#eric winter

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

A big, warm, comforting arm.

What the actual fuck?

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

Tim Bradford.

Naked.

Correction: you were both naked in the bed.

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

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

Hotel room.

Dim lighting.

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

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

Of all the people.

Tim Bradford.

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

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

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

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

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

Tim stirred again, this time slower, heavier.

You paused mid-button, bracing.

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

Your jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

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

“Nope. Not kidding. Morning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regret? Longing? Curiosity?

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

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

____________

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

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

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

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

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

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

His mouth on yours.

Your nails on his back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can we talk?”

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

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

“Now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely,” he said.

You were so damn naive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

You gave a soft, deliberate knock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, caught.

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

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

“Get under the desk.”

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

“I—what?”

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

A beat passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you’re still standing.”

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

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

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

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

“Good girl,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Knock knock knock.

Your body froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grey’s eyes flicked between the two of you.

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

Then back to your slightly flushed cheeks.

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

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

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

There was a beat of silence. A long one.

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

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

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

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

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

Tim passed it over silently, posture military-straight.

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

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

____________

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

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

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

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

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

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

So he was going to act like nothing happened?

Fine.

Two could play that game.

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

Especially not by you.

Your smirk widened.

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

You took the shot.

Reviewed it once. Twice.

Perfect.

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

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

Then you hit send.

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

It didn’t take long.

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

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

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

Curious, you scrolled down.

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

You blinked, pulse kicking up as your eyes lingered.

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

And hard.

For you.

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

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

Your thumbs moved before your brain could catch up.

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

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

Seconds later, your phone buzzed again.

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

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

Still, you couldn't help yourself.

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

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

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

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

Your phone buzzed once more. Then again.

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

He was FaceTiming you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, Tim."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You love it,” you shot back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Liked you.

Too much.

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

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

____________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But something still didn’t sit right.

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

So who had eyes on Mason then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Figures,” you muttered under your breath.

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

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

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

He didn’t leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, this should be good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You narrowed your eyes.

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

You paused.

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

Maybe he was annoying. Arrogant. Self-righteous.

But maybe… just maybe… he was right.

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

Then, he got down on his knees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____________

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

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

"Counselor."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tim.

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

Your chest tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

And then the air changed.

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

“You said yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know it’s not like that.”

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

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

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

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

You laughed bitterly. “And you do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Didn’t even move.

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

“I don’t want to be nothing to you.”

You froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You felt pathetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You knew it was him.

Of course it was.

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

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

And there he was.

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

You stayed silent.

So did he.

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

“I couldn’t sleep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze dropped for a moment.

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

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

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

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

You blinked, your vision blurring slightly.

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

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

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

Slowly, cautiously, you stepped aside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You exhaled shakily and crossed your arms, hugging yourself.

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

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

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

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

He was quiet. Listening.

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitched.

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

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

“…why can’t we?”

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

Tim took another step forward.

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

Your lips parted slightly, your eyes locked on his.

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

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

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

You didn’t pull away.

You closed the space between you.

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

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

It was slow. Careful. Intentional.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared at him for a moment.

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

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

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

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

Like you mattered.

He didn’t kiss you again, not yet.

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

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

It felt like home.

     “7-Adam-19, armed shoplifter, Radcliffe Complex, 718 Oscar Road. Respond.”

     The dispatcher’s voice filled the silence of the car.

     “7-Adam-19 responding.” Officer  Bradford set down the radio and replaced his hand on the steering wheel.

     “What’s the most important thing to remember when dealing with an armed shoplifter, Boot?” Tim asked you after a moment. 

     “Why did I think that when I was in short-sleeves I would get a break from your Tim Tests?” you muttered.  

     You’d been Bradford’s rookie for seven months now and some days he still treated you like it was your first day on the force. You appreciated him trying to teach you so thoroughly, but did he have to be so Tim all the time?

     “Is that your answer, Boot?” 

     “No, um, I guess it would be that he’s armed. But no, that’s too obvious for you. Ok, what about what they’re stealing? Their physical state? Keeping their hands in sight at all times?”

     Tim sighed, looking bored. “Wrong. It’s—”

     “Suspect on the move, heading east on Apple Boulevard,” came the dispatcher’s update, interrupting your TO’s answer.

     “Looks like we’re headed east,” Tim said, turning sharply in the direction you’d just come from. 

     “Saved by the suspect,” you joked. 

     “Don’t think this is over,” Tim narrowed his eyes at the road. “Lessons don’t stop for crime.”

     “Ok, batman.”

     Tim glared at you.

     “I mean, Sir.”

     After you’d first been assigned to Officer Bradford, you’d been told stories of his ruthless training style. Your first thought was that you needed to impress him from day one.

     Well, technically your first thought was damn, because you’d have to be insane not to notice how objectively attractive he was. But you’d quickly quelled that thought—crushing on your TO was not how you wanted to start your career as an officer. 

     So, impressing him was your second thought. And you had been more than a little terrified of not impressing him. 

     You would be lying if you said that wasn’t how things still were between you two, to a degree—you trying to prove yourself and him making it as difficult as possible. 

     But, at least after several months, you felt like your TO trusted you more. 

     “There!” You pointed to a man running down the street, duffel bag in hand.

     Tim hit the gas, surpassing the suspect, and skidding to a stop in front of him, effectively cutting him off. 

     You both hurried out of the car, weapons drawn on the man who was currently aiming his gun back and forth, between you and Bradford. 

     “Police! Drop your weapon!” Tim shouted at the man. 

     The man hesitated, seeming to be weighing his options—how easily he could take out two cops. 

     “Set the weapon down, nice and easy,” Tim ordered, his own gun still pointed at the suspect.”

     The man, seeming to sense the inevitability of his capture, sighed and set his gun on the ground. 

     “The answer was dialogue, by the way,” Tim addressed you, his eyes still on the suspect. “Dialogue is the most important  thing when dealing with an armed suspect.”

     “Good to know,” you acknowledged, before ordering the man in front of you. “Hands behind your head, interlace your fingers.”

     The man’s gaze shot to you as he obeyed your commands. 

     “Hey, lady cop, you look familiar,” the criminal squinted at you. 

     “You must have me mistaken for someone else,” you said. You’d never seen this man in your life. 

     “I swear—”

     “Hands on the car!” You ordered 

     The man reluctantly did what he was told, placing his palms on the side of the shop. 

      “Wait a minute,” the man sized you up before smirking slowly. “Your Paul Cranston’s girl, ain’t ya?”

     You felt your blood instantly run cold at the name. 

     “You must have me mistaken for someone else,” you said again, robotically, grabbing one of his arms. 

     “No, no I’d recognize that pretty face anywhere,” the criminal whispered. “He told me all about you. Hey, why don’t you let me go and I’ll give you a friendly tip?”

     You responded by twisting his arm behind his back even harder.

     He winced. “So you didn’t hear then? Paul’s out.”

     No. That couldn’t be true. Paul wasn’t supposed to be out for—

     “Boot, you going to cuff him or not?” Tim called impatiently.

     “Right.” You shook off the stupor and began handcuffing the suspect. Your mind was still on that name, however, and your reflexes were slowed.

     Which is how the suspect was able to rip his arm from your grip and shove you to the ground as he tried to make a break for it. 

     Tim tackled him almost immediately, wrestling him into the cuffs that were dangling on one of his wrists where you had started to restrain him, and pushing him towards the shop.

     “Wait, Paul’s got a message for you!” the man hurried out, looking only at you as Tim waked over and shoved him into the backseat. “He said you best watch yourself, because he has connections, and he still hasn’t gotten his revenge. He’s out—and he’s coming for you.”

     “That’s enough, get in the car.” Tim slammed the door shut, and the echo of it rang in your ears as the man’s words played over and over again.

     He’s out, and he’s coming for you. 

     “What the hell was that?” 

     You looked up to Bradford’s questioning—and furious—face. He offered you a hand and you took it, standing up to face him. 

     “Sorry, I—”

     “‘Sorry’ doesn’t stop criminals from escaping,” Tim shouted. “Get your head in the game. You do want to be a cop, don’t you, Boot?”

     “Yes, sir.”

     So much for Tim trusting you. You couldn’t believe you’d almost just let a suspect get away. That had never happened to you before. But, that name—

     Your TO shook his head, walking to the drivers side and opening the door. “You know, I should write you up for that.”

     You noticed his wording. “But you’re not going to?”

