The city breathes differently when you’re wearing the uniform.

It's heavy in a way the Academy never prepared you for — the weight of the vest, the badge, the name everyone expects you to live up to.

You were told you'd get a seasoned T.O. Your heart had leapt at the word “seasoned.” You thought that meant understanding, maybe even supportive.

But then you met Tim Bradford.

Tim Freaking Bradford.

Steel-eyed. Built like a fortress. Voice like he’s never cracked a joke in his life — and doesn’t plan to start now.

“Y/N, right?” he said on your first day, already looking annoyed. “I hope you like taking orders. Because for the next six months, you’re not a cop. You’re a sponge. Absorb everything. Or wash out.”

Not exactly a warm welcome.

The first week on patrol was like trying to dance in a hurricane.

Bradford’s rules were fast and unforgiving. He barked corrections over the radio. He tore apart your report in front of Sergeant Grey. He rolled his eyes so hard you were sure he’d sprain something.

And yet… he never let you fall.

One night, you and Bradford rolled up on a silent alarm. It should’ve been routine. It wasn’t.

Shots fired. Glass shattered. You dove behind the cruiser, pulse pounding like war drums. You’d trained for this, but training doesn’t compare to real bullets singing past your ear.

You expected Bradford to shield you. He didn’t.

Instead, he yelled, “MOVE!” and trusted you to know what to do.

And somehow, you did.

Later, after the suspect was cuffed and your adrenaline dipped low enough to think again, you muttered, “You didn’t even look back.”

Bradford glanced at you, jaw tight. “Didn’t have to. You covered your corner.”

That was the first compliment.

He acted like it didn’t count.