#john nolan

Closing the passenger door of your car, you made sure to lock it before making your way towards the range. Your go-bag was perfectly fine sitting in the trunk, but the front of the car seemed like the quicker option. Call it military training, if you will, always be ready at a moment’s notice. There was nothing wrong with that, of course. After all, it taught you how to be efficient and on time, a habit your dad tried to instill in you since middle-school. You weren’t trying to make a habit out of being late, of course, but you were cutting it pretty close for a long time before joining the Navy. Now, after years of adjusting your internal clock, you could not be late even if you tried.

The parking lot was buzzing with activity and if their shirts were any indication, the majority of them were LAPD officers. Good, you thought to yourself, got the location right.

You were on leave for a total of two weeks before you were expected back in Hawaii for God knows how long, so you decided to pay your favourite (and only) godfather a visit. An initial scan of the parking lot revealed no John Nolan in sight, but his car was here, so he probably headed inside to get ready for the test. You knew he had his gun qualifications today and that was exactly why you decided against going over to his house and waiting for him and Bailey. You were curious to see how his rookie training was going so far.

When he first told you he was enrolling in the Academy, you thought he was pranking you. Granted, it was well past the first of April, but the police Academy at 45 sounded like an odd kind of rebound after him and your Aunt Sarah got divorced. It wasn’t that you thought he couldn’t do it, you had complete faith in him. But you couldn’t help worrying over this sudden decision and the consequences it would inevitably bring.

Deciding to head inside and see if you could catch him before the qualifications began, you passed by two officers who looked like they’d rather be patrolling the streets at this ungodly hour than being here, proving their competence once again. The tall and broody one – a training officer, if the stripes on his sleeve were to be believed – sighed, shutting his car door with a little too much force. He spotted you and let out a loud scoff, rolling his eyes before turning to his colleague – a detective.

“I hate training with the public. Feels like we’re sharing trade secrets.”

The detective raised a teasing brow, not missing a beat, her keen eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Is it possible Tim Bradford is having performance anxiety? There are pills for that, you know?”

You chuckled softly to yourself, catching his snarky remark about Annie Oakley and something about a patrol crown. You knew cops were competitive, but you weren’t expecting the myths to be quite so true. Shaking your head, you hurried inside, keeping an eye out for your godfather while also trying your best to remain unnoticed for the time being. As it turns out, John Nolan is quite impossible to miss, one simply has to follow the endless teasing.

Seeing him after so many months brought back a lot of memories. Your first instinct was to run and hug-attack him, just like you did when you were little and still incapable of maintaining the element of surprise, but today you thought better of it. For one, because your stealth has improved and he wouldn’t even know you were there until you quite literally tackled him to the ground; and two, you wouldn’t want him distracted before the qualifications began and risk an accident, or, God forbid, him failing the test altogether.

Standing to the side and nearly blending in with the scenery, you listened as the Watch Commander explained how the morning’s events were to proceed. First round, the TO’s, second round, their rookies. If anyone failed the test today, they would have the next 30 days to better prepare and pass it. His tone, however, told a completely different story. He expected perfection from his officers, and honestly, who could blame him? These people are literally trained to protect an entire city if need be, and keep themselves safe and alive at all times. Failure was not an option.

You watched the TO’s get into position and were pleasantly surprised to see the witty detective from earlier in the same lane as John. But your interest was really piqued when the grumpy officer took the spot right next to her. Well, this should be fun.

Loud gunshots, bullets fired with rapid precision, magazines emptied and targets completely demolished. The training officers stepped back and the rookies took their spots. Your eyes followed each of them, cataloguing their familiarity with their weapons, the dexterity when checking everything was functional and the sheer determination shining in their eyes. That was, until your godfather looked away a fraction of a second, lowered his gun, and proceeded to completely flunk his turn, instead appearing infinitely more invested in a man wearing scuba gear and shooting hay dummies than his own target.

“Officer Nolan!”

His Watch Commander was as perplexed as you were. Why, exactly, did John stop? This is LA, weirder things have happened, a man training in scuba gear was really low on the list of suspicious behaviour.

The fire ceased, the test was done. John Nolan had failed spectacularly, and your self-restraint was right behind him.

“What the hell was that? You never take your eyes off a target, no matter what sparkly unicorn decides to fly into the range!”