     He waited for you to get into the passenger seat before saying, 

     “I didn’t say that. First you’re going to tell me what just happened between you two.”

     You flinched. “It—nothing. It was nothing.”

     “Uh-huh. It didn’t sound like nothing. Who’s Paul Cranston?” 

     You swallowed hard. “He’s just someone I used to know.”

      A million images flashed through your head. Paul’s face looming over you. The flashing lights and sirens. Waking up in the hospital. 

     You shook yourself out of it. You didn’t want to talk about this now. You swore you’d never talk about it again. “Shouldn’t—shouldn’t we get back to the station. Don’t we have to book this guy?”

     Tim sighed, started the car, and re-entered traffic. You breathed a sigh of relief. 

     “Control, this is 7-Adam-19. I need an ID on a Paul Cranston,” Tim spoke into his radio. 

     And so much for not talking about this now.

     “Can you do that without suspicion of a crime?” You asked him.

     “You can when dispatch loves you.” He winked at you. 

     You rolled your eyes at him as the radio began speaking. 

     “Paul Cranston: caucasian male, date of birth 8/4/92, recently released on parole, history of theft and domestic violence.” 

     Tim turned his gaze to you. “How do you know this man, Boot?”

     “It’s—a long story,” you told him. 

     “Well then you better start talking if you want to finish before we reach the station,” Tim commanded, making a left turn.

     “Can’t you just let it go?” You asked him. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

      He’s out, and he’s coming for you. 

     You couldn’t fight the shiver that racked your body. 

      Tim’s eyes flicked to you, before returning back to the road. Suddenly, he slammed on the brakes, shifting the car into park before turning to you. 

     “If this is another one of your ‘I’m dying, where are we’ tests—”

     “Boot, focus,” Tim barked. 

     “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think it’s really any of your concern if—”

     “Of course it’s my concern!” Tim shouted. His expression was so intense, you squirmed under his gaze and you felt your face heat. 

     He looked torn for a moment, before sighing and saying, “It’s my job as your TO to train you to the best of my abilities, and I can’t do that if you’re withholding information that may affect your performance as an officer.”

     “Fine,” you breathed. “It was a long time ago. I was 18, Paul and I met freshman year of college. We started dating and things were fine, good even, for a while.”

     “Until?” Tim prompted.

     “Until he got pissed one night because I caught him coming home really late with a ski mask and a bag full of stolen cash. Cliche, right?”

     You looked to Tim, but his expression was as stony as ever and you continued.

     “Apparently, he’d been stealing since high school and turns out he’d lied to me about working in retail and a whole bunch of other stuff. I threatened to call the police if he didn’t stop and—”

     You took a deep breath, steeling yourself.

You watched the houses and trees and cars pass by as you drove towards the station. 

     “—and he hit me. It didn't stop after that—once he knew he could get away with it. He said if I ever told anyone—about the robberies, the beatings—that he’d kill me. And I let him go on like that for months. I was so scared that if I called anyone, he’d make good on his promise.”

     Tim’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his fingers turning white, but he didn’t speak.

     “But then, one night, it got so bad that I thought he might actually kill me anyway. So I waited until he left the room for a minute and I called 911. He was arrested and—and that’s all I remember before I blacked out. I woke up in the hospital the next morning.”

     You kept your voice even, trying not to let the emotion show through your story. You were just recounting facts. This was almost 10 years ago, and you’d moved on with your life. 

     But reliving it all was hard, even after so much time had passed. 

     “It’s actually why I joined the academy,” you finished. “I wanted to save people, the way the officers that night did for me.”

     You were both silent for a moment. 

     A muscle in Tim’s jaw ticked. “Does the department know?”

     “Yeah,” you sighed. “It’s all part of my file.”

     “And the guy back there?” 

     You shrugged, glancing back at the suspect and lowering your voice. “He must be one of Paul’s partners or goons or—I don’t know. I guess he’s been in contact with him since he was released, if he knows what I look like.”

     The thought made your skin crawl. 

     “I don’t know what came over me,” you kept going. “It’s been years, I just—I didn’t expect to hear about him out of the blue from a criminal on the street, you know? But, I promise it won’t happen again.”

     Tim ignored that. “Do you think it was an empty threat?”

     “I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I sure as hell hope so.”

     Bradford was silent for a long moment, his expression tense.

     The radio crackled to life. “7-Adam-19, we have a 215 in progress near your area, 239 West Armston Street. Respond.” 

     “Negative,” Bradford answered the dispatch call. 

     You stared at him, shocked. “Why aren’t we taking that? We can drop this guy off afterwards.”

     “Yeah, I agree,” the suspect chimed in from the backseat. “I think you should take that first.”

      Tim payed him no attention. “They’ll have someone else over there in minutes. We have more important things to do.”

     “You’re not even going to ask me if I know what a 215 is?” You joked. Tim never passed up an opportunity to quiz you. 

     “What’s a 215, Boot?” 

     “Carjacking.”

     “Correct.” Tim nodded. “And we’re going to have a talk with Sergeant Grey.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

    “Paul Cranston, released on parole from a thirteen year sentence three days ago, currently believed to be residing in the Woodland Hills area.”

     You sat in the briefing room, surrounded by other officers, as Sergeant Grey read out your ex-boyfriend’s file. You stared into Paul’s face on the screen, his mugshot visible from all angles. 

     Bradford stood near the front of the room, leaning against the wall. 

      “The department is aware of Officer (Y/l/n)’s history with Mr. Cranston,” Grey continued. “And will take necessary action should the situation progress.”

      “So, what’s the course of action here?” Tim crossed his arms. 

     “I’m afraid, as of now, there isn’t one,” Grey said. “Since there is no direct proof against Paul Cranston, we’d essentially be taking the word of a petty thief and wasting resources on what most likely was a desperate attempt to escape arrest. The department doesn’t exactly consider it a threat.”

    “Doesn’t consider it a threat?” Tim’s voice was low and dangerous. “How about a charge for threatening an officer?”

    “But Paul didn’t threaten an officer,” you sighed, thinking. “The armed robbery suspect did.”

     “Exactly, Officer (Y/l/n),” Grey agreed. “Basically, our hands are tied.”

     “Then untie them,” Bradford snapped, beginning to pace. “There’s gotta be some technicality we can get him on. Violation of parole, conspiring with a felon, failure to—”

     “That’s enough, Officer Bradford,” The sergeant fixed your TO with a firm look. “I appreciate your concern for (Y/l/n)’s safety, but we’ve done all we can do. And, for now, that’s nothing.”

      Tim’s concern for your safety. That thought had been in the back of your mind since the ride to the station. You couldn’t figure out why Tim was so determined about this. You supposed you were his rookie and was his job to look out for you. It was just, up until now, he hadn’t exactly done anything to make you believe he’d care so much.

     “Failure to take action could be endangering one of our officers,” Tim said, his jaw clenched. “Who’s to say this guy won’t make good on his threat? At least increase security at (Y/l/n)’s residence.”

     “Tim, its fine,” you said, your voice firm. “Let it go.” 

     They were making a big enough deal about this already. It probably was just a case of a criminal trying anything to get free. You doubted Paul even cared about what happened to you anymore. He probably never wanted to see you again—and that was a good thing. 

     But, then, you couldn’t get those words out of your head.

     He’s out and he’s coming for you.

     Bradford turned to you, his chest rising and falling. He looked so…resolved. Like he did when chasing down a suspect or that time when you’d walked in on him in the training rooms.

     Images of Tim shirtless, the muscles in his back tight as he pushed himself harder filled your head and you quickly shook them away. Definitely not the time. 

   “We’ll send a surveillance team to Paul’s location in the morning,” Grey said, turning to address you. “But for now the best thing you can do is to go home, get some sleep, and not let this rattle you. Understood?”

     “Yes, Sergeant.”

     “Good. Because the last thing the L.A.P.D needs is a cop who lets their personal life get in the way of their ability to do their job in any way that’s less than exemplary. I trust that’s not the case?” 

     You glanced to Bradford, certain he was going to mention your mistake with the suspect earlier. 

     “No, Sir,” Tim said instead. “My rookies don’t do ‘less than exemplary’. Don’t worry about (Y/l/n)—she’s proved to me she has what it takes to be an officer.”

     “Glad to hear it. Shift over. Everybody else, back to work,” Sergeant Grey waved everyone away. 

     You walked towards the front of the room, hearing grumbled complaints about midnight shift from the unlucky officers who still had to do patrol as you did so. 

