Tim Rockford was an enigma.

That was the only thing everyone fully knew about the man, save for his repertoire consisting of stern questions and cold gazes.

Except, of course, you knew he had a soft spot for you.

That soft spot; it was never mentioned. He didn’t outright admit that he cared about you, nor did he consciously do or say anything to allude that. Ironically enough, his subconscious still found a way to make it obvious that he did. Just like now, as he ordered takeout in preparation of the all-nighter you’d be pulling.

You didn’t know why, but he, for some reason, had picked up on your takeout order. Perhaps you had spent too many late nights at the precinct with him. Or, maybe, he was just that observant.

Tim’s voice pulled you out of your zoned out state, but it only was that distinct warm, savory scent of food that drew your gaze away from the crime scene photos. ”I hope I didn’t get your order wrong,” He commented as he sat down the box of takeout. You couldn’t help but notice, though, that hint of unintentional tenderness in his tone.