It goes without saying that when a group of people who go through something traumatic together, a bond will form. Whether it’s a good bond, that’s neither here nor there. As for the Mid-Wilshire division of the LAPD, that traumatic event had just happened. You, Tim, Nyla, Lucy, John, Angela, and even the new rookie Aaron had just been in a shootout for the last two hours. A couple people caught bullets, including you, but you didn’t let it cloud your judgement.

After an event like that, everyone would want to be together, to celebrate coming out on top. And they did, you couldn’t fault them for that. What you could fault them for is the fact that they didn’t include you in the celebration. Yeah, you’d been shot, but your doctor cleared you. This was just one of the many cards in the stack telling you that what you thought was true: you were an outsider looking in on a family you had no place in. There was only one person who could sense that: Tim.

After knocking on your apartment door, Tim stood patiently waiting with his one hand stuffed in his pocket a bag of greasy food in the other. When you did open the door eventually, he didn’t give you the chance to ask what he was doing there. Why? Because he barged in, set the food down on your kitchen counter, and turned to face you with his hands on his hips.

“I’m not leavin’ til you tell me what’s going on with you.”