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It was a commonly known fact at the Mid-Wilshire station, that Lucy Chen loved music. Whether it was up-tempo dance, nostalgic country or shake-your-hips pop, Lucy adored it all.
Officers passing by her desk would often catch her mouthing lyrics under her breath or tapping out rhythms on her notepad.
She hummed while doing laundry or cooking, whistled while walking from the locker rooms to her car or strolling down a supermarket aisle, and cranked up the volume for a good sing along while she was driving or in the shower.
Lucy didn’t just love music, she understood it. She found her own meaning in every song, and her carefully curated playlists were a testament to that. She had lists for just about every major event in her life, songs that matched her mood at any given time, and she was proud of how each one told a story–her story.
There was the ‘Academy Attendance’ list, a mix of high-energy songs to get her through those first months of grinding work-outs and sleepless nights, and more introspective songs for those nights she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if she’d make it.
Then there was her ‘Rookie Roughing’ playlist, filled with adrenaline-pumping tracks that helped her prepare for long shifts with a stoic TO.
Her current go-to–when she wasn’t listening to her ‘Heartbreak Healers’ list on repeat–was ‘Shift Starters’: upbeat, confidence-boosting jams that set the tone before she stepped out into the field.
To Lucy, music wasn’t just something you listen to. It was a memory keeper, a mood shifter, and sometimes, even a guide.
It’s because of that, she had a designated ringtone for each of her most-used contacts.
Her mother’s was admittedly not the most original, though it was very on point, the Imperial March infusing her mood with just enough doom to prepare her for the inevitable passive-aggressive check-ins or pointed comments about life choices. It usually gave her just enough time to put on emotional armor before answering. Sometimes, she didn't answer at all.
Jackson’s had started out as just her phone’s default ringtone, until that one night—about three weeks into training—they went out together and decided, somewhere between tequila shots and bad karaoke, that they were going to be best friends. The next morning, when Jackson called to check on her hangover, Sunflower by Post Malone burst through the tiny speakers of her phone.
She didn’t remember setting it, but it felt right. Bright, hopeful, a little ridiculous—just like him.
After… she couldn’t bear to delete his contact. But she did change the ringtone. Swapped it out for a subdued, instrumental version of Forever Young. Quieter. Sadder. More fitting for a call she knew would never come again.
Nolan’s had been easy. Despite their ill-fated attempt at something more than friends, she only ever set his ringtone once: Good Times by Chic. It wasn’t romantic or complicated. Just a steady beat—kind of like Nolan himself. And after Grey’s comment about Nolan being older than disco, the song became a running gag between them.
For the rest of her co-workers-turned-friends, she chose ringtones that matched their personalities and the unique bonds they’d built—never overly sentimental, always thoughtful—like little echoes of the people behind the names on her screen.
Angela’s song blared with fierce confidence, just like the way she carried herself through every case, sharp and unyielding. Nyla’s ringtone thumped with a pulse that never quit, a beat as relentless as her stride down the hallway. Wesley’s tune floated in with a lighter touch, easy and bright, the kind of sound that made even the longest shift feel a little less heavy. Bailey’s ringtone was all grit and drive, a steady push forward that mirrored her determination. Aaron’s ringtone carried a quiet strength, the kind of steady rhythm that anchored the chaos around them. And then there was Celina’s—playful and sharp, a mischievous spark that always made Lucy smile when it played.
Those sounds weren’t just alerts; they were threads tying her to a patchwork of friendships, each one carrying its own weight and meaning, weaving into the soundtrack of her life at the station.
And then there was Tim’s.
At first, it was just the standard tone—because honestly, he was intimidating enough without a musical cue. But after a particularly brutal week of Tim Tests—grueling, exacting, relentless—she set it to a low, steady beat. No lyrics. No warmth. Just that slow, thudding pulse that made her spine snap straight every time it played.
It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. It was focus. Pressure. The feeling of being seen—not coddled, but challenged. Like he was daring her to rise to it.
And every time it rang, she tried.
Then she got buried in a barrel, and he saved her life. After that, she changed the ringtone to The Fighter by Gym Class Heroes. Because that’s what he told her he saw when he looked at her now. Not a victim. Not weak.
A survivor. A fighter.
And Lucy doesn’t think she’s ever felt as seen as she did in that moment.
She’d changed it to match the ringtone that had been on Jake Butler’s phone after the whole UC thing, which had lasted for approximately one phone call—because Tim had not been amused. He didn’t say anything outright, just raised an eyebrow in that way of his that said: Really?
And that had been enough.
She’d rolled her eyes, muttered something about it being “just a song,” but she changed it anyway.
Taylor Swift’s Daylight was the next song she picked for him—not because it was flashy or dramatic, but because it felt like a promise. A quiet kind of light breaking through the darkness, a reminder that maybe love didn’t have to be burning red anymore. Maybe it could be golden.