     You stopped in front of your TO. His eyes were on you, his brow drawn in something that looked like concern.

     “Thanks,” you said. You couldn’t believe he’d told Grey all that—it was the most complimentary thing he’d said about you in your whole time riding with him. 

     “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Tim stated, shrugging. “I expect you to live up to any praise I’ve given you.”

     “Yes, sir,” you nodded, almost smiling.

     “Besides, you’re being trained by me. You’d have to be royally screwed up not to become one of the best on the force.”

     “And he’s humble too,” you teased. “But I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

     “Whatever, Boot.” Tim smiled, shaking his head. 

     “Be nonchalant all you want,” you said, feeling brave. “I know you like me.”

     For a brief moment, Tim looked like you’d slapped him. But then, the flash of—whatever that was—was gone and his expression was replaced by one of cold indifference. 

     “In your TO not your friend, (Y/l/n),” he stated. “It’s not about liking you. It’s about training you.”

      You sighed inwardly. Just when you thought you were making ground with Tim, he treated you like you’d just met. “Of course, how could I forget.”

     Tim stayed silent. 

    “Well, I should head out,” you told him, “I’ve got a busy night ahead me. You know, trying not to get killed by my ex and all.”

     You’d meant it as a joke, to make light of the situation that left you feeling more uneasy than you’d care to admit. Tim, however, just shook his head and brushed past you, out of the briefing room. 

     You stood there for a moment, trying to work through what had just happened, before turning around and taking a step in the other direction. Only to find Officers Lopez and Bishop standing in front of you, staring between you and Tim’s retreating figure. 

     “So how’d you do it?” Bishop looked you up and down.

     “Do what?” You asked, confused. 

     “Get Tim wrapped around your finger,” Lopez answered for her, smirking. 

     You felt your eyes widen. “Tim’s not—” 

     “Please,” Lopez put her hands on her hips. “I’ve watched him train dozens of rookies and he’s never stood up for any of them like that. So naturally I figured you’re either blackmailing him or sleeping with him.”

     You blanched, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks as you let what Angela said sink in. You knew she was just teasing you, but the statement caught you off guard. You imagined you and Tim—together. It wasn’t necessarily an unpleasant thought. And then you realized what you were thinking and you chided yourself, hurriedly un-imagining it. 

     “No, that’s not—neither one of those things,” you answered quickly. “Trust me, Tim doesn’t give me any special treatment, if that’s what you’re implying. I actually can’t tell if he hates me half of the time.”

     “We’re not implying anything,” Bishop replied. “Only observing. And he doesn’t hate you.”

     “How can you possibly know that?” You were suddenly insecure. You still held on to a secret dread that you were going to wildly disappoint Tim—that you already had. Sure, there was all the stuff he had just said. But there was also months of him being hard on you and saying that you weren’t friends. 

     “Because I’ve seen him hate plenty of people,” Bishop spoke. “And he definitely didn’t look at them the way he looks at you.”

      The way Tim looked at you? You weren’t aware he looked at you in a way that was different from the way he looked at anyone else at the station.

     “What are you guys trying to say?” You asked them. 

     “I’m saying watch out,” Bishop raised an eyebrow. “Because Tim might like you more than he’s willing to let you—or himself—in on.”

     Could there be any truth to what the two officers were saying? Was it wrong for a small part of you to hope there was?

     “Um, ok,” you said, blinking. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

     “Don’t believe us if you want, it’s your call,” Bishop shrugged, backing up. “But I’m telling you, you mean something to Tim that the rest of us can only guess at.”

     And with that she walked out of the room.

    “Bishop can be intense,” Angela said when the woman was out of earshot. “She’s got that whole ‘anti-cops-dating’ thing going on—but I do think she’s right about this. Tim’s tough, and I’m sure he gives you hell—but it’s not because he doesn’t like you. I actually think it’s quite the opposite. ”

     Was there really something that everyone saw between you and Tim except for you? You still couldn’t even entertain the thought that Tim had feelings for you that were more than TO and rookie. 

     “Well you’ve certainly left me with a lot to think about,” you said finally.

     “Then I’ll let you start thinking—you’re welcome for the peace of mind.” 

     You wouldn’t have used the phrase peace of mind, yourself. Sure, it was nice to know that the officers who had known your TO for years were confident that he didn’t look down on you. But, this conversation also had left your head swimming with conflicting thoughts about Tim that you didn’t feel like dealing with right now.

     “And take care,” Lopez said knowingly. “We have your back if anything happens.”

      With that, your thoughts slammed back to the current situation.

    “Right, that. You—you think something’s going to happen?” You asked, trying to sound casual.

     “I think in this job we have to be prepared for the worst,” she corrected. “But I also think that bastard would have to be pretty stupid to mess with you.”

     She smiled at you and you smiled back. After watching her leave, you followed her path, heading towards the locker rooms.

     You thought about what she had said about you and Tim, about Paul.

     You hoped she was right—you just couldn’t say which you hoped she was more right about.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

     Your thoughts bounced between your conversation with Talia and Angela and the message from your ex as you walked to your car minutes later. 

     When you woke up this morning, you thought the most stressful part of your day would’ve been a police chase or a shootout.  You never would’ve expected it to be my ex-boyfriend is out of jail and could be hunting me down and my training officer might have feelings for me.

     Funny how things could change so fast.

     Suddenly, you heard a bang. You spun around quickly, your heart in your throat. But it was only a car door being slammed shut from across the parking lot. 

     Get a grip, you told yourself. 

     You rounded the corner, running a hand through your hair.

     You stopped. Tim was leaning against the side of your car, arms crossed in front of his chest. He looked you up and down.

     “What are you doing?” You asked. 

     “Driving you home, Boot,” Tim said. “Get in the car.”

     “Tim, you don’t have to—”

     “That wasn’t a question, give me the keys.”

     There was no point in fighting him. Besides, there was a small part of you that didn’t really want to fight him. 

     You tossed him the keys to your car and got in the passenger seat with a sigh.  

     Tim started the engine. 

     “If this is about Paul, this really isn’t necessary,” you said after you’d been driving for several minutes and the silence became too much. “I can handle myself. I am an officer, in case you forgot.”

     “You’re a rookie,” Tim corrected, eyes never leaving the road. “And if the department won’t do anything, then I will.”

     “What—we’re not going to go looking for him, are we?” You asked.

     “Of course not,” Tim scoffed. “I’m not a vigilante, Boot. Where do you live?”

     “Take a left at the light,” you guided. 

     Neither of you talked for the remainder of the drive, save your occasional directions. When you pointed out your apartment building, Tim parked the car and handed you the keys. 

     “Thanks,” you mumbled to him as you got out of the car, grabbing your bag and heading towards the building.

     You heard a door shut behind you and turned to find your TO standing on the sidewalk, an eyebrow raised.

     “You didn’t think I was just going to let you spend the night alone with a target on your head, did you, Boot?” 

     “Tim—”

     “No more protests,” he said firmly. “As your TO, I—”

     “No, I was just going to say that if you were planning on staying here, why couldn’t I have just driven my own car?”

     “I don’t let my rookies drive,” Tim walked past you and to the front door. “Even off-duty.”

     You followed him quickly, getting out your key and letting you both in.

     When you reached your apartment you did a quick scan of the space—it wasn’t exactly like you’d been expecting company, much less your training officer. You cringed at the messiness.

      “How many entrances and exits are there?” Bradford asked. 

     “Um, just the front door. And there’s windows in the kitchen and the bedroom,” you said. 

     You skimmed past everything in the place, looking towards the window in your bedroom. Your eye caught on one of your bras hanging from your bedpost. You quickly ran over and shut the door, blushing and hoping Tim hadn’t noticed.

     “Please, Boot,” Tim made a face. “It’s nothing I haven’t already seen before.”

     “Ok no offense, but I usually don’t let guys see my bra the first time I bring them to my place,” you joked.

     “If that’s an offer, I’m going to have to politely decline.”

     “What—no,” you hurried out, worried your voice sounded wrong. “I just meant—”

    Tim interrupted. “I’m going to do a sweep of the place, make sure everything’s as it should be.”

     “Is that really needed?”

     “I’m not taking any chances.” He left the room and you sunk down onto the couch, letting your bag fall to the floor. 

     Your TO returned a few minutes later. “All clear.”

     “See, everything’s fine,” you said, speaking just as much to yourself as you were to Tim. 

