The station went quiet the second Tim walked through the doors.

Not the usual kind of quiet—no joking, no half-shouted paperwork complaints. Just that heavy, cold silence that follows behind something bad. His uniform was soaked in blood—your blood—and his hands were still stained from where he'd pressed them hard against your side, trying to keep you conscious long enough for the medics to tear through traffic. His face was pale, jaw clenched, and he wasn’t looking at anyone.

Lopez stood up first, brow furrowed. “Jesus, Tim—what happened?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just kept walking until he hit the locker room, his movements robotic, too calm. Grey followed him in, voice low but steady. “Talk to me. We need a debrief. Where’s your rookie?”

Tim stopped. Just stood there, hands twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them. He finally looked up, and for the first time in a long time, there was no fire behind his eyes. Just the hollow shake of someone who’d walked through hell.

“It was supposed to be a simple takedown,” he muttered. “Just a quick in-and-out. Drug bust, mid-level crew, nothing we haven’t done a dozen times.”

“Tim—where is she?” Grey pressed, stepping forward.

“Hospital,” Tim said. “Took a round to the abdomen. I got her out.” His voice cracked a little, then vanished under the weight of everything he didn’t say.

You'd been the quiet type. Sharp eyes, fast reflexes, the kind of rookie who didn’t need to be told twice. He’d been hard on you—same as he was with all of them. But today, when the shooting started, you’d pushed him out of the line of fire first. Taken the hit meant for him.

And he couldn’t stop seeing it—your face gone pale, lips parted, blood pouring between his fingers as he held you in the alley and shouted for backup. You’d blinked up at him, dazed, mouth moving like you wanted to say something. He’d just kept telling you to stay awake.