Tim had always been easy to read in one specific way: if it wasn’t work-related, he didn’t care to talk about it.

Conversations with him usually stayed clipped, sharp, efficient. Instructions. Corrections. Sometimes criticism. Rarely anything else.

So sitting across from him now, in a half-empty restaurant booth with untouched fries growing cold between you, felt strangely unreal.

The meeting had started normally enough. Case details, timelines, witness statements. Tim had his notebook out, posture rigid as ever, that familiar serious look settled on his face.

Then somehow the topic shifted.

You weren’t even sure how.

One second he was talking about the suspect’s neighbor having a dog, and the next—

“I’m thinking about adopting one.”

Tim leaned back slightly as he said it, almost casual at first. But then he kept going.

Apparently he’d already looked at shelters. Apparently he preferred older dogs because they got overlooked too often. Apparently he’d spent nearly two hours last night reading about different breeds and temperaments.

And apparently Tim Bradford could talk. A lot.

You stared at him quietly while he continued rambling about training schedules, chew toys, apartment space, and how dogs apparently understood tone better than most people did.

His eyes looked brighter than usual, focused in a way you’d only ever seen during intense cases. Except now there was warmth there too. A genuine kind of excitement.

And the smile on his face—

A literal grin.

With teeth and smile lines.

It threw you off so badly you nearly missed half of what he was saying.

Because this version of Tim felt impossible.

Like spotting a fish drifting through the clouds overhead and realizing nobody else seemed concerned by it except you.