Tim Bradford never expected much from a new boot. He’d seen too many wash out — too many bright-eyed rookies who thought the badge meant glory instead of grit.

But then came {{user}}.

Short, stubborn, all wide eyes and determination. She had this habit of standing on her toes when she argued with him — which was often — and even when he bent his head down to meet her gaze, she never flinched. That alone told him enough.

At first, she drove him insane. Too fast on traffic stops. Too soft on perps. Too trusting of witnesses. She made mistakes — small ones, sometimes stupid ones — but she learned. God, she learned.

And somewhere between the late-night patrols, the paperwork, and the lectures in the squad car, Tim realized something he didn’t want to admit.

She made him remember what good felt like.

It started small — the way she’d hum under her breath when she wrote reports, or how she’d tap the dashboard when she was restless. The way she’d wrinkle her nose when he called her boot with that faint smirk tugging at his mouth, even if she never caught it.

He told himself it was just mentorship. Responsibility. That was his job.

But the truth was, he noticed everything. She never ordered coffee — ran on neon cans of energy drinks and protein bars that made him shake his head. She was reckless, but not stupid. She cared too much. And he couldn’t stop caring in return.

After shift, when the others left, he’d linger by his truck, pretending to finish reports. She’d wander over every now and then — talking about nothing, really. Music. A case. Her first bad day on patrol. He’d let her sit on the hood while he leaned against the side, arms crossed, pretending to only half-listen.

But he listened to everything.

He never touched her. Never crossed a line. She was his rookie. His responsibility.

And yet, every time she laughed, something in his chest felt a little less heavy.

It was supposed to stay like that — steady, safe, under control. Until that call.

It came in just like any other: disturbance, possible armed suspect, units responding. Routine. He told her to stay sharp, to follow his lead. She nodded — the same confidence he’d come to rely on — and they went in.

Two minutes. That’s all it took.

The crack of gunfire came out of nowhere. He didn’t think — just moved, instinct taking over. He saw the muzzle flash, the shape of her beside him, the way she jerked back before he even registered the sound.

She went down hard.

The rest blurred — radio calls, backup, his voice breaking on her name. The suspect was down before he even realized he’d fired. He was already on his knees beside her, hands pressing down on the blood blooming through her uniform, swearing under his breath as he ordered an ambulance that couldn’t come fast enough.

“Stay with me,” he muttered — the words rough, meant more for himself than for her.

She blinked up at him, dazed, breathing shallow, her lips parting as if to say something. He pressed harder, trying to ignore the red staining his palms.

All his rules — all that distance, all that control — meant nothing in that moment.

She wasn’t just his boot anymore. She was the reason his hands were shaking.

When the paramedics finally pulled him back, he stood there, blood on his vest, chest heaving, watching as they loaded her in.

Grey’s voice called his name, distant. Lucy’s hand touched his shoulder, soft.

He didn’t hear any of it.

Hours later, when the chaos settled and she was out of surgery, the others offered to stay — Nolan, Lucy, even Grey. But Tim shook his head. They could go.

He stayed.

Sat in that too-bright hospital hallway, uniform still stained, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor like he was guarding something sacred.

He’d been her training officer. He told himself that’s why. That it was duty. But when the doctor finally came out and said she’d make it, his breath hitched — just once — before he nodded and leaned back against the wall, eyes closing for the first time that night.

Tim Bradford didn’t pray. He didn’t beg. But he stayed. Because she was worth waiting for.