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Roll call starts like any other shift. Too early, too loud, and not enough caffeine.
Lucy sips stale coffee from a paper cup as Sergeant Grey reads out assignments. Her muscles are still tight from a fitful sleep, but she stands straighter when Grey gets to her name.
“Chen,” he calls. “Bradford.”
Great.
She doesn’t look at Tim, but she can feel his presence at her right shoulder. Solid, unreadable. He’s been civil since the domestic call that drove a wedge between them three shifts ago. Civil in that stiff, clipped, "we're-not-talking-about-it" kind of way.
When the call ended, he hadn’t raised his voice. Hadn’t pulled rank. He’d just looked at her like she was someone he didn’t quite trust. That had hurt more than yelling ever would. Now, she falls into step beside him on autopilot as they head toward the shop.
“You good?” he asks, tossing the keys her way.
“Yea, I'm good,” she says, catching them mid-air with a tight smile. He grunts and doesn’t push it.
The first call is routine, a dispute over parking spaces. The second is nothing—a false alarm at a pawn shop. The third is where everything tilts.
“Possible B&E,” dispatch says. “Caller reports a male suspect jumping a back fence near a halfway house on Echo Park. Possibly armed. Black hoodie, jeans.”Tim throws the lights on and glances at Lucy.
“If he runs—”
“We don’t chase unless there’s immediate threat,” she recites, finishing his sentence. He nods. She doesn’t say that she’s already buzzing with adrenaline.
They arrive to find the backyard empty. The fence between houses is old, warped in the middle. She’s halfway through calling it clear when a shadow bolts out from behind a shed.
“LAPD! Stop!” The guy takes off.
Tim goes left, circling the house. Lucy doesn’t hesitate. Vaulting up the fence, foot landing in a shaky groove mid-panel. It wobbles beneath her.
She pushes harder.
The top of the fence catching her leg as she clears it. Metal bites into the outside of her thigh, deep enough to tear.
She gasps, teeth clenching.
Then she hits the ground running.
They get him two streets over. Tim cuffs him, breathing only slightly elevated. Lucy leans against a garage wall, heart hammering.
“You good?” he asks, glancing her way.
“Fine,” she lies, pushing off the wall. The sharp, slicing pain in her thigh makes her flinch. But it’s nothing. It’s manageable.
The radio on Tim’s vest crackles. “1-Adam-100, status?”
Tim keys the mic. “1-Adam-100, Code Four. Suspect in custody.”
He looks over at her again, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Chen?”
Lucy straightens, willing her leg not to tremble. “Code 4,” she says, loud enough for dispatch to hear through his mic. “We’re good.”
It’s almost convincing. Tim studies her for a beat longer but says nothing. Just nods once and hauls the suspect to his feet.
Back at the station, she’s halfway to the locker room when it hits her.
The adrenaline was slowly dwindling and her thigh is on fire. The fabric of her uniform brushes against the open wound with each step. The uniform pants are dark, but she can feel blood starting to seep through the fabric.
She grits her teeth and keeps walking.
Until—
“Chen.”
She pauses. Of course. Tim again.
“You’re limping.”
She stiffens. “I’m not.”
“You are,” he says flatly. “And you’ve been quiet since the suspect call. What happened?”
She shifts her weight. The motion stings. “It’s nothing. I scraped my leg. Fence caught me.”
Tim narrows his eyes. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“Lucy.”
It’s the way he says her name. Not sharp. Not angry. Just quiet.
She exhales slowly. “It’s just a cut.”
“Then show me.”
She hesitates. Then she sighs and leans against the lockers, unhooking her belt and easing her pant leg down just far enough to expose the injury.
Tim swears.
There’s more blood than she expected. The skin is torn in a nasty gash along the outer thigh. The crimson blood was already crusting in places but still oozing in others.
“You didn’t think this was worth mentioning?” he says, voice low.
She shrugs, trying to brush it off. “Didn’t want to make it a thing.”
He’s already pulling gloves from his pocket, crouching in front of her, inspecting it without touching. “This might need stitches.”
“It's not that deep.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Tim—”
His eyes shoot up, gazing at her sternly but his voice remains calm. “You should’ve told me at the scene.”
“You were already mad,” she says before she can stop herself.
His brows pull tight. “Mad? I wasn’t mad. I was—” He stops, exhales. “I was worried. Still am.”
She looks away.
"I didn't want you to think I couldn't handle an arrest.” she admits quietly.
“That’s not how this works,” he says. “You handle things by calling them out. By not bleeding out in a locker room trying to prove a point.”
That lands.
She blinks fast, the edges of her vision going a little fuzzy.
He notices.
“Sit,” he says. “Now.”
She does as she's told. Slowly. The blood has started to soak through the side of her pants.
Tim stands and calls out toward the bullpen, “Someone get me a med kit—now.”
When he turns back, there’s something unreadable in his face.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy murmurs.
“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” he says, kneeling again beside her. “That’s your leg.”
She snorts. “You’re such a hardass.”
“You’re such a pain in mine.”
There’s a beat.
“Lucy?” he says, quieter now. “Next time, don’t hide this. Not from me.”
She meets his eyes. “Okay.”
He holds her gaze a moment longer. Then nods.
The med kit arrives. He snaps on a fresh pair of gloves and kneels again, wordless, focused. The fluorescent lights overhead cast sharp shadows across the room, but his hands are steady—gentle, even. He cleans the gash with practiced precision, dabbing away dried blood, inspecting for debris.
Lucy flinches once.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, not looking up.
She shakes her head. “You’re fine. It’s just… tender.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you pretend a six-inch tear in your leg is no big deal.”
There’s no heat behind the words. Just tired concern.
She lets out a breath. “I didn’t want you to think I couldn't handle it.”
Tim finally looks up. His eyes meeting hers—sharp, blue, unguarded.
“I don't,” he says. “Not ever. But hiding an injury? That’s not strength, Chen. That’s reckless.”
“I know.”
A beat passes. The room feels too quiet now. Her thigh stings, but it’s background noise compared to the weight in his voice. He peels open a dressing pad and tapes it in place.
“This’ll hold until we get you to the clinic. They’ll probably want to stitch it up.”
“You mean you don’t want to try your hand at it?”
He gives her a look—half warning, half exasperated fondness. “You’re not funny.”
She smiles anyway. “A little funny.”
Tim sits back on his heels, pulling off the gloves and tossing them into the trash bin. “You scared me,” he says, so low she almost misses it. “Back there. When I turned around and you were leaning on the lockers like you were gonna pass out.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
Silence stretches between them. Not awkward. Just heavy.
Then he stands and holds out a hand. “Come on. Let’s get you stitched up before Grey walks by and assumes I pushed you off a fence.”
She takes his hand, and lets him pull her up to her feet. The movement sends a jolt of pain up her leg and she stumbles slightly—but he’s already steadying her with one arm around her back.
“Okay?” he asks.
She nods, jaw tight. “Yeah. Just sore.”
Outside, the station hums with normal end-of-shift chaos—phones ringing, boots scuffing against the tiles, radios crackling—but in this moment, it’s just them. His hand still on her waist. Her weight leaning slightly into him.
“Thanks,” she says.
Tim glances down at her. “Anytime.”
And maybe it’s the pain or the exhaustion or something older and quieter between them, but she doesn’t move away until he does.