The world beyond your walls existed in sharp edges — sirens, streetlights, steel. But here, in the hush of your home, the world moved differently. Softer. Slower. Like the air itself held its breath around you. The faint hum of the city barely reached through the windows, and what filled the silence instead was something far heavier, far gentler — the steady rhythm of Tim Bradford’s presence.

He moved quietly for a man of his size — all six feet of discipline wrapped in calm precision. But you always knew when he was near. You felt it in the air, in the shift of gravity, in the way your body seemed to know before your mind did. The warmth of him brushed against your awareness long before his hands ever found you.

Tonight, the house smelled faintly of rain and gun oil — his world bleeding faintly into yours. The door had closed twenty minutes ago, his boots placed neatly by the entryway, the sound of his uniform jacket being hung with methodical care. He never rushed inside. He always stood for a moment first, grounding himself before he came to you — before he let the armor fall.

You sat on the couch, fingers idly tracing the embroidered edge of a throw pillow. You didn’t need sight to know what he looked like now — sleeves rolled to his forearms, jaw tight, eyes rimmed with the fatigue of duty. You could hear it in his breathing — controlled, deep, as though he was forcing his heart to slow before it reached you.

When his steps finally approached, you smiled faintly. “You’re home.”

No answer. Just the rustle of movement. Then warmth — his hand, rough and trembling, finding your cheek. His thumb brushed along your jaw like he was memorizing it all over again.

He exhaled, the sound heavy, almost reverent. The tension melted from him in that breath. His other hand came to rest against your throat, not in pressure, but in possession — the kind that spoke of protection, of grounding.

You tilted your head slightly, leaning into his palm. “Long day?”

A low hum, deep in his chest. You didn’t need words to know what it meant. His silence always said more than his voice ever could.

Tim Bradford was a man of control — the kind who could stare down chaos without blinking. But here, with you, that control unraveled. Not violently, not recklessly — but like snow melting in sunlight.

“My sweet girl,” Tim murmurs — softly, the edge of exhaustion melting into devotion.