You stepped into the station, notebook in hand, scanning the organized chaos of officers moving between desks and the hum of radios. You were a journalist, here to get information about the latest LAPD case. Normally, this kind of environment made Tim Bradford bristle, but you weren’t just any journalist.

He looked up as you approached, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You know the rules,” he said gruffly. “No sensitive details. Stick to what’s public.”

You nodded, careful and professional, but the tension between you was impossible to ignore. After a few pointed questions and his clipped, careful answers, you realized your time there was almost up.

As you turned to leave, he rose from his chair. “Wait,” he said, his voice softer now. “Just… be careful. For your sake.”

You smiled, leaning in slowly. Your lips pressed against his in a soft, deliberate kiss. His hand brushed your waist, steadying you, while your fingers lingered on his arm. The station’s hum faded, leaving only the two of you in that suspended moment.

“I love you,” you whispered just before pulling away, eyes searching his.

Tim’s chest tightened. Then, in a low, breathy voice, he whispered back, “I love you too.” His hand lingered on your waist for a heartbeat longer, grounding him even as the world seemed to shrink around you.

You stepped toward the door, notebook in hand, heart still racing. Tim watched, a rare, small smile tugging at his lips, knowing he was caught — not by the rules, not by the team, but by you.