     “Well,” Bradford started, amusement in his eyes. “I wouldn’t say everything is fine. Your storage closet’s a fire hazard.”

     Had Tim Bradford just made a joke?

     “I’ll be sure not to exit through the closet in the events of a fire,” you said sarcastically. “And if you keep insulting my living space, I’m going to be forced to kick you out.”

     “Bold for someone whose career I could end.”

     “You can’t end my career for that,” you shot back. Paused. “Can you?”

     Tim raised his eyebrows.

     “Only one way to find out,” you said enthusiastically, teasing him now. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t let the closet trap you on the way out.

     “Nice try, Boot. But you’re still stuck with me for,” Tim checked his watch. “eight hours.”

     “Nine hours,” you corrected. You had to leave for work in nine hours.

     “You’re right, I should get us drinks,” Tim joked.

     You rolled you eyes and he shot you a look. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge.”

     Tim got up, disappearing into the kitchen.  

     “Is all you own ginger ale, Boot?” He called. 

     “There’s six year old tequila in the cupboard,” you suggested.

     “Ginger ale it is.”

      Tim joined you in the living room again, carrying two bottles. He handed one to you, sitting down on the opposite side of the couch. 

     You noted the careful distance he put between you. 

     “What’s this thing made of, Boot? Plywood?” Tim asked, inspecting the couch.

     You smothered a laugh.

     “Get comfortable. It’s where you’re sleeping,” you answered. 

     “Won’t be necessary. If you’re not awake you’re not aware.”

     “So, what, we’re taking shifts on guard like this is a stakeout?” You asked.

     “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t come here to sleep.”

     “Tim I can’t let you stay up all night while I’m unconscious.” you sighed.

     “You can if it’s an order. Besides, no offense, but rookies are historically less vigilant and have a slower response time…” 

     You tried not to take offense at that. “Right, Eagle Eye.”

     Tim glared at you. 

     “Angela told me.”

     “Of course she did. And at least I didn’t leave valuable evidence on the street to chase after a dog wearing a top hat.”

     “Sparky could’ve been involved in the crime,” you said, indignant. “And that was one time!”

     “One time too many,” Tim mumbled, lifting the bottle to his lips, his eyes sparkling. 

     “Ok, so when you were a rookie you were, what, perfect?” You shot back.

     “Damn straight.” Tim nodded. 

     “You made no mistakes, at all?” You prompted.

     “Well,” Tim took a sip of his drink. “There was one thing.”

     “Aside from the graffiti incident?”

     “That wasn’t a mistake because it wasn’t my fault. I was following direct orders and—you know what, never mind. If you don’t want to hear it—”

     “No, no, I do!” you scooted towards the edge of your seat in anticipation. “And none of that ‘I worked too hard and too efficiently’ crap.”

     “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said sarcastically. “My first week on the job I was put on paperwork duty, which was—”

     “Boring and tedious? I can imagine,” you deadpanned, having been put in charge of paperwork by Tim many times.

     “I was going to say necessary and a valuable skill to have,” Bradford corrected. “But anyways, we had just got done booking a couple suspects and I was working on the reports. A triple homicide and a prostitution case. It was a long day and I was tired and I guess I got sloppy—”

     “You? Sloppy?” You interrupted.

     “Do you want me to tell you this story or not?”

     “Right, sorry. Continue.”

     Tim did. “I’d just finished tagging the evidence for both cases and when I was filling everything out I somehow got the numbers mixed up. Long story short, according to my report, the homicide gun ended up being linked to the prostitution case and the weapon allegedly used in the triple homicide was…a pair of pink, fluffy handcuffs.”

      You couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped you now.

     “Forensics caught it before it was sent to the judge, thank god,” Bradford sighed. “But the next day when I was getting ready for my shift, I was greeted by dozens of similar handcuffs in my locker—apparently Smitty has a guy.”

     “Tell me you kept them,” you begged, pulling your knees up to your chest.

     “Of course not!”

     Tim blinked.

     “Well, not all of them—Isabel made me take a pair home. I found out later that she was the one who orchestrated the whole prank. She used to do stuff like that all the time before she, uh,—”

     “Tim—”

     You’d heard about Bradford’s ex-wife. How she’d become an addict, gotten herself mixed up with bad people. You knew how much it had affected Tim, even if he hadn’t said so. 

     She was in rehab now, getting her life back together. You were glad she was finally getting the help she needed. Still, you knew how much she meant to Tim. How much it had hurt him to move on from her and let her start a new life without him. 

     “I’m fine.” Tim said firmly, clearing his throat. “It’s good to talk about her…before. She’s on the right path now.”

     You stared at the ground in front of you, picking at your fingernails. 

     “Are you still in love with her?” The question was out of your mouth before you could stop it. You didn’t know why you asked—didn’t know why you cared what the answer was. Ten minutes ago you wouldn’t have even dared to ask that question.  

     But he was being so uncharacteristically open and you seemed to be getting along well. You reluctantly brought your eyes up to Tim.

     His eyes had gone wide. He looked like he wanted to leave or yell at you or both, and you immediately regretted it.

     But then his eyes softened and he opened his mouth. “No. I’ll always care about her and she’ll always be someone that I did love. But relationships change—people change.”

     You nodded. “I get it—I mean, I’m kind of rusty on relationships—but I get it. I actually haven’t dated anyone since Paul. I guess it was just hard to trust someone after that. I kind of sabotaged any relationship that had any chance of starting.”

     It was the first time you’d admitted that to anyone. You wouldn’t have pegged Tim as being so easy to talk to. You had almost forgotten about the whole Paul situation before you’d just brought him up. You had been enjoying hanging out with Tim, no matter the circumstances. He was actually pleasant to be around when he wasn’t on the clock. 

     You imagined this happening more often—you and Tim, not just coworkers but friends. Maybe even more. Maybe this was one relationship you didn’t have to end before it started.

     You dared to let yourself think about it. You watched Tim process your words. Saw the emotion clearly written in his face as he looked at you intensely. 

     “Hey, thanks again for not letting me be alone tonight,” you told him, you’re voice soft. 

     “Don’t take it personally, Boot,” he said. “My house is being repainted and even your place beats breathing in paint fumes all night.”

     “I’m honored,” you laughed, rolling your eyes. “But you have to admit this has been fun—hanging out.”

     Your little impromptu sleepover. You smiled.

     Tim, however, looked like a switch had been flipped inside of him. You watched as he clenched his jaw, leaning almost imperceptibly away from you 

     “Listen, Boot—”

     He was cut off by the sound of breaking glass and a loud thumping sound. 

     You both shot up off the couch, abandoning your drinks. Tim’s hand went to his gun. You did the same. 

     Tim turned to you. “Stay here.”

     “Like hell,” you shot back, following him as he started to do a sweep of the main room.

     If that sound was someone—Paul—breaking in, you weren’t going to sit here and let Bradford fight your battles for you. 

     He signaled to let you know he was moving to the kitchen. You nodded, following. 

     “Clear,” he muttered, and moved on towards the bathroom. You were right behind him when you heard another noise, like the muffled sound of scraping of furniture, and you spun around.

     The bedroom. It was the only room in that direction that you hadn’t checked yet. 

     You glanced to Tim, but he hadn’t heard it. He was a few feet ahead of you, just now entering the bathroom. 

     You slowly stepped away from him and made your way across the apartment, down the hall and over to the closed bedroom door.

     Holding your weapon in one hand, you opened the door with the other. But, you barely had time to see what was on the other side before you were grabbed and a cloth was shoved into your mouth. 

     Your gun was ripped from your hand, and you were pushed hard onto the ground. Your wrist burned where you landed on shards of glass from the broken window

     Something smacked into the back of your head and you were dragged and thrown onto the bed on the corner. You heard the door shut. 

     Squinting up into the light, rubbing your throbbing head, your heart dropped as you saw who was in front of you. 

     “Did you miss me?” Paul sneered, spinning your gun in his hand. 

     You froze. Everything crashed into you at once. The events of the last time you saw your ex-boyfriend sped through your mind. Suddenly, you were scared and 18 again, at the mercy of this man. 

     “I guess you got my man’s message,” Paul continued. “Because you don’t exactly look shocked to see me. Scared, of course, but not shocked.”

     Coming back to yourself, you scrambled up onto your knees, ready to knock him out.

     Paul shook his head, laughing. “No, no. If you move even an inch I’ll shoot you right in the forehead.”

