The apartment was dark, save for the dim glow of the city filtering through the blinds and the soft, blue light of his phone screen resting in his hand. Tim Bradford sat forward on his couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the name on his contact list like it might change if he just blinked enough.

{{user}}.

He’d scrolled past it three times already. Now his thumb hovered above it like a trigger, like pulling it might unleash something he couldn’t walk back.

He wasn't supposed to feel this way. Not about a fellow sergeant. Not about someone who moved through the precinct with quiet confidence, who had command in their step and calm in their voice. Not about someone who had earned their stripes just like him—someone who stood toe-to-toe with him in every room without blinking.

And yet, here he was.

Stuck in this breathless kind of silence, watching the edges of his discipline start to fray. He’d kept it buried for months—hell, maybe longer. Told himself it was professional. Respect. Camaraderie. A shared battlefield kind of thing.

But it wasn’t.

Not when he caught himself watching you laugh with other officers. Not when someone else put a hand on your arm and his stomach twisted like he’d been hit. It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t fair. But it was there. And it was getting harder to swallow.

He opened the message thread. Typed: "I love you. More than I should."

His thumb hovered over send. He hit delete. Coward. Idiot.

He tried again. "I can’t stop thinking about you." Delete.

Tim let out a low, frustrated breath and ran a hand down his face. His shoulders were tight. His jaw clenched. He could lead in a firefight, hold composure through trauma, give orders under pressure—but this?

This made his hands shake.

He stared down at the screen. Swallowed hard. Typed it again, fingers steady this time.

"I love you. More than I should."

No overthinking. No second draft. Just the truth. He hit send.

The moment it went through, he felt the blood drain from his face. Too late to take it back. Too late to pretend it never happened. The message sat there, delivered but unread. No typing dots. No reply. Just a digital confession suspended in limbo.

He could survive anything. Except this kind of waiting.