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realityjoey · 1 day ago

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SEASON 1, EPISODE 4, “THE SWITCH.”

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

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

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

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

Uh-oh.

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

Bradford rolled his eyes. “Here we go…”

Dylan smirked into her coffee.

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

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

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

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

“Chen — you’re with Bishop.”

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

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

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

“Bradford — you’re with West.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seriously?” Tim muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

That half-second pause.

A reluctant tug at the corner of his mouth.

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

He was going to miss riding with her.

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

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

Dylan blinked. “Wow. Straight to it.”

“I don’t mess around.”

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

“Not a chance.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, naturally, Lopez broke the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lopez nodded. “Noted.”

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

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

Tim ignored it.

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

“But?” Lopez prompted.

Tim hesitated.

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

Yates glanced over. “Trauma?”

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wouldn’t say it aloud.

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

Not because he didn’t trust Lopez.

But because he did.

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

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

Angela wanted to learn. Desperately.

And Dylan?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lopez stayed quiet, sensing the shift.

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

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

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

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

She went quiet for a beat.

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

Angela didn’t move.

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

The air in the cruiser went still.

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

Lopez’s throat tightened. “Dylan…”

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

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

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

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

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

Dylan blinked at it. “What’s this?”

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

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

“You’re relentless,” she muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

Angela was still in awe.

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

“Alright, your turn.”

Angela blinked. “My turn?”

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

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

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

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

She exhaled slowly, thinking. Then, finally:

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

Dylan turned toward her, intrigued.

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

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

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

“And you did,” Dylan said quietly.

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

She paused again.

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

Dylan was quiet for a long beat.

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

Angela nodded. “Yeah.”

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

Angela glanced at her, surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

Not rivalry.

Not hierarchy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angela just smiled wider. “Too late.”

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

It was genuine.

The beginning of something solid.

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

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

Tim gave him a glance. “You good?”

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

Tim noted it. Tucked it away.

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

Tim signalled.

They stepped through the side door into shadow and must.

Then came the shout.

“LAPD! Show me your hands!”

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

And that was when it happened.

Jackson froze.

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

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

Once the gunfire stopped, everything went still.

Except Jackson.

Still crouched. Still shaking.

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

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

“West.”

No response.

“Jackson. Look at me.”

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

Tim’s gut twisted.

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

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

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

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

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

Dylan.

That gunfight. The blood. The noise.

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

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

He’d almost died that day.

But she hadn’t frozen.

She hadn’t flinched.

She’d acted.

She’d saved him.

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

He was fucking lucky.

Lucky Dylan had been the one with him that day.

Lucky she hadn’t second-guessed herself.

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

Jackson wasn’t ready.

He might never be.

And Tim?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lopez and Dylan both looked up.

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

“Lopez!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, today proved he hasn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think he’s okay?” she asked.

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

The lot was starting to thin out.

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

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

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

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

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

“Liar,” Dylan replied calmly.

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

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

Jackson frowned. “What look?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jenkins!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leave. Now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room was mostly empty.

Until Jackson walked in.

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

“Sir.”

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

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

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

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

Jackson flinched. “Sir—”

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

Jackson’s face fell.

Then he nodded once, quietly. “Understood.”

He turned and left.

From behind a locker wall, Dylan stepped out.

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

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

Tim didn’t flinch. “It was honest.”

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

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

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

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

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

The room crackled with tension.

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

She turned and left.

Tim didn’t stop her.

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

And Bradford stood there, completely alone.

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

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

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

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

Tim knocked once. Twice.

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

“Wallis. It’s me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jackson blinked, slowly lowering himself into the chair opposite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you do?”

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

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

“Thanks,” he said. “That… helps.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smirked. “You big softie.”

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

“You kind of are.”

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

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

He glared at her. “You done?”

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

She walked off, still smiling.

Tim stared after her.

Grumbling to himself.

But he didn’t deny it.

Not this time.

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

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

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

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

He tapped the map.

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

The room was tense. Focused.

Grey began assigning positions.

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

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

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

No heroics.

No missed beats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dylan smirked. “Bet you’d love that.”

“Absolutely not.”

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

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

Tim glanced over. “How?”

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

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

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

Tim’s gaze lingered on her, thoughtful.

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

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

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

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

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

The words weren’t sentimental.

But they didn’t have to be.

They were true.

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

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

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

The hum in the air snapped to attention.

“Let’s go,” Tim said.

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

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

The air buzzed with tension.

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

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

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

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

“Cops!”

Then—

Gunfire.

The deafening crack of it echoed through the concrete cavern.

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

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

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

And he was checking on her just as frequently.

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

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

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

The last time, Tim had nearly died.

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

Suddenly — movement.

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

—and a second suspect turned and fired.

At her.

CRACK.

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

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

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

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

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

“Dylan—Dylan, talk to me.”

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

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

He didn’t listen.

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

“Take it off,” he muttered.

“I’m—”

“Take. It. Off.”

His voice was low, sharp, almost desperate.

So she did.

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

Nothing.

No blood.

She placed her hand over his, stilling him.

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

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

She softened. “You okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. “Just part of the job.”

But neither of them believed that.

They didn’t say what it really was:

It was fear.

It was protectiveness.

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

And neither of them dared to name it.

Not yet.

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

Except Tim Bradford wasn’t just anyone.

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

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

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

Dylan tilted her head. “Tempting.”

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

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

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

The day they both got shot.

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

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

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

His jaw tightened.

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

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

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

—“I’ve got you, stay with me”—

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

“Tim?”

Her voice broke through the spiral.

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

He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

But she knew what he’d seen.

And she knew what it meant.

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

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

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

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

“And yet I wasn’t. You’re welcome.”

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

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

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

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

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

Tim grunted. “She can try.”

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

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

He hadn’t taken his eyes off her scar.

“You alright?” she asked, voice low.

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

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

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.

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

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

She didn’t move away.

And neither of them said a word about it.

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

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