i don't know what to put here

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

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

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

Too quick. Too rehearsed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on.”

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

You squinted. “Diner?”

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

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

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

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

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

“All of it.”

You stared. “What?”

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

Your shoulders stiffened. “Sir—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tim grunted, satisfied. “Atta kid.”

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

Halfway through your milkshake, your shoulders sagged.

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

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

You looked down at your fork.

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

“I wasn’t trying to—”

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

You went quiet again.

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

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

After the midnight diner run, something shifted.

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

Food.

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

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

“Did you eat?”

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

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

He tilted his head slightly. “What?”

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

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

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

Your legs moved before your brain caught up.

By day three, the mission had evolved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By day five, it was no longer a secret.

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

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

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

Even Grey caught wind of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because by now, it was true.

And everyone knew it.

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

You groaned but followed.

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

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

Until..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t respond right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tim’s entire posture softened in a blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of gratitude.

And something else that felt a lot like peace.