So much for remaining unnoticed. All eyes turned to you, various degrees of surprise, confusion and amusement reflected in the officers’ faces. The detective – your godfather’s training officer – raised an inquisitive brow, leveled John with a glare, and pointed at you.

“What she said.”

You heard a mutter from one of the other two rookies – Officer West, by the name on his shirt – and cocked your head to the side, waiting for him to repeat the words. He rolled his eyes.

“All unicorns fly, it’s literally in their job description.”

You tried to school your expression, you really did, but couldn’t keep down the offended scowl you were certain was displayed oh so clearly on your face.

“No” your tone sounded dangerously close to your Aunt Sarah’s when she was trying to gently discipline baby Henry all those years ago “Only pegasi fly. It’s common knowledge.”

It took all your remaining will-power – and there was not much of that either – not to roll your eyes and mutter duh while you were at it.

“…Pegasi?”

“Winged horses. No horn. Ergo, different species.”

Officer West looked at you as if you’ve spontaneously grown a horn yourself. You sighed and shook your head, faux disappointment evident with every passing second.

“Amateurs.”

Then turned back to face John, the sternness you inherited from your father working overtime to ensure he took you seriously. But in all fairness, you did not think he would. The man has known you practically your whole life, has been there for pink themed birthday parties, difficult first days of school – granted, more difficult for Steve than for you – and even the years where you proudly decided to take after him and try and fix things around the house. Your idea of fixing, however, mostly included sticking crayons in the DVD player because the black and white film your dad was watching had to be the result of technical difficulties and setting up glitter bombs to go off in his and Danny’s go-bags because – and you quote – ‘the gear could use some sparkles’. So really, how were you expecting him to see you as an actual, functioning adult? Still, a girl can dream.

“But you!” you point a finger at his chest “What were you thinking? It’s literally the first lesson they teach you in the Academy! Eyes. On. The. Target! Do you want to get yourself hurt? Or worse?”

John lifted a brow, arms crossed over his chest, his expression bordering more on entertained than actually listening to a word you’re saying.

“Are you done?”

You huff, crossing your own arms.

“No, I’m not done! Exactly how many –“

“I’m sorry, but who are you?”

Officer Grumpy interrupted your lecture, his patience visibly evaporating. And good thing he did, because the mix of fondness and amusement on your godfather’s face almost made you pout, which would have undermined your whole argument. Your gaze shifted slowly, taking him in from head to toe. You clocked his posture, the way he carried himself, and the precision behind each movement. Military background.

Interesting.

You squared your shoulders and kept your chin up as you answered, voice steady, eye contact never wavering.

“Lieutenant Commander McGarrett, United States Navy.”

A few low whistles circulated the space around you, whispers too quick to decipher being exchanged between the officers.

“And the reason you’re chewing out Nolan for reckless behaviour – which he deserves, by the way – is?”

The detective trailed off, seemingly waiting for an explanation, but you suspected she was more invested in the drama than the real answer. And you couldn’t blame her, really. The way you were yelling at him just now suggested a level of familiarity usually reserved for loved ones.

Your eyes still on Nolan, you let out a long suffering sigh.

“If my godfather here wants to insert himself into some of the most dangerous situations known to man, fine, he has my full support. But he could, at the very least, prove that he can handle a weapon. For my sanity.”

The smile John was fighting finally broke through and he stepped forward, engulfing you in a warm hug. And as much as you wanted to be upset with him – or at the very least, keep up the appearance – you couldn’t help but hug him back tight, the feeling of home never failing to settle deep within your chest every time he gave you one of his legendary bear hugs. A few tears gathered on your lash line and threatened to spill over, but you willed them back. You wouldn’t cry now, especially not in front of such a large audience.

“You and your stupid timing.” you heard yourself mumble “Waiting until my dad retires and I’m finally done worrying about him to pull a stunt like this, so I have to start all over again? I’m too young to go gray, uncle John! You are successfully sending me to an early grave!”

“Now you know how I felt after you called to tell me you joined the Navy.”

“Touché.”

From the corner of your eye, you catch a slow movement, the Watch Commander leaning towards Officer Grumpy – whose name you read as Bradford – and mumble something about owing his daughter a big apology, making the other man chuckle. Huh, you didn’t think he was capable of it, with all that frowning shadowing his handsome face and all.

Nevermind, scratch that. Even grumpy and scowling, the man was beautiful in a way that had you thinking back to some Renaissance paintings you studied back in college. All sharp angles and surreal blue eyes, Officer Bradford was a study in divine proportion.

