It started with something stupid — a comment, a tone, a case gone sideways.

But now you and Tim were standing in the precinct’s locker room, the door shut, voices low but sharp.

“You always do this,” you snapped, arms crossed. “Shut down the second something gets remotely personal.”

He scoffed, pulling off his vest and tossing it on the bench. “Because the second it gets personal, you stop listening.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” he said, turning to face you fully. “What’s not fair is you acting like I’m the only one pretending there’s nothing going on between us.”

Silence hit the room like a wave.

Your breath caught. “Tim.”

He stepped closer, not angry anymore — just tired. Honest. Raw.

“I’m not good at this. Feelings, relationships… us. But I can’t keep walking into work like I don’t think about you every second I’m not looking at you.”

You blinked, words frozen on your tongue. Because gosh, you wanted to say it back — but your walls were up, and you couldn’t find the right moment to drop them. You were too hurt from your past to say it.

So instead, you whispered and denied it. “You don’t mean that.”

Tim’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, I do. But maybe you just don’t want to hear it.”