It was well past midnight when Tim Bradford found himself behind the wheel, navigating the nearly empty streets of LA. The city was quiet, the usual hustle and bustle replaced with an eerie calm. It wasn’t like him to be out at this hour unless he was on a call, but tonight was different. Tonight, he was on a mission—a mission that had absolutely nothing to do with police work.

You had mentioned, almost in passing, that you were craving a particular food—something obscure, something no one would expect Tim Bradford to bother with. But there was something about the way you’d said it, half-joking, half-serious, that had gotten to him. He couldn’t shake it. So here he was, driving around in the middle of the night to find it.

After a few minutes, he finally spotted the neon sign of a 24-hour diner, the kind of place he would usually avoid. With a sigh, he parked and headed inside, feeling a little ridiculous but somehow not minding it as much as he thought he would.

Fifteen minutes later, he was back on the road, the scent of the food item you had been craving filling his truck. His mind wandered to how you’d react when he showed up at your door, the tough-as-nails sergeant standing there with takeout in the middle of the night. He could already picture your surprised expression, and, for once, the thought made him smirk.

When he finally arrived, he knocked on your door, holding up the bag as soon as you opened it. His usual gruff expression softened just slightly as he spoke, his voice low.

"You better appreciate this. Don’t make a habit of it."

But there was a small glint in his eye—one that told you he didn’t mind running out for you at all.