Letting go of your favourite honorary uncle (but don’t let Danny hear that), you took a step back and glanced towards the target practice lanes, an idea forming in your head. Turning on your heel, you addressed the Watch Commander, your expression settling into all business.

“Sir, may Officer Nolan try again today?”

The older man shrugged, looking between you and his oldest rookie.

“I don’t see why not, if he does it fast – and actually does it, this time.”

“Good” you nod once and move to pull your own firearm from your thigh holster, your mouth settling into a small smirk “how about a little contest, uncle John? Loser cooks tonight?”

Before he had a chance to answer, the other two rookies, Officers Chen and West, burst out laughing. Nolan frowned, confusion taking over his features.

“What?”

“A firing contest between you and a trained special forces operative? I hope you bought a flattering apron.”

“Hey! I could beat her, you don’t know!”

Detective Harper snorted.

“No, you really can’t. But the spirit is noted and appreciated.”

John was left gaping like a fish, before turning to you with a determined look on his face.

“You’re on.”

Grinning like you won the lottery, you grabbed a pair of protective goggles and some earmuffs, moving into the right lane once the holey targets were replaced with brand new ones. John Nolan knew his goddaughter like the back of his hand, yes, but this wasn’t a one-sided street. You took pride in the fact that you knew him just as well – and so, you knew what buttons to push in order to either get what you wanted, or encourage him to do something for himself. You knew first-hand how competitive he could get, he would never turn down a challenge like this.

“Ready.”

You checked your gun one last time, making sure everything worked as it should.

“Set.”

Rolling your shoulders, you moved into position, years of special training turning this little routine into muscle memory.  

“Fire!”

Gunshots drowned the previous silence, as shot after shot hit the dummies. You were vaguely aware of Nolan actually doing what he’s supposed to for a change, his shots ringing in the space around you and hitting true. But you were faster, more experienced. His fellow rookie wasn’t wrong to point out that this is, in fact, an unfair fight. 

One set done, you maneuvered the gun skillfully, reloaded, and pointed towards the second target. A few shots in, you stopped to check the clip and took notice of the single remaining bullet in the magazine. Well, you got this far. And fired again, hitting the paper dead center.

There was no denying that you were faster, John finishing his turn almost half a minute after you, but his task was well and truly accomplished, passing his gun qualifications with flying colors. Even the Watch Commander looked pleasantly surprised.

“Congratulations, Officer Nolan, you get to keep your gun. For now.”

You heard some cheers and watched money being exchanged between the rookies, before a groan cut the party short.

“What is it, Smitty?”

The Watch Commander looked like all the patience in the world could not get him through the next five minutes.

“Now I have to return this.”

He lifted his right hand and a silver whistle caught a ray of sunlight.

Sergeant Grey pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head through what looked like a few breathing exercises.

“Why, on God’s green earth, did you buy a whistle?”

“For Nolan, in case he failed his test.”

You weren’t sure how to react, but judging by the reactions of the people around you, this was a rather common occurrence. Officer Chen recovered first.

“You…kept the receipt?”

Smitty gave her a look that damn near called her stupid six ways to Sunday.

“Duh. I’m irresponsible, not reckless.”

This interaction must have lasted a lot less than you thought, because just then, the whirring of the cogs could be heard over the noise and chatter, the papers finally returning so you could properly see your results. The first target showed impressively close groupings, all within the center of the human shaped drawing. For you, this was a regular Tuesday afternoon. For the officers crowding to see the paper, your skill was beyond impressive. Nolan’s first target wasn’t bad. A few shots towards the arms and one towards the head of the dummy, but the majority of his first clip was evenly spaced between the circles on the torso. His second target came back, and there were no wandering bullet holes this time. Good, visible improvement. But then your second target came back, and you were barely keeping a satisfied smirk at bay.

Because right in the center on the target dummy, inside the smallest circle, you drew a heart. With bullets. And that quick magazine check you did before your last shot? Right in the center of the heart.

“Did you just…flirt with the target?”

You weren’t sure whether Bradford’s tone betrayed amusement or admiration, but you were good with either, really. You shrugged in response.

“Maybe.”

John’s eyes kept moving between the target and your smug expression, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“Did your dad teach you this?”

You scoff, placing a dramatic hand over your heart.

“Of course not! Don’t be ridiculous.”

He raised a brow, clearly not believing you.

“Uncle Danny did.”

