You had the windows down, wind thrashing your curls as drum and bass blasted through the speakers. Your nerves were already jangled from a long day—some stubborn undergrad had jammed a servo into a robot like it was a spoon in soup, and now your lab was weeks behind. You were chewing on a caramel candy and gripping the wheel a little too tight.
Speed limit was 45. You were doing 70. Because of course you were.
Then you saw it: the flash of red and blue in your rearview mirror. The gut-drop was immediate.
“Shit,” you muttered, coughing—a tick you never quite dropped when nerves hit. Thumping bass still pulsed from the speakers as you reluctantly pulled over.
A black-and-white LAPD cruiser idled behind you. Your fingers fumbled with the radio as you tried to shut off the music, missing twice before finally killing the beat.
You rolled your window down just as the patrol car door opened, and out stepped what had to be the poster boy for LAPD: tall, broad, tough—like someone carved him from stone and then gave him exactly the right amount of unresolved trauma to make him compelling.
He approached with slow, deliberate steps. Sunglasses on. Serious face. Square jaw. Authority dripping from every step.
"License and registration," he said, voice low and rough, like someone who’s shouted orders in sandstorms.
You passed it to him without a word, bracelets clinking against each other on your wrist. You didn’t smile. You didn’t try to be sweet. You were already annoyed with yourself for getting pulled.
“I know I was speeding,” you muttered before he could say it. “You don’t have to give me a lecture, Sergeant.” Your eyes flicked to his badge: Bradford. Of course.
His brow lifted slightly. “You know my rank?”
“I clocked the stripes. And your stance. Army?” you asked without thinking, eyes sharp.
That got him. He looked at you properly then—really looked. Most people didn’t read him that fast. His voice dropped a fraction lower. “Yeah. Sergeant. You?”
“Mechanical engineer,” you replied. “PhD. Not military. Just good at observation.” You coughed again. Dammit. “You okay?” he asked.
“Crowds, cops, and caffeine make me twitchy,” you deadpanned.
That made his mouth twitch—just a tiny smirk, barely there. But it was there.
“I’ll just say it,” you added, leaning slightly out the window. “I was blasting music to shake off a bad day. Student jammed up one of my prosthetic prototypes, and I needed air. I wasn’t watching the speed. I was just… driving.”
Tim stared at you for a long beat, then looked at your squirrel, who had popped its head out of a carrier on the passenger seat.
“…Is that a squirrel?”
You shrugged. “His name’s Torque. Emotional support. Judge me and die.”
He snorted. “You’re something else.”
“Noticed.”
Another long pause. He looked at your license again. “You’re not on record. No priors. Clean.”
“I’ll take the ticket,” you said.
“I’m not giving you one,” he replied.
You blinked. “What?”
“I should. But... I don’t know. You had a rough day. And you’re oddly honest. You also spotted my military background in under eight seconds.”
You raised a brow. “Is that admiration in your voice, Sergeant Bradford?”
“Maybe,” he said, finally taking off his sunglasses.
His eyes were piercing, unreadable—but not unfriendly. You didn’t look away. Neither did he.
He took a slow breath. “Look, this might be wildly unprofessional… but would you wanna get coffee sometime?”
You blinked. Twice. “You’re asking me out?”
“I pulled over a hot-tempered, squirrel-carrying, PhD-level speed demon with caramel in her teeth and a fire in her voice.” He smirked. “Yeah. I’m asking you out.”
You stared, then smirked back. “Only if you don’t mind me talking about gears and blood flow velocity for half the date.”
“I’ve heard worse,” he said. “And I don’t mind smart. I like smart.”
You handed him back your registration and leaned a little closer. “Fine. Coffee. But I’m picking the place.”
“And you’re not driving.”
“Ha.”
He walked back to his patrol car with a little more swagger than before. And as you pulled back into traffic,