     You sat back down, your heart thumping in your chest as you scanned the room for a way out. Some way to get the upper hand on him. You had been trained for this.

     “Listen to me,” he continued, his hand coming to the gag in your mouth. You flinched away from him. “I know there’s someone in here with you. If you try to scream to alert them, I will also shoot you.  I’d like to play with you first before I put a bullet in your brain but, hey, I’m not picky. Is that clear?”

     You nodded, trying to measure how fast you could knock the weapon out of his hand before he could take a shot at you. Paul took the cloth out of you mouth.

     You gasped in air. “Backup’s going to be in here any second and then you’re going back to prison.”

     Tim would notice you were gone. He had to. 

     “Oh, I don’t think so,” Paul smiled. “I’ll be long gone and you’ll be long dead before that happens.”

     You glanced towards the door. What was taking him so long?

     Suddenly, Paul reached forwards and gripped your face in his hand. “Just as beautiful as I remember. It was such a shame things had to end with us as they did. How did that happen again? Oh, that’s right. You betrayed me.”

     “And that was the best decision I ever made,” you spat. 

     Paul backed up, shaking his head. “You’ve gotten feistier, baby. It’ll make this so much more fun for me.”

     He stepped back towards you, his face inches from yours, sneering. “This’ll be just like old times.”

     Bam! The door to your bedroom busted open. Bradford rushed in, taking in the situation. You breathed a sigh of relief.

     “Get down on the ground!” Tim growled.

     Paul froze for only a second, fear flashing across his face, but it was enough. You lunged, wrestling the gun out of his hands, your wrist protesting. 

     You trained it on him. Paul was surrounded.

     “You have five seconds to get on the ground before I shoot you,” Tim bit out, his expression murderous.

     “Come on, baby, you’re not going to let Officer Buzzkill treat me like that, are you?” Paul appealed to you. 

     You leveled your gaze on him, ignoring his words. “You heard him. Get on the ground.”

     Paul slowly knelt, never taking his eyes off of you. Tim charged him, pulling out handcuffs and locking them around his wrists. 

    You took a moment to be amused—of course Tim had off-duty cuffs. 

    “So this ends the way it starts, huh?” Paul shook his head. “You getting me locked up?”

     “Just like old times,” you echoed his earlier statement. You stayed stoic, putting your hands on your hips to hide the way they shook.

    Anger sparked in Paul’s eyes before he took on a smug expression. “You’re right. You’re the same girl you were when I met you. You haven’t changed a bit.”

     “Don’t listen to him, Boot,” Tim warned hauling the man up off the ground. 

     “You know I’m right,” Paul’s manic eyes bore into yours. He was enjoying every moment of this, laughter in his tone. It took all that was in you to keep your expression blank, unaffected. “You’ll always be that person I knew—the person who loved me. Because you did—love me. You could’ve walked away. But you didn’t. You just took it all like the victim you are. You pathetic bitch—”

      He was cut off abruptly as Tim slammed him face-first against the wall. Paul cried out.

     “That’s enough!” Tim shouted. “If you ever threaten—no, if you even look at (Y/l/n) again, I will hunt you down and personally remove every external limb from your body, do you understand me? (Y/n) is a million times the person you will ever be and you don’t get to make her feel small. If I didn’t think sitting in a cell for the rest of your life was a worse fate, I’d kill you right now—screw the department.”

     Your ears were ringing, your head dizzy as you tried to ground yourself. Your voice came out tiny. “Tim, stop.”

     Bradford turned to you, almost as if he had forgotten you were in the room. He was breathing hard, his fists clenched around the man in custody. 

     “And she’s not a victim,” Tim whispered, turning back to Paul, his voice right by his ear. “She’s a survivor.”

     With that, he shoved Paul back to the ground and moved over to you, his eyes roaming over your face. Your body. He took the gun out of your hands, setting it on the desk. Then, he gripped your injured wrist and you winced as he inspected it.

     “Probably hurts like hell, but you won’t need stitches. Any other injuries?”

     “Um, he hit me in the back of the head,” you felt your scalp, a lump already forming.

     Tim’s hands moved to your hair, his touch gentle, his breath on your cheek as he leaned to get a better look.

     Your own breath caught, your heart racing at the intimacy of your position. 

     “What’s the damage?” You almost whispered.

     Tim’s eyes met yours, the heat of his stare spreading through your body. “You’ll have a nasty bruise, but there’s no external bleeding.”

     Tim stepped back, and you found yourself wishing he hadn’t.

     “Are you—are you ok, Boot?” He asked carefully. 

     How did you even answer that question? You were still in shock, unable to process what had just happened. 

     “I will be,” you settled on, breathing in slowly. Exhaling.

      Tim looked like he wanted to say more but he clenched his jaw, glancing in the direction of Paul, who had been uncharacteristically silent. Maybe he had finally accepted his defeat. 

     “I’m going to call for back up, you go clean that up,” Tim gestured to the blood covering your wrist where you had landed in the broken glass. “You need help?”

     “No, I got it,” You nodded, walking towards the bathroom as you heard Tim make the call.

     “911, what’s your emergency?”

     “This is off-duty officer Tim Bradford, badge 34831. I need a unit to my location for a 126. Suspect in custody. Code 4.”

      Tim’s voice faded as you made your way down the hall, shutting the bathroom door after you to access the medicine cabinet behind it.

     You took out the necessary supplies and began cleaning the wound. You stopped in front of the sink, letting your burning eyes close for a moment, massaging your temples. 

     Now that you were alone, you let yourself collapse, bracing your hands against the counter 

     Images flooded your senses. 

     The gag. Paul hitting you from behind. You, young and frightened, huddled on the ground. That gleam in his eyes.

     Your eyes snapped open, your breath coming out fast.

     He’s in custody. You told yourself. He can’t hurt you anymore. 

     You looked at your reflection in the mirror staring wearily back at you, your hands still shaking as you brushed your hair back from your face. Was it hot in here or was it just you?

      Turning your attention back to your wrist, you took a deep breath and continued to dab at the wound.

      You reached for the bandages on the counter. A sheen of sweat broke out on your forehead as you wrapped your arm. 

      You pictured Paul’s grip on you. His words rang in your ears. 

     You’re the same girl you were when I met you. You haven’t changed a bit.

     The room tilted. You swayed on your feet so you sunk down to the ground, leaning your head against the cabinet, the cool wood pressing against your head. 

     You tried to slow your erratic breathing but you couldn’t. You couldn’t—

     The sound of footsteps and voices carried through the door. You were vaguely aware that it was probably the backup here to take Paul away.

     You closed your eyes, your throat tight, you pulse thundering in your ears.

     I’m ok, you tried to tell yourself. I’m ok. I’m ok.

     You were unaware how long you sat like this. You had no concept of time. Your thoughts were wild, images flashing in and out, unable to form conscious ideas. Every breath sending a sharp pain through your body. 

     “Boot?”

     The muffled voice was closer than the others had been. 

     “Boot?” The voice was louder now. You registered Tim at the door. He knocked once. Twice. 

     “Boot, I’m coming in,” he shouted, his voice laced with worry. The door was shoved open. 

     “Dammit,” he cursed, seeing your state. You felt him getting closer to you, but you didn’t look up as he knelt by you, his concerned expression taking in yours.

     “Hey, look at me,” Tim coaxed. “(Y/l/n), breathe.”

     He seemed miles and miles away. There was a pause.

     “Hey, Boot, I got another test for you,” he spoke quickly, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. “I want you to tell me the most annoying person we work with.”

     “What?” You rasped, barely hearing him. 

    “Bishop’s an easy target,” he said. “And Lopez is a slob, so you can’t go wrong there. West’s got the whole daddy issues thing. Don’t even get me started on Nolan—”

     You swallowed hard, your mouth feeling dry.

     “And then there’s me. I mean, I’m annoying right?”

     You breathed a shaky laugh, opening your eyes slowly. 

     Tim smiled. “Oh so you agree? It’s ok, Boot, you can say me. Go ahead, I can take it.”

     When you didn’t say anything, Tim kept talking. “Personally I’d go for Detective Coleman. The man makes double what I do and I’m convinced he doesn’t own a decent looking tie.”

     “L-like the—the green one from last week,” you managed, trying to slow your breathing.

     “Leprechauns would call it tacky,” Tim agreed. “Now, since we’ve discussed this from all angles I’m going to need you to choose wisely. Because this is going to go on your evaluation for today.”

