Buck pause for a moment, his throat tightening with emotion he wasn’t quite prepared for. He looked down at the photos again, at the little moments of joy and love they captured, and he felt that familiar warmth spread through his chest. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Hen smiled at him fondly. “I’ve got to say, Buck, it’s adorable seeing you like this. You’ve always had a big heart, but now… you’re like a big, sappy teddy bear.”

Chimney couldn’t resist adding with a teasing grin, “Just don’t go calling yourself ‘Uncle Buck’ yet. We don’t need your head getting any bigger.”

Buck let out a laugh, nudging Chimney back. “Hey, it’s not my fault if I’m just good at this whole ‘family’ thing.”

But the truth was, Buck knew it was more than that. It wasn’t just about being good at looking after Riley’s siblings—it was about how natural it felt to him, like he was finally in a place where he truly belonged. He thought back to the quiet conversation he’d shared with Riley by the fire, the way she had looked at him like he was exactly where he was meant to be, and it filled him with a sense of peace he hadn’t known he was searching for.

As the team continued to tease him, the photos being passed around like a prized possession, Buck realized he didn’t mind one bit. He didn’t mind the ribbing, the jokes, or the way they all seemed to see right through him, because at the heart of it, he was just happy. Happy to have Riley, her siblings, and the little moments that were slowly building into something that felt like a real, messy, beautiful family.

And when Riley walked into the firehouse a few minutes later, catching sight of Buck laughing with their friends, his cheeks still pink from the compliments and the teasing, she couldn’t help but smile to herself. It was a smile that spoke of quiet understanding, of a love that ran deeper than either of them could put into words.

As she approached, Buck turned toward her, his eyes lighting up in a way that made her heart skip. He slipped an arm around her waist without missing a beat, pulling her into the warmth of the group. She glanced at the photos on Hen’s phone, recognizing the snow-filled memories they’d made just a day before, and her smile softened.

“Showing off our snow day, are we?” she teased, glancing up at Buck.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, not caring that the whole team was watching. “What can I say? I’m proud of my family.”

When she told Buck, he was thrilled at the chance to accompany her. He dove into researching British wedding traditions, eager to make a good impression on Riley’s friends and Steve. He wanted to prove himself to Riley’s found family, aware of how important they were to her. Riley found his enthusiasm endearing, even if a bit over the top.

On the day of the wedding, they arrived at a picturesque countryside estate, with lush green lawns and a historic manor house serving as the backdrop. The ceremony was held under a floral arch, with a soft drizzle in true British style. Buck, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, held Riley’s hand as they navigated the pre-wedding mingling. She looked stunning in a flowy dress, and he couldn’t help but admire her, feeling lucky just to be by her side.

Steve, his fiancé, and many of Riley’s friends greeted them warmly. The reception buzzed with excitement, with laughter echoing in the air as everyone shared stories from the past. Buck tried to keep up, nodding and offering enthusiastic responses when Riley’s friends ribbed him with British jokes or brought up regional references. He even attempted to use a few British phrases he’d picked up, but his American accent made them sound comical, and Riley’s friends laughed good-naturedly.

As the reception progressed, it came time for the speeches. Riley gave a heartfelt toast to Steve, her voice brimming with emotion as she spoke of how much he meant to her. Buck, not one to shy away from the spotlight, decided to add his own speech. He spoke sincerely about how grateful he was to be welcomed into Riley’s life and how honored he was to be at the wedding of someone she loved so dearly. But halfway through, he stumbled over a British idiom, turning it into a rather awkward phrase that drew chuckles from the guests. Buck laughed at himself, running a hand through his hair, and quickly wrapped up with a wink toward Riley.

After the speeches, they moved on to the dance floor, which had been set up in the garden beneath a canopy of twinkling lights. Buck tried to follow along with the traditional English dances, stepping on his own feet more than once and muttering playful apologies to Riley, who couldn’t help but laugh. She found his determination charming, even when he was clearly out of his depth.

As the evening went on, Riley and Buck slipped away from the crowd, finding a quieter spot near the edge of the garden, under a trellis wrapped in fairy lights. The music from the dance floor was still audible but softened by the distance. Buck wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Riley leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder as they swayed together under the stars.

“You did great, you know,” she whispered, looking up at him with a smile.

“Great? I tripped over my own words and butchered half the jokes,” he replied with a sheepish grin, but he held her tighter, his thumb tracing small circles on her back.