And whenever that ringtone played, it felt less like a call and more like a little nudge—like a whisper telling her that she was finally stepping into something real.
Tim had rolled his eyes when he’d heard it the first time, calling her cell without realizing she was in the bullpen, but he hadn’t said anything. And Lucy had seen that flicker—half amusement, half something softer—behind his usual stoic mask. It was the kind of look that said, You’re ridiculous, but also, I kinda like that about you.
But now, things were different.
The ringtone that played from her phone wasn’t the soft promise of Daylight anymore. It was something darker—aching words filled with sadness and bite.
She’d set it one night, finally alone, sitting on the floor of her apartment with a glass of wine in one hand and her heart in the other. Her hands had been shaking when she did it, but she didn’t hesitate.
It wasn’t subtle. But heartbreak never was.
Not that it mattered much, because he didn’t call her anymore.
Until…
“All units, be advised, possible 2-11 in progress at First National Bank on Ocean Blvd. Silent alarm got tripped 3 minutes ago. Approach code 2.”
The radio crackled with static, then Lucy’s voice–clear, calm. “7-Adam-19, copy. En route code 2, show us responding.”
In the end, it wasn’t much of a robbery, as much as it was a fraternity prank gone wrong. A frat boy with a note scribbled on a deposit slip and shaky hands stuffed into his Patagonia vest. No weapon, no real intent—just a dare taken one step too far.
By the time backup arrived, Lucy already had him cuffed and seated on the curb, talking him down from hyperventilation while trying to keep the annoyance from her tone.
Her radio crackled again, Tim’s voice cutting through the static. “7-Adam-100, code 4 at location, with 7-Adam-19.”
She recognized his voice instantly–of course she did–but it took her a second to register what the words meant. At location. Here. The moment that realization settled, she felt it, the unmistakable weight of his gaze, steady and familiar, burning into her back like a laser.
She didn’t turn. Not right away.
Instead, she straightened her spine, set her jaw, let the cool, professional mask she’d been wearing for weeks now, slip back into place.
When she finally turned around, her expression was unreadable.
“What’s the situation, officer Chen?” Tim asked, voice even, eyes sharp as they met hers.
“Jasper Nichols, 19.” She replied crisply. “Sophomore at UCLA, currently pledging Delta Rho Alpha, by the look of him.”
Tim’s eyes leave hers to take in the cuffed suspect sitting dejectedly on the curb.
The kid looked like a cautionary tale.
He was dressed in nothing but damp white socks, sagging boxer briefs, and a gray sweatshirt three sizes too big, the fraternity’s Greek letters barely visible beneath a constellation of beer stains and what Tim hoped was ketchup.
His knees were scraped, his hair plastered to his forehead, and he smelled like he’d taken a bath in cheap IPA and poor decisions.
A crooked Sharpie mustache had been drawn above his lip, already smudging in the heat.
“Jesus,” Tim muttered under his breath.
Lucy didn’t respond. She just handed over the note he’d passed to the teller, safely encased in a plastic evidence bag—bold black ink on a deposit slip that read: “Give me all the money. This is a robbery. LOL.”
Tim raised his eyebrows. “Did he really draw a smiley face on a robbery note?”
“Yep,” Lucy said, without inflection. “Right after shotgunning a six-pack of Natty Light and losing a bet involving a traffic cone and a goldfish.”
The kid groaned from the curb. “It wasn’t even my idea.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” Tim muttered, then looked back at Lucy. “You transporting?”
She gave a curt nod. “Yeah. I’ll walk him back to my shop.”
“Need a hand?”
“No.” She was already moving, her grip firm on the kid’s arm as she hauled him up.
Professional. Efficient. Completely unaffected.
At least, that was the illusion.
She guided Jasper into the back seat and shut the door with a firm click, then turned on her heel and walked around the front of the cruiser, every step purposeful.
She didn’t look at Tim. She didn’t have to—she could feel the way his gaze followed her like a shadow. So when she spoke, she directed it to Aaron instead.
“I’ll get him to processing. You good here?”
Aaron nodded, his eyes flicking—just briefly—between her and Tim. The tension was obvious, even if neither of them acknowledged it. And Aaron, caught somewhere between friend and coworker, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “We’ve got it. Thanks.”
“Cool.” She opened the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel, her hand reaching instinctively for the phone mounted beside the steering wheel—
And stopped.
Her phone mount sat empty.
Her hand hovered there a moment too long, then dropped to the center console. Cup holder. Glove box. Door pocket.
Nothing.
The space behind her eyes began to throb. She turned in her seat, eyes scanning the floorboard, then up at the slightly lowered window on the passenger side.
