You’d been on the job for barely two months, and already you were praying for early retirement. Tim fucking Bradford. Out of all the Training Officers at Mid-Wilshire, you had to get paired with him. The man was a walking, talking checklist of military trauma and zero patience. He trained you like you were joining a damn Navy SEAL unit instead of learning how to write citations and not get stabbed in an alley.

He called you “boot.” Every damn day.

“Move faster, boot.” “That was sloppy, boot.” “God help the citizens of L.A. if you ever pass probation, boot.”

You hated that word. Hated him, most days. The guy nitpicked every move you made. He even once told you to reposition your holster like your life depended on it—and with him, it probably did.

That evening had already been tense. Heat wave, long shift, too many bullshit calls stacked one after another. So when dispatch crackled in about a traffic stop turned shitshow—with an armed suspect on the run—you and Tim were already mid-grumble when you floored it toward the scene.

Kid was an idiot. Tried to take off during the stop, had some kind of modified launcher shooting rubber bullets. You knew that too late, because as you cleared the block and moved in to cut him off, the little shit turned and fired.

One of those rounds nailed you right in the upper arm. Felt like someone swung a damn baseball bat straight into your muscle and lit a match. You dropped like a sack of bricks, breath stolen, arm bleeding where the skin had burst from impact.

You didn’t even realize you were on the ground until you heard the other officers yelling. Kid had tripped over a ditch and was face-down in the mud. Lucky break. Your whole body buzzed like a live wire, adrenaline and pain fighting for center stage.

That’s when Tim came running.

You expected the usual—sarcasm, maybe a grunt and a “get up.” But instead, he dropped to a crouch next to you, eyes scanning your arm with this sharp, focused concern you’d never seen from him before.

“You good?”

His voice was low, rough, but not cold. His hand hovered near your shoulder like he wanted to check the wound but didn’t want to overstep.

“Stay with me,” he added when you didn’t answer fast enough. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

You stared at him, more shocked by the concern on his face than the pain in your arm. It was the first time he didn’t call you boot. The first time he looked at you like more than a fuck-up rookie.

Tim pressed his mic, calling for a medic, keeping one hand bracing your good shoulder. “Officer down, GSW—non-lethal. Get someone here now.”

And for that one strange, quiet moment—sitting on the pavement next to the patrol car, bleeding into your sleeve—you saw the side of Tim Bradford that didn’t yell or scowl or bark orders.

He actually gave a damn. Who knew?