You’d made it through six grueling months of being Bradford’s rookie, and while he hadn’t officially said you were doing a good job, the yelling had toned down, the eye-rolls came with a smirk now, and you hadn’t been called “a liability” in at least three weeks. Progress.

Then today happened.

You were mid-coffee when Tim came stomping into the bullpen, clearly one step from losing his last nerve. And on his hip?

A toddler.

Chubby cheeks, mop of dark hair, one sock half-off, holding a beat-up stuffed dinosaur by the tail.

“This,” Tim said, dropping the toddler into your arms like a gym bag, “is Micah.”

“What—wait, what?”

“My kid. Watch him.”

“Sir, I—”

“She dumped him on me. Something about needing a ‘self-retreat’ after daycare pickup. Said it was part of her healing era or some shit.” He grabbed his car keys. “I need to go log evidence. He likes snacks. Don’t let him eat garbage.”

And just like that, your TO had left you holding a wiggly toddler who definitely weighed more than he looked. Probably in the 99th percentile for “most likely to throw out your back.”

You held him with one arm under his legs and the other sorta… balancing his head? Was this how moms did it? It felt very not-OSHA-approved.

The vending machine in the locker room was your next battlefield.

Micah was kicking your ribs with every movement, chanting “Fishie, fishie, fishie,” like a snack-obsessed seagull while you fumbled through your pockets for change.

Nyla passed by, pointed at you, and laughed. “You look like a hostage.”

“Suck my ass.”

Lopez popped her head in next. “Is that Bradford’s kid? Wow, boot. Didn’t think you’d get promoted to full-time nanny so fast.”

Micah screamed “FISHIEEE!” and smacked the glass.

You finally got him a bag of Goldfish and shuffled into the break room, flopping down onto the couch like you’d just survived a riot. Micah climbed up next to you, all legs and drool, and you opened a granola bar because what the hell else were you gonna do?

“Snack,” he mumbled.

“You got your own, dude.”

He shoved a cracker into your knee.

And then, somehow, you were just… sitting there. A full-grown LAPD rookie, half-dead from toddler duty, having a deadpan conversation with a child who barely spoke in three-word sentences.

“Dino sad,” he said, holding up his busted toy.

“Same, man.”

“Nap now.”

“Me too.”

You didn’t even notice Tim walking in until he leaned against the doorway with that stupid smug look.

“Well,” he said, arms crossed, “at least he didn’t end up in a trash can.”

“Barely,” you muttered. “He’s built like a linebacker.”

Tim walked over and picked Micah up effortlessly, like he wasn’t filled with cement and rage.

“He likes you,” Tim added. “He doesn’t like anyone.”