     You gulped. “Are—are you going to get me fired if I say you?”

     Tim let out a quiet, relieved laugh. “I knew it. Guess who’s going back to long-sleeves on Monday?”

     “In this heat wave? You—you wouldn’t dare,” you joked, sniffing.

     “I don’t know, I am the most annoying person you work with—sounds like something I might do.”

     You laughed again, this time the sound coming out less strained. You focused on taking deep breaths, feeling your heart rate return to normal. 

     “There you go.” Tim stood up, offering his hand to you for the second time that day. You gripped his arm as he pulled you up onto shaky legs.

     “Thanks,” you mumbled, embarrassed to have had your TO see you like this now that your head was clearer. 

     “For what, doing my job?”

     You smiled weakly at him, running a hand along your forehead. “Sorry for um—”  

     “Having a normal reaction to a highly emotional situation? Don’t apologize for being human,” Tim said firmly, his forehead creased.

     “So, he’s gone?” You’re voice came out small.

     Tim’s expression softened. “He’s gone.”

     You nodded again, looking at the floor.  Tim sighed, reaching an arm out. “Come here.”

You took a step towards him and then you were in his arms, his embrace strengthening you as he rubbed your back. You stood there like that, not wanting this to end. Not wanting to put distance between you again. Finally, he pulled back and looked down at you, his gaze weighted, before taking a few steps towards the door. You looked over Tim’s shoulder.

     “Hey, (Y/n), look at me.” Tim said. You brought your gaze up to meet his. “He is never going to hurt you again, ok? I’ll make sure of that.”

      You let your eyes fall closed, feeling ashamed that you had been so affected. That Tim had to handle all of this for you. “I know. And I’ll understand if after…all this, you don’t see me fit to—to be a police officer anymore.”

     Tim’s eyes hardened, his voice hardening with them. “With all do respect, Boot, that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said. I meant every word of what I said back there—you’re a survivor. All I saw tonight is that you are a brave and intelligent woman who just so happens to have a scumbag of an ex-boyfriend. Don’t let it define you because then he wins. You’re a great cop, (Y/l/n). It’s rookies like you who make the force as strong as it is.”

     You listened to Tim speak. He sounded so…passionate. Bishop’s words came back to you.

     Tim might like you more than he’s willing to let you—or himself—in on.

     You desperately wanted that to be true, now more than ever. He’d been so kind to you in this past hour—staying with you, rescuing you, reassuring you, bringing you back from whatever dark place you had just been in. 

     And then this. Talking about you like he…like he really cared about you. And maybe it was just because he felt like as your training officer he had to protect you. But in the moment, it felt like maybe it could be more than that. 

    “So what I’m hearing is, I’m getting a promotion?” You teased finally, brushing your hair back from your damp face, breaking the silence. 

     Bradford put up a hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, you still have a lot to learn from me.”

     You sighed. This was normal, this was comfortable. How you and Tim always acted with each other. You were both relieved and disappointed at the change back into familiar territory. 

     You ran a hand through your hair, stifling a yawn. Saying today had been a long day would’ve been the understatement of the century.

     “Now come on,” Tim flicked his head in the direction of the door. “It’s way past my bedtime.”

     “Let me guess, nine p.m. sharp every night?” You teased.

     “That’s not true.”

     You raised an eyebrow at him.

     “Nine-thirty,” he admitted. 

     You giggled, following Tim out of the bathroom and into the hallway which led to the living room.

     You glanced at your bedroom as you passed it, trying not to think about what had happened in there. It was over now, you told yourself. 

     “Since my room is kind of a crime scene, I guess we’re both crashing out here,” you sighed, gesturing to the couch. 

      Silence filled the room and you immediately realized your mistake, cheeks flaming. 

     “Or, right, I guess you can go now. Danger’s over.”

     “Are you kidding?” Tim said. “And get to bed even later? I’m not going anywhere.”

     You stepped into the living room. You were glad Tim was staying. You felt safer with him here, even though you knew it was irrational. 

     “I’ll get the blankets and stuff,” you said, turning back the way you’d came.

     “Let me go with you,” Tim offered.

     “I would but they’re in the closet and I don’t want it to trap you or something,” you said. 

     “You think I can’t take a closet full of your crap? Bring it on,” Tim challenged and you led him down the hall. 

     A few minutes later you returned to the living room, blankets and pillows in tow. Tim helped you pull out the couch bed—you were grateful you’d opted for this couch instead of a regular one—and you stood back, admiring your work. 

     “Take the couch,” you told him. “It was your bed originally.”

     “Not gonna happen.” Tim crossed his arms. “It’s your house. And you’re injured.”

     “I’m fine. And where are you going to sleep? The floor?” You asked him. 

     Tim scanned the room and then sat down on the chair across from the couch-turned-bed. 

     “Are you sure you’re ok on that?” You asked. It didn’t exactly look comfortable for spending hours on.

     “Trust me, Boot, you got the short end of the stick. Have fun sleeping on plywood.” 

      You smiled. “So, what, you’re just going to sit over there and watch me sleep?”

     “I can leave, if you’re—”

     “No,” you’re voice came out faster and more sharp than you’d intended. “I mean, you came all this way, I don’t want you to have to get an Uber home at this hour.”

     You climbed into bed, aware that you were still in your clothes, but not caring enough to change. 

     “We should get some sleep, it’s been a long night,” Tim sighed. He got up and turned the lights off, darkness filling the room. 

     “Damn, boot,” you heard Tim’s voice even though you couldn’t see him anymore. “It’s pitch black in here. You don’t sleep with a light or anything?”

     “Well I don’t usually sleep in my living room,” you pointed out. Then you stifled a laugh. “Wait a minute. Is Officer Tim Bradford afraid of the dark?”

     Tim scoffed. “I’m not afraid of the dark.”

     “Your secret’s safe with me,” you teased.

     “There is no secret,” Tim shot back.

     You winked. “Exactly.”

     “You’re impossible.”

     “Thank you.” You smiled.

     The room fell silent. You heard him sit back down. 

     You laid back, staring up at the ceiling. The seconds ticked by. 

    “Do you—do you think he really would’ve shot me?” You asked, finally.

     “I don’t know,” Tim admitted. “He clearly thought you guys had unfinished business. But guys like that get high on fear—on desperation. He couldn’t have that if you were dead. In his mind, he’d be losing his power over you.”

     He paused. 

     “Besides, I don’t think he would’ve gotten the chance,” Tim said. “He clearly underestimated the badass-ness of his opponent.”

     You snorted. “Did you just say ‘badass-ness’?”

     “It’s a word!” Tim defended. 

     You laughed, turning over on your side. 

     “But seriously, if you ever need anything, you can always talk to me,” Tim said, sounding earnest. “I mean it.”

     “I may just take you up on that,” you responded. “Do you tell that to all your rookies?”

     You could barely make out Tim’s frame in the dark. “No, not all of them.”

     “I’m going to take that as I’m special,” you said. 

     Your next words were out of your mouth before you could stop them.   

    “You know, Lopez and Bishop had this crazy idea that you had feelings for me,” you said, staring up at the ceiling. “But I told them it was just that—crazy.”

     Tim didn’t speak.

     “It is crazy right?” You asked. You had to know. He still was silent. “Right?”

     “Boot, look—” Bradford started. His voice came out rough, as if he hadn’t talked in days. Your heartbeat was a deafening roar in your ears. 

     “Tim?”

     You could hear more than see Tim’s movements. He stood, pacing the length of the room. Sat back down. Stood up again. Sat. 

     “Dammit, Boot, I can’t do this,” he finished. “I can’t do this right now, (Y/n).”

     Your pulse quickened. He hadn’t denied it. 

     You stood up. 

     And maybe it was having to deny your attraction to your TO for seven months. Maybe it was the adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the attack earlier. Maybe it was because the darkness felt safe and secret—made you feel like you could do anything. Maybe you were just too eager after his small encouragement—or, lack of discouragement.

     But, whatever the reason, you walked over to where Tim sat, kneeled down, looked into his confused, strained eyes, and kissed him. 

     Tim froze, his lips still against yours. And then, almost as if he was afraid you would vanish or startle, he placed his hand gingerly on your waist, and leaned into the kiss.

     And he was kissing you back. Tim Bradford was kissing you back. 

     His free hand went to your hair, deepening the kiss as he gripped you closer. He kissed you like he had been waiting a lifetime.

     It was desperate and raw and passionate—it was perfect.

