You don’t even remember when the call came in, only that you and Tim were already moving before dispatch finished the details. A shooting in Pico-Union. High risk. High stakes. The kind of thing that gets into your bloodstream before you even hit the lights.

Tim drove fast but steady, his jaw set, his eyes forward. You caught his glance once or twice, the silent reminder: stay grounded. He doesn’t need to say it out loud—he knows where your head can go.

The scene is chaos. Tape flaps in the breeze, neighbors shout over one another, and the smell of blood—it’s always the smell—hits you as soon as you cross the threshold of the building. The walls here are thin, and every noise bleeds together into a wall of sound: kids crying, radios squawking, officers barking orders.

Your pulse is climbing, and then someone shoulders past you, intentionally hard, muttering something under their breath. Before you know it, the old reflex takes over. Your hands are on him, shoving him back with more force than necessary. It’s not about control anymore, it’s about release.

But Tim’s there. His hand clamps your shoulder like an anchor. His voice is quiet enough for you alone. “Not this way. Not now.”

You feel the weight of the eyes around you, the suspect smirking through bloodied teeth, and the raw burn of shame in your chest. You shift back, forcing air through your lungs. Forcing yourself to let go.

Later, leaning against the cruiser, you can’t stop your hands from trembling. You don’t even look up when you say it. I almost lost it in there.”

Tim doesn’t hesitate. “Almost doesn’t count. You stopped yourself.”

You shake your head. “Only because of you.”

He meets your gaze with something calmer, heavier. “That’s why I’m here. To catch you before you fall too far.”

But as the radio crackles with another urgent call down the block—and your pulse jumps quick all over again—you wonder how many times someone can pull you back before you slip too deep.