The innocent smile tugging at your lips was enough to cause your godfather to shake his head. He should have known, really.

“Of course he did.”

Unbeknownst to you, Tim has been keeping an eye on you since he first spotted you in the parking lot. You didn’t look as out of place as the general public usually did at a police range, and the way you carried yourself led him to speculate that you had some sort of military training. He was glad when his instinct was proven right. He saw you watching their practice, blending with the shadows and tactically taking note of your surroundings, all while finding the time to lecture Nolan about his poor performance. Your emotionally charged reaction, however, surprised him at first. Only someone close to him would react like that. A daughter, maybe? You were certainly within the correct age range, but he’s only ever mentioned a son, Henry. A sister? Doubtful, really. A step or half sister, maybe, but again, not likely.

A girlfriend?

God, he hoped not. He knew Nolan had no qualms about dating younger – really, Lucy was not as sly as she thought – but you seemed a bit too young. And besides, wasn’t he dating that firefighter?

So who, exactly, were you?

He chalked his interest up to mild curiosity and deep distaste for surprises. So, he didn’t like the unexpected, sue him. That didn’t mean anything. But he was still adamant it didn’t mean anything when a relieved sigh slipped past his lips upon hearing the word ‘godfather’. He was simply looking out for you, is all. Why would he need to do so in the first place? Well, he was a cop. He took an oath, swore to protect the innocent. And you looked pretty innocent from where he’s standing. Never mind that you were fully trained and perfectly capable of doing all the necessary protecting. He was simply doing his job, his sworn duty.

Nyla clocked the conflict unfolding in his head, and very likely on his face, and leaned in to whisper, making sure no one else but him heard.

“You know, Bradford, it’s okay to have a crush. She’s pretty badass.”

He rolled his eyes, the notion simply too absurd to entertain.

“I’m a grown man, I don’t have ‘crushes’.”

The detective raised her hands in surrender.

“Just saying, I’m pretty tempted to ask her out myself.”

The glare he threw her way was enough to freeze Hell over, and he realized far too late that he fell right into her trap. She knew how to push his buttons and chose to do just that, judging by the self-satisfied smirk playing on her lips. He groaned, closing his eyes and begging for some divine intervention to save him from embarrassing himself further.

“Not a word.”

He had to admit, your little contest idea was intriguing. It was clear that you had an advantage, just as Lucy said, but he’s got to give credit where credit’s due, because it surely worked. Nolan got requalified. And you got to show off, not that he’s judging. If he could shoot that well and turn target practice into art class the way you just did, he would never stop.

As he watched the officers make their way towards the exit, he hung back, glancing towards your results once more. Before he could think twice, he moved forward and unclipped the paper from the practice dummy, rolling it up and slipping it into his go-bag.

*

It’s almost two weeks later when Tim runs into you again. To say that he is surprised to see your confused expression trying to make out the architectural structure of the bullpen is an understatement. He calls out your name, and relief floods your face.

“Hi, sorry, do you happen to know where John is, by any chance?”

“Booking, him and Harper just came in a minute ago.”

“Thank you, Officer Grumpy.”

“That’s not my –“

He stops short upon noticing the teasing smile playing on your lips.

“But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

You hum affirmatively, allowing your eyes to slowly and shamelessly check him out. Tim should feel uncomfortable. He does feel uncomfortable, but there’s also something else. Intrigue, maybe? He’s not sure.

Or rather, he wasn’t sure. But then you cocked your head to the side, opened those perfectly glossed lips and his brain successfully short-circuited.

“Do you want to have dinner with me?”

“I – uh – what?”

“I’m leaving for Hawaii in two days, I don’t know when I’ll be back in LA. But I hoped to see you again before I left. Preferably, in a social setting. That is, if you’re interested?”

Your voice betrays you on the last syllable, the hope undeniable as you wait for his reply. You see the conflict warring on his face, the same way it did two weeks ago as he watched you rip your godfather a new one for mishandling a weapon.

He should say no. Tim Bradford doesn’t do long distance. Isn’t that what broke him and Rachel up in the first place? And what is the point in going out on a date when any potential romance between the two of you would be doomed before it ever had a chance to start? But he finds that he doesn’t have it in him to say no, curious to see where the night might lead you, curious if you could become more than a fleeting memory and a make-shift poster hidden at the bottom of his gym bag.

He gives you a boyish smile, one that makes him look heartbreakingly handsome in the bright morning light.