     You broke apart, both gasping for breath.       

     “Listen, Boot,” Tim started. You watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “You’ve had a long and confusing day—”

     You interrupted him. “Yeah. Yeah, I have. But I’m not confused about this.”

     You brought your lips to his again. This time he didn’t hold back. He pulled you closer to him and you felt the warmth of him through his shirt. 

     When you came apart again, he was smiling. 

     “Well, I guess I can check thinking that you hate me off my daily checklist,” you whispered. 

     “I don’t hate you, Boot,” Tim said. “I actually hate how much I don’t hate you.”

     You studied the planes of his face, the light from the hallway illuminating his eyes. His lips. His jawline.

     “Boot—”

     “If you’re going to say that this is a bad idea, I don’t want to hear it. Not tonight,” you said. 

     “I thought that was obvious.” Tim stated matter-of-factly. “I was going to say actually I’d appreciate it if you did turn on a lamp or something, because—”

     You laughed, kissing him again. 

     “But seriously,” Tim continued. “You know we can’t do this.”

     “Why not?” You pouted. “If it’s what we both want.”

     “It’s not about what we want—we could be putting both of our careers in jeopardy.”

     You knew he was right. Of course he was right. 

     “But is it—what you want?” 

     “God yes,” Tim blurted, standing up, his voice strained. “It’s what I’ve wanted from the moment I started training you. Do you know how hard it’s been trying to put distance between us and deny every damn thing when all I wanted to do was—”

     He broke off, running a hand along his hair. 

     “Then do it.” Your heart pounded in your chest. “You’ll only be my TO for a few more months, we’ll just keep it a secret until then. No one has to know.”

     Tim looked at you. 

     “Ok you’re right, Bishop and Lopez will totally know something’s up,” you admitted.

     “I guess I’ll just have to transfer,” Tim joked.

     “What happened to ‘Tim Bradford finished what he starts’?” You asked.

     “Oh I intend to do just that,” Tim whispered. “Are we really thinking about doing this?”

     You thought about the consequences you could face—Tim could face—if it got out that you and your training officer were romantically involved. You knew it would be a huge risk—one that could get you cut from the program.

     You looked at Tim. He was watching you like he never wanted to let you go again. You thought about how long you’d wanted this, even if you didn’t fully know it until tonight.

     And the decision seemed clear.

     “Yeah,” you beamed. “Yeah I think we are.”

     He cupped your face in his hand, his fingers warm against the back of your neck. Your eyes closed against his touch. You felt comfort for the first time in hours.

     “You need rest,” Tim whispered and your eyes fluttered open. “As much as I’d love to do this all night.”

     You nodded, backing up towards your bed. Tim ran a hand through his hair again and then sat back down in the armchair.

    “What’re you doing?” You asked him.

    “Going to bed,” Tim answered, as if it was obvious. 

    “Get over here,” you gestured, rolling your eyes at him.

    “I was hoping you’d say that,” Tim smiled. 

     You climbed into bed beside him, pulling the covers over both of you.

     You lay your head on Bradfords chest. You could feel his heartbeat in your ear as you closed your eyes.     

    “You know, this will kind of be like doing undercover work—minus the threat of getting killed,” you said. 

     “I don’t know about that—I wouldn’t put anything past an angry Sergeant Grey.”

     “We’ll just have to be so in-character that we never find out,” you said. 

     “I’ll make sure to be extra tough on you next shift,” Tim agreed. 

     “And that’s different from any other day how?” You shot back, sitting up. 

     “Hey, training rookies is a sacred duty and I take that very seriously. If you think I’m going to throw your education out the window simply because—”

     You shut him up by pressing your lips to his. You echoed his earlier words. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

     Tim shook is head slightly, eyes roaming over your face. 

     “What?” You asked.

     “You’re so beautiful, (Y/n),” Tim breathed. “I’m so glad I can finally tell you that.”

     “Me too,” you said. “Even if it took…this for it to happen.”

     “Speaking of which, maybe I’ll take a sick day tomorrow,” Tim said. “Since there’s no way Grey—or myself—is letting you go to work. What’d you say?”

     You wanted to fight him, say you were fine and you could make it to your shift the next day. But the promise of taking a sick day with Tim was to tempting to pass up. 

     “I say I’m glad your house is being repainted,” you teased. “Because then you’ll have to stay with me.”

     Tim smiled knowingly. “My house isn’t being repainted, Boot. And I’m all yours.”

     You grinned, laying back down and resting your head back against Tim. He wrapped his arm around your shoulder.

     You felt safe, protected in his arms. 

     The rest would come. Dealing with what had happened tonight. Starting your secret relationship with Tim. Eventually facing everyone at work who had heard the news and would want to ask if you were ok. And you would be ok.

     But for now, this was enough. He was enough. 

     “Tim?” You whispered.

     “Hmm?”

     You struggled for words to fit the gravity of what you were feeling for him. “Thanks for…everything.”

     “What are TOs for,” Tim shrugged. 

     “Apparently keeping the night light business afloat.” You giggled at the look on Bradford’s face. 

     “Shut it, Boot.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I've been meaning to ask you, what's the ring around your neck?" Lucy asks, trying to break the silence in the shop.

"Not that it's any of your business, but it's just a ring to me, no specific meaning," Tim responds while silently praying Lucy would end the conversation there, "Also it's safer if it's around my neck than on my finger."

"Grey wears his wedding band, and you don't see him having any trouble with it," Lucy mentions as Tim chuckles and reminds her that Luna would kill him if he ever took his ring off.

"Just let it go and focus on other important things, like that carjacker right there," Tim said, causing Lucy to jerk her attention back in front of her as he stopped the shop and the both of them get to work.

Once the carjacker was booked and processed, Tim and Lucy were on their way to get back on the road when Grey stopped them with a, "Bradford, my office real quick."

Lucy asks, "What is that all about?" Tim responds, "I don't know, just wait by the shop. I'll be there when I'm finished."

Tim enters Grey's office to see his wife, Y/N, sitting in one of the chairs. "She doesn't look pleased about something," Tim thought to himself before Grey excused himself to let the couple talk privately.

-Y/N's POV-

"Is everything okay?" Tim asked me while I got up from the seat to stand in front of him before I ask him, "Do you remember telling me when we first started dating that your dad died?"

Tim gulps before clearing his throat and answered, "Yes, why are you bringing that up?"

"I was cleaning the house up when the phone rang. It was a hospice nurse calling for you because Tom Bradford was asking for you," I responded before continuing, “Thinking it was the wrong number, I called Genny to ask her what was happening. She told me I needed to have that conversation with you."

Before Tim could answer me, Grey popped his head in to remind Tim about an old case regarding a family friend, Monica Ochoa.

"Do you need to go? I'm not mad. I'm just so confused," I said before Tim turned his head towards Grey and told him he was still on it before turning his attention back to me.

"I'll explain it later, I promise," Tim responds before I nod. Understanding his tone's urgency, I told him I'd be waiting with Kojo at home.

Hours passed before I heard the doorknob jiggle; Kojo had heard it since he had jumped off the couch to run to the door and greet Tim.

"Hey bud," I hear Tim say as his footsteps start toward the living room, bringing him into view.

"Hi," I say as Tim takes a seat next to me before he takes my hands in his.

"I haven't been honest with you about everything, and I am truly sorry. It wasn't fair of me to let you get whiplash from finding out I lied about my dad being dead," Tim responds as I notice tears brimming in his eyes, making me take my hands back and put one of them on his cheek, running my thumb along the bone.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I meant what I said. I'm not mad at you," I whisper, reassuring him before he sighs and responds, "I know, but it still wasn't right of me. So, I want to tell you everything."

"Okay," I say as Tim clears his throat to mention, "The reason I told you he was dead is because he's dead to me. He was abusive. To me and Genny, mostly me."

Before I can ask, he says, "When I was 7, he smashed my head into a wall. Another time, he left me at Griffith Park with only a compass to find my way home, said it's supposed to turn me into a man."

"Tim," I croak out before tears started to fall down my cheeks, "Now I feel bad that you had to reopen those wounds."

"No, no, don't you dare blame yourself," Tim said as he wiped the tears before continuing, "I should've been honest from the get-go, but instead, I wanted to keep that part of my past secret to spare you from the pain. And it was about time I told you since I have to see him."

"You don't need to see him if you don't want to. Don't let this hospice situation guilt you," I respond before Tim shook his head and told me it had to do with the Ochoa case.

