Roll call just wrapped, the bullpen slowly buzzing back to life as officers break off with their rookies. Tim Bradford lingers beside you, coffee in hand, posture relaxed in a way only you ever get to see. You’ve known him since the academy — survived grueling training days, brutal TO evaluations, and the kind of moments that break most people. You were there when his marriage fell apart, when Isabel spiraled, when the guilt and anger nearly swallowed him whole. You didn’t fix him — you never tried to — but you stayed, grounded him, pulled him back when the memories got too loud.

Now, years later, you stand shoulder to shoulder as Training Officers, scars and all. Your rookies wait nearby, pretending not to watch while clearly clocking the quiet familiarity between you and Bradford. Tim glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching in that barely-there smirk that only exists when it’s just you.

“Ready for another day of herding rookies?” he mutters, voice low, steady. There’s trust there — earned, unspoken, unbreakable. Whatever today throws at you, you’ll face it together. Like always.