“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

*

Almost three years later, you walk into Mid-Wilshire station as a woman on a mission. Getting a visitor’s badge at the front desk, you are sent on your merry way into the heart of the building, greeting people in passing and dodging hurried rookies running around like headless chicken. Passing the bullpen, you take the now very familiar right on the corridor and stop in front of the door you’ve been searching for. A quick knock revealed that your fiancé was not back yet, so you let yourself in, closing the door softly behind you.

You’ve always been proud of Tim, through highs and lows, good days and bad, opportunities and locked doors alike. You helped him study for the Sergeant’s exam and celebrated him when he scored 8th out of 140 people. You couldn’t help your squeal of excitement when a position opened at Mid-Wilshire and he got to stay with his friends and family. You knew how much he hated the idea of starting anew at a different station. But when he told you about Metro? You were so proud of him, you felt like your heart could burst.

Tim Bradford deserves the world, and the parts of it you couldn’t give him, you’d make sure to help him achieve.

Sitting down at his desk, you take in the newly decorated office. A few picture frames on his desk, a picture of the two of you from the day he proposed sitting closest to him and another, his favourite of you and Kojo, right behind it. His office supplies sit neatly organized before you and the case reports are arranged alphabetically in the drawers. You didn’t think he’d take your labeling idea seriously, but it turns out he was actually listening.

Moving your gaze to the wall opposite the desk, you freeze. It couldn’t be. Surely you are imagining.

But no. Right in front of you, framed and protected by a thin glass case, was your target practice sheet, the one you shot the first day you met. The light fixture in the small office space illuminates every line and bullet hole perfectly, drawing the attention towards the heart in the center immediately.

The door opens and you tear your watery eyes away from the case, focusing instead on a smiling Tim, who’s pleasantly surprised to see you earlier than scheduled. 

“Hey, sweetheart. I’ll be done in a minute, and then we can go to dinner.”

The soft smile you were sporting just before he came in turned into a wide grin, your eyes sparkling with so much love. Tim wished he could capture this moment, seal it in a magic jar, and never let it go for as long as he shall live.

“You kept it?”

Tim frowns, confused for a moment, before following your line of sight.

Oh.

“Yeah.”

His answer is so simple, so matter-of-fact, so Tim, that you can’t help the giggle that escapes your lips.

“Why?”

He shrugs, looking away, and you could swear a tinge of pink coated the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“It represents the first day of the rest of our lives together.”

The tears slowly cascading down your cheeks turn into full on sobs as you get up from his chair and throw your arms around his neck, holding him as tight as humanly possible. His arms engulf your smaller frame as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your sweet scent and reveling in the knowledge that he is home.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.”

“Oh, almost forgot!”

He jumps back, pulling suddenly away, eyes wide and teasing as he starts digging through the pockets of his uniform cargo pants. God, those pants give you unholy thoughts every single time.

Upon finding what he was looking for, he hands you a folded sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” you ask as you take and unfold the note.

“Metro hazing. The guys thought it would help team morale if we got matching tattoos.”

You frown, hands stopping any movement, as you glance between him and the paper.

“Cops who get matching tattoos inevitably end up in prison.”

The adoring smile he flashes your way is not consistent with the threat of a potential gang tattoo he’d just mentioned. Now you were really confused. For his part, Tim only sighs, shaking his head fondly.

“Just open it.”

You raise a brow in question before opening the page and as your eyes settle on the contents of his handmade envelope, you let out the most undignified snort. The pink unicorn sticker that looked like he’d seen better days gleamed in the low light, the glitter covering his mane still delivering the full effect.

“Matching tattoos, huh?”

“They covered me in them, I was pretty sure I’d find glitter in places a man never wants to find glitter for the foreseeable future. But I saved you the most intact one I could find. And don’t worry, I already gave one to West too, for old time’s sake.”

lucy, who keeps scolding him, trying to convince him that thats not the way to win you over, but he knows that you know. he felt you realize that its a game to him. that he wants you to be mean, wants you to show him your backbone, wants to see your bratty mouth blabbing about him to lucy. to him, he practically handed you the ball, he just wants a reason, an opportunity, permission from you to take it back and put you in your place.

