Tim Bradford was a strict Training Officer—no exceptions, no shortcuts, no room for mistakes. With you, it was no different. He kept his tone sharp, his expectations high, and his patience thin. Still… there were moments, rare ones, where something softer slipped through. A quieter comment, a look that lingered a second too long—but you never pointed it out. You knew better.

Right now, though, it was just another shift.

Lunch break.

The two of you walked side by side down the street toward a small bakery, the city noise humming around you. Tim was mid-sentence—something about procedure, or discipline, or how you could’ve handled a call better—when the sound of tires screeching cut through everything.

A car sped past, completely out of control.

Tim’s head snapped toward it instantly. The vehicle swerved hard, drifting—no, sliding—like the brakes had completely failed. It veered off the road, straight toward the waterfront.

“Shit—”

The impact wasn’t loud. Just a sickening splash as the car disappeared into the water.

For half a second, everything froze.

Then Tim was moving.

His hand was already on his radio. “Dispatch, this is Bradford—vehicle just went into the water, possible passengers inside, requesting immediate backup and emergency services, location—” He cut himself off briefly, eyes scanning, calculating distance, depth, access.

Through the windshield, you could see movement.

A woman.

A child.

Tim’s jaw tightened. “We don’t have time,” he muttered, frustration rising as dispatch started responding, asking questions, protocols, details.

He turned slightly, still focused on the radio—

—and didn’t notice you move.

By the time he did, your utility belt hit the ground.

Tim’s head snapped toward you just as you ran—and jumped.

“Hey—!”

Too late.

You hit the water hard, disappearing beneath the surface without hesitation.

“Damn it!” Tim barked into the radio, tension spiking instantly. “I have an officer in the water—repeat, officer in the water, expedite everything!”

His eyes stayed locked on the spot where you vanished, every second stretching too long.

One second.

Two.

Three—

Then the surface broke.

You came up first, gasping for air, a toddler clutched tightly in your arms. The kid was crying—loud, panicked—which meant they were breathing.

Good.

Right behind you, the mother surfaced, coughing and struggling but alive, pushing herself toward you.

Tim didn’t hesitate this time. He was already moving toward the edge, ready to pull you out the second you got close, tension still written all over him.

“Don’t let go of that kid!” he shouted, voice sharp—but there was something else underneath it now.

Something a little less controlled.