“Yeah, but you showed up, Buck. And you tried. That means everything to me,” Riley said softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He kissed her in return, lingering in the quiet intimacy of the moment. They stood like that for a while, just holding each other, swaying to their own rhythm. Despite all the nerves and the little hiccups throughout the day, Buck realized that being there with Riley, feeling the warmth of her touch and the soft murmur of her laughter, made every awkward moment worth it.

When they eventually returned to the party, Riley’s friends and Steve’s guests couldn’t help but notice how natural they seemed together. Their chemistry was palpable, from the way Buck’s eyes followed Riley as she moved through the crowd to the gentle touches they exchanged when they thought no one was looking. By the end of the night, it wasn’t just Riley’s friends who were impressed by Buck; Steve himself pulled him aside, giving him an approving clap on the back and welcoming him to their unconventional little family.

As the evening wound down, Riley and Buck left the wedding feeling closer than ever. Buck might have stumbled his way through British customs and traditions, but he had won over the people closest to Riley, and that was all that mattered. And as they walked hand in hand under the moonlit sky, Riley knew she’d found the perfect partner to navigate life’s unpredictable dance with—no matter how many toes might get stepped on along the way.

Later in the evening, after the last song had played and the crowd began to thin, Steve found Buck by the bar, nursing a drink while keeping an eye on Riley, who was laughing with a few old friends. Steve, dressed in a bold, floral-patterned suit with a touch of glitter on his cheeks, sidled up beside Buck. There was a warmth in his smile, the kind that carried both mischief and wisdom.

“You’ve done well, you know,” Steve began, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia as he leaned against the bar. “But I think it’s time you hear a bit more about our Riley, the one before America. The one you might not know.”

Buck turned to face Steve, curiosity piqued. “I’d love that,” he admitted, his expression earnest. It was clear that he wanted to understand every layer of Riley—what had made her into the woman he’d fallen in love with.

Steve took a deep breath, swirling the last of his drink in his glass. “Riley, back then, was a right mix of responsibility and rebellion. Her parents, bless them, weren’t the most… attentive. So, she took it upon herself to look after her siblings. She was barely a teenager, and she was already cooking dinners, helping with homework, and putting the little ones to bed.”

Buck’s face softened at the image, his heart squeezing at the thought of a young Riley shouldering so much. He could imagine her, trying to keep her brothers and sisters in line, doing her best to keep them safe and fed when she should’ve been a kid herself.

“But she wasn’t all ‘little mother,’” Steve continued, a wry smile creeping onto his face. “Oh no. Riley had a streak in her, that one. Sneaking out at night, meeting friends by the river, pulling off these little pranks on the town gossips. She’d dye her hair wild colors one week and then chop it all off the next, just to keep everyone guessing. But every time she got caught—well, she’d flash that smile of hers, and you couldn’t stay mad for long.”

Buck chuckled, imagining Riley with her trademark fire, even as a teenager. “That sounds like her,” he said, his voice filled with affection. “Always trying to take care of everyone else, but still with a bit of a wild side.”

Steve’s expression grew more serious, his gaze lingering on Riley as she talked animatedly with her friends across the room. “You know, Buck, she never really got to have a childhood. She was always worrying about someone else, always thinking of what needed to be done next. Even when she was off pulling her little stunts, you could see it—this weight on her shoulders that no kid should have to carry.”

Buck listened quietly, feeling a lump form in his throat. He’d seen glimpses of that weight in Riley even now—those moments when she went quiet, retreating into herself. He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck, as he turned to Steve with a rare vulnerability in his voice. “Do you think I’m… good for her, Steve? I mean, really good enough? She’s been through so much, and sometimes I feel like I don’t quite measure up to what she deserves.”

Steve turned fully to face Buck, his expression softening. He put a hand on Buck’s shoulder, the gesture carrying the weight of years of wisdom and understanding. “Let me tell you something, Buck,” he said, his tone gentle yet firm. “Riley, she’s always been the strong one, right? But she doesn’t have to be that with you. And that’s not a small thing.”

Buck frowned slightly, still unsure, but Steve continued before he could interrupt. “I’ve seen her with you, the way she looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching. She trusts you, Buck. She trusts you with the parts of herself she’s never shown to anyone. The parts she’s always kept hidden because she thought she had to be strong for everyone else. And that’s because you make her feel safe—safe enough to let down her guard.”