"I think he had something to do with it; now I have to face him," Tim says, looking like the little boy who just wanted his dad's love, which prompts me to ask, "Want me to come with you?"

"No, you don't have to. I wouldn't force you," Tim started to say before I cut him off, "I want to. You're my husband, and my vows stated that I will be by your side for every obstacle in your path."

"Okay," Tim whispered as the both of us exited the house hand in hand, preparing to battle this demon together.

We arrived at the facility and entered the room to see my father-in-law lying in his hospital bed.

"Oh, man. Never thought I'd see your face again. Genny tell you to visit?" Tom says as I squeeze Tim's hand harder in comfort.

"Wow, liver really did a number on you, old man," Tim responds before Tom tells him he doesn't have it so bad.

"Nurses here all love me. It's just no one will bring me that shot of Patron I keep asking for," Tom says as he jesters toward the apple juice, saying it's a joke.

"A cruel joke if you ask me," I thought before glancing at Tim's face to see he thinks the same.

"You always seem to have someone looking after you, even when you don't deserve it," Tim responds, squeezing back my hand.

"Something on your mind, son?" Tom asked, clearly wanting this to be done and over with.

"Remember Frank Ochoa? Lived down the street. Shot to death 25 years ago. Well, I'm sure you remember his wife, Monica," Tim responds.

"Can't say I do," Tom deflects, obvious sign that he does remember.

"Come on. You were sleeping with her behind Mom's back," Tim says, making Tom laugh, and he asks where he got that from. Tim mentions that he saw the two of them together when he was 13.

"Oh, crap," Tom says before Tim continues, "For some reason that I still don't understand, I lied for you, lied to Mom."

"Poor little Tim-Tim," Tom degrades before spouting out, "What are you bitching about? You kept your mouth shut. You did good. Now get over it."

I feel my blood start to boil in anger at the audacity, the disrespect this son of a bitch in front of me had for the man I plan to spend forever with and have children with, but I keep quiet because he seems to not care about my presence.

"You know, I found the gun that you hid in the wall. I know you killed Frank. But why'd you do it? You wanted Monica all to yourself?" Tim asked before continuing, "Ruining one family wasn't just enough for you, was it?"

Tom takes his cannula out before getting off the bed and walking towards us. "And so what if I did?" What are you gonna do about it?"

"Get back in bed," Tim grits out as he moves me to stand more behind him for safety reasons, prompting Tom to challenge him with a "Make me."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. You're right. I killed Frank. But he had it coming. So screw him, and screw you," Tom says before telling Tim to put the cuffs on him and drag him away from his deathbed like a big man.

"This isn't over," Tim responds as he grabs my hand again, and we both leave Tom's room.

"I'm sorry. You shouldn't have heard all of that," Tim whispers before entering the truck, "I have to get to the station and type up that report. I'll drop you off at home before I do."

"No, take me with you, it would save gas," I said as I explained to Tim it wouldn't make sense to do that.

After arriving at the station, Tim heads to one of the computers while I follow him. I glance over to see his rookie, Lucy, walking over.

"My dad confessed to Frank Ochoa's murder. I'm typing up the report," Tim tells Lucy as she looks at me before gesturing there were ears listening, "She's my wife, she knows."

"Wait, wife?! As in ring on the finger?" Lucy asked in shock as I raised my left hand to show her my wedding band, "We'll get to that later, but Tim, while you were gone, I brought Monica Ochoa back in."

"Why?" Tim asks as Lucy explains, "Because I knew there was more to her story. You couldn't see past the version that you wanted to see."

"What'd she say?" Tim asks again, before Lucy tells him what was confessed.

The look on Tim's face tells me we're going straight back to that hospice facility. We walk back into the room and see Tom snoring in the chair, so Tim places the shot glass and pours Patron before placing the bottle on the table, waking Tom up.

"You brought me a present?" Tom asks before Tim tells him to think of it as a push.

"You didn't kill Frank," Tim says as Tom repeats that he did and tells Tim to cuff him, "Monica confessed."

"Leave her out of this," Tom responds.

"Frank was beating her. She fought back. She shot him. She was terrified, so she ran to you. You came up with the burglary story, helped her stage the house, then you hid the gun in case the cops got too close and you needed to frame someone else," Tim says.

"He was a brutal, abusive bastard. She deserves a medal for what she did," Tom responds, making me and Tim look at him in shock.

"He was an abusive bastard?" Tim asked, testing Tom for what came out of his mouth.

Feigning confusion that was fake, Tom asked if he was like him, which prompted him to say he was nothing like Frank.

"I taught you what you needed to know, son. You're a man now because of me," Tom says before I finally let my voice be heard.

"No, absolutely not. You are not getting credit for how Tim turned out," I gritted through my teeth as Tom looked at me with disdain before asking me who I was, "I happen to be the woman your son is going to spend the rest of his life with. I'll be damned if I stand by and let his piece of shit father try to take what's rightfully his credit. You deserve nothing of the sort, he's nothing like you and he will never be like you."

"Tim, you're going to let your wife speak to me this way?" Tom asked before Tim scoffed and responds, "She's right. I'm who I am in spite of you."

As Tom sits there stunned, Tim says, "Goodbye, Dad. I hope it hurts."

We left the facility without looking back, and after we arrived home, I suddenly felt my body being moved to where my back faced the door and I craned my neck up to look into Tim's eyes.

"Thank you," Tim whispers as I look at him in confusion, "Thank you for being by my side for that. I know it wasn't easy, but you were right. I needed you there with me."

"You don't have to thank me for that, I will always be there for you," I say before Tim smiles and leans down to kiss me.

After kissing for what felt like minutes, Tim moves his mouth to be near my ear and he whispers, "I'm also really turned on by you defending me."

I laugh before asking, "Oh are you? What are you going to do about it?"

I feel Tim's hands move down to my ass before I squeak out in surprise as he hoists me up, causing me to wrap my legs around his waist and feel the outline of his dick through his jean.

"I think I'm going to give my beautiful wife a thank-you gift," Tim whispers before moving towards our bedroom and putting me down on the bed.

"Tim, you don't have to," I started to protest before he cuts me off, "Just let me do it, you deserve it."

My attention gets grabbed while I watch his hands curl around the collar of his shirt before he pulls it up off his body, which, I feel myself start to drool over my husband's abs. His hands then moved to his belt to unbuckle it before he walk up to me and get down on his knees so he can be on the same level as me. Tim pulls me into another kiss, one more passionate than the last, as I feel his hands unbutton my jeans before he pulls the materials down to my ankles to take them off, leaving me in my black panties. He then positions my body to lean back against the pillows before he moves himself to be above me, Tim asks, "Is this okay?"

Not trusting my voice, I nodded my head before Tim's fingers curled around the sides of the panties as he started pulling them down. He groans out in pleasure as he changes his position, his shoulders in between my thighs, keeping my legs where he wants them to be, his hands near the area I yearn for him to pay attention to. I shivered when I felt his breath before he placed his mouth on me, causing me to let out a shuttered moan. When I felt myself getting close, Tim pulled away, causing me to groan out in frustration, making him laugh.

"The only way you're cumming is around my dick," Tim whispered in my ear as he gets himself out of his pants and boxers while he pushes my shirt up to above my chest, showing the matching black bra.

The both of us let out a groan as Tim enters me and starts to thrust, his dick hitting all the right places. After minutes passed, the both of us came and Tim's body moves to his side of the bed as I tell him that was a great gift, making him he let out a soft laugh.

"Glad to be of service," Tim says getting out of bed and putting on clean boxers and pajama pants before he goes to the bathroom to grab a washcloth to clean me up.

After Tim cleaned me up and helped me get dressed, he got back into the bed to pull me into him so we can cuddle.

"Tim?" I said after a moment of silence, causing him to say, "Yeah?"

"I have something for you," I respond before reaching over into my nightstand and pulling out a small box, "I was going to give you this later, but now feels right."

Tim opens the box and pulls out a onesie that says, "My daddy will arrest you if you mess with me."

"Babe, this is perfect for our future baby," Tim responds before he felt his voice stop short when he sees what else is in the box, reaching in to pull out the pregnancy test, "Are you really?"

"Yes, I found out two weeks ago, you're going to be a dad, Tim," I said as Tim pulled me into a tight embrace before kissing the top of my head, "And you're going to be the best dad, I just know it."

"I love you so much," Tim whispers before pulling me into the most loving kiss a girl could ask for.