lucy, who finds every excuse to brush your hair away from your face, compliment you in any way possible, caress your body under the guise of 'oh im really sorry, but your outfit is so cute i just wanted to fix it up for you', invites you to her apartment for movie marathons, dinners, or simply just coffee; and you dont see a problem right? i mean, shes really kind, and nice, and hot, and her voice just does something inexplicable to you that makes you want to keep her talking, every word feels like a reward when she sounds like honey drips from every syllable- the main point is, shes not a patient, meaning, fraternizing with her is a-okay!

tim, who's somehow always at those dinners and movie marathons until you pluck up the courage to ask lucy why he's always around, and thats when it starts feeling like ice cold water was just poured all over you because you've been thirsting over the most antagonizing dickhead's girlfriend, and said antagonizing dickhead also has such kissable lips, and the sexiest pair of arms you've seen on a man, and you think that if he never stops mouthing off to you, you can just sit on his face until he physically lifts you off and gets you under him- okay, so, you might be thirsting over a whole ass couple, that you're currently in an enclosed space with...not great for you.

you feel like they can see how red you've gotten after they revealed the fact that they're dating; clearing your throat and schooling your expression to simply nod and smile at them, apologizing for your (idiotic, selfish, dirty, promiscuous, whorish-) mistake. lucy just smiles at you and squeezes your thigh (you're almost tempted to physically lift her hand higher), while tim simply stares you down, as he does, and you awkwardly smile at him, then quickly turn back to the movie you hadn't even been paying attention to.

lucy n tim, who look at each other knowingly, deciding that next time lucy brings you over, theyre gonna have a serious conversation with you about their mutual interest in you.

a/n: ive literally never written my own before but someone had to write this i couldnt just daydream forever okay? this is written at precisely 1:46 am after a long ass day and i got the idea exactly after my last cigarette of the night. so, idk tell me if you like it or wtv 🫪

“I told you not to go in without backup,” he snaps, voice low and tight.

You sigh, wincing slightly as the antiseptic hits skin.

“You were two minutes out, Tim.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” you shoot back, a little louder than you should.

He stops. Looks at you like you just asked the wrong question. Like you just touched a nerve he’s spent months pretending doesn’t exist.

“The point is,” he says slowly, jaw clenched, “I thought I was going to find you dead in that house.”

Silence.

You don’t speak. Can’t.

Because under the anger is something else. Something bigger. Something dangerous.

It’s the way he looked at you when he found you; torn vest, bruised face, coughing through the dust, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And that? That’s the problem.

You try to soften it. “Tim, I’m okay.”

But he shakes his head.

“That’s not good enough.”

You swallow, voice quieter. “Why?”

He meets your eyes. And you know it’s over.

No more pretending.

“Because this isn’t just a job anymore,” he says. “Because I’m supposed to train you — not care if you live or die. Not have my heart stop every time you’re in danger.”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t want this to get messy,” he continues, almost to himself. “I’ve kept it clean. Professional. That’s the line. That’s always been the line.”

You take a step toward him.

“And what if we already crossed it?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at you — with every emotion he’s buried since the day he first picked you up in that patrol car.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he murmurs.

“Tell me you don’t feel it,” you challenge. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

He exhales, like your words knocked the wind out of him.

“You’re not.”

You take another step. Close enough to see the hurt in his eyes. The guilt. The want.

“I care about you, Tim,” you say, soft but certain. “Not just as a cop. Not just as my training officer. You.”

His hand twitches at his side. Like he wants to reach for you. But doesn’t.

“I thought I could keep my distance,” he says. “Push you hard. Keep it cold. Make sure you passed and moved on.”

You smile — sad and real.

“Too late for that, huh?”

He finally laughs, but it’s hollow. “Yeah.”

And then the walls drop.

He steps forward, slowly, like you might disappear if he moves too fast. Like he’s still giving you the chance to walk away.

You don’t.

When his hand brushes your cheek, it’s with more reverence than anything you’ve ever known. His thumb traces the cut above your eyebrow — the one that scared the hell out of him — and you see it:

The truth.

The fear.

The love.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says, voice low and honest. “But I know I want to try.”

You smile.

“Then we figure it out. Together.”

His lips find yours before either of you can second-guess it.

And it’s everything you expected — rough around the edges, too intense, too much — but also right. Like you were always meant to burn like this.

When you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m still going to ride your ass during shift,” he warns.

You grin. “Wouldn’t expect anything less, Bradford.”

“Good.”

Then quieter, just for you:

“Because if I ever lost you for real… I wouldn’t come back from it.”

And in the silence that follows, there’s a quiet promise:

No more pretending.

No more lines.