She had locked the shop. She always locked the shop. But the window— She hadn’t rolled it up all the way. It was down enough to let the car breathe in the LA heat. And apparently, also enough to give someone access.
Her jaw clenched. A slow, tight breath hissed between her teeth.
Outside, she could still hear Aaron and Tim talking. She didn’t get out of the car. Not yet. She just sat there, staring at the empty phone mount, the pressure in her chest mounting like a rising tide.
Then—
A soft knock rapped against the driver’s side window. Lucy turned her head slowly. Tim stood there, eyes sharp but careful, his expression unreadable.
“Is there a problem, Officer Chen?” he asked, voice low but steady.
She swallowed the tight knot in her throat, forcing her face back into its professional mask.
“My phone’s not where it’s supposed to be,” she said, keeping her voice even.
Tim furrowed his brow, stepping a little closer. “Could’ve dropped somewhere. Did you check under the seat? The mats? Sometimes they slip down in weird spots.”
Lucy’s jaw clenched. I’m not an idiot, she thought. She tried to keep the edge of irritation from her tone when she replied, but wasn’t completely successful. “Yes. Twice. And the console, the glovebox, the door. Everywhere.”
Tim’s brow lifted—just a fraction—but it spoke volumes. A silent I’m just trying to help, mixed with a quiet and I’m your superior officer, so watch that tone.
Lucy blinked and blew out a breath, forcing herself to school her expression, though the tension lingered beneath the surface.
Tim sighed softly, not blind to the undercurrent of frustration and something else—something he couldn’t acknowledge right now—woven through her composure.
“I’ll call your phone,” he said instead, voice gentle but firm. “If it’s still in the shop, we’ll hear it.”
Lucy nodded quickly, relief flooding her face. “Okay, yeah. That sounds good.”
But almost immediately, the tightness returned, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Wait—maybe Aaron should call it. Or I’ll keep looking.”
Tim was already pulling out his phone, a frown flickering across his face at her hesitation. He tapped the screen and began dialing.
They waited for the call to connect, and when it rang on Tim’s end, Lucy held her breath. The moment stretched taut—an awkwardness she could barely contain, knowing what ringtone would blare through the silent shop.
But nothing came from the shop or its surroundings.
The silence spilled out, and she let the breath escape in a rush of relief.
Tim hung up, his frown deepening. He reached for his radio. “How long were you inside the bank?”
“Fifteen minutes, tops,” Lucy said, eyes fixed on the steering wheel.
He keyed the mic. “Dispatch, run shop cam footage for 7-Adam-19 for the last half hour. Need to see if there’s any sign of a theft.”
Minutes felt like hours until Tim’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out and played the footage—a second young guy, dressed in the same pledge shirt, white socks, and boxers as Jasper, reaching through the slightly open window and snatching Lucy’s phone.
Tim’s jaw clenched. He raised the radio mic again. “Dispatch, run a trace on Officer Chen’s phone. Send its location to the shop computer.”
Without missing a beat, he looked at Aaron. “Take this one,” pointing his thumb towards the suspect in the back seat, “back to the station. I’m riding with Lucy to track down her phone.”
“I can handle this—” Lucy started, but Tim’s steady gaze froze her protest in her throat. She exhaled sharply, eyes flicking to the passenger door just as he opened it and slid inside.
Aaron eased Jasper out of the backseat, nodding at Lucy as he headed back to his shop.
Lucy huffed in reluctant resignation, then started the engine.
It didn’t take long to catch up with the frat boy. Tim spotted him first—strolling casually down a cracked sidewalk, phone in hand, recording a live Cliptalk video with that half-grin of reckless pride only a pledge could wear.
Back at the station, Lucy processed him, breathing a quiet sigh of relief when Tim paired back up with Aaron and headed out again.
The rest of her shift passed without incident. She barely remembered the near miss with Tim hearing the new ringtone she’d assigned him — until she stepped out of the locker room, walking toward her car.
Suddenly, her phone blared through the evening air, the lyrics crashing loud and clear between parked cars. Lucy froze, the words echoing painfully.
And you wanna scream,
Don’t call me kid, don’t call me baby,
Look at this godforsaken mess that you made me,
You showed me colors you know I can’t see with anyone else.
Don’t call me kid, don’t call me baby,
Look at this idiotic fool that you made me,
You taught me a secret language I can’t speak with anyone else.
And you know damn well,
For you I would ruin myself,
A million little times.
It took her too long to look up. But when she did, Tim was standing five feet away, phone in hand, his face crumbling with a mix of regret and heartbreak.
But he was the one who hurt her. And she refused to apologize for her pain.
Without a word, Lucy broke eye contact, slid into her car, and started the engine.
Tim remained standing alone in the emptying lot, swallowed by the silence she left behind.