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They didn’t talk about it.
After, they just… didn’t talk at all. Not really. Not about the things that mattered. Not about dinner plans or grocery lists. Not about him breaking her heart–and his heart breaking right back.
They just showed up to work the next day. And the one after that. And the one after that. Quiet. Professional. Like nothing had cracked open between them. A new kind of normal. Nothing like before, not like any relationship they’d ever had–personal or professional. But it was fine.
So, the ringtone-incident slipped to the back of her mind, buried beneath 2-11s, 2-15s and a couple of 1-8-5s. Business as usual.
They were cordial when they passed in the hallway. Polite. And Lucy could see Tim was trying. To make it easier. Trying to rebuild whatever was left.
And maybe that should’ve meant something. But she didn’t know if it did.
Because she was still so goddamn mad. At him.
For thinking love gave him the right to take choice out of her hands. For slipping into the same pattern she’d already walked away from—people who said they cared, but couldn’t trust her to live her own life, make her own decisions.
Her parents hadn’t protected her; they’d tried to control her. And now Tim, who should’ve known better, had done the one thing she thought she couldn’t forgive.
Could she?
Because if it really was unforgivable, why was it so hard to let go?
Why was he still the first thing she thought of when she woke up, in that hazy moment before reality set in, when her body still reached for him out of habit?
Why was he still the last thing she thought of at night, when the loneliness pressed in and she imagined turning into him, his arms anchoring her like they used to?
The anger and the want burned inside of her in equal measure, and she didn’t know what to do with either.
Then Mad Dog took a swan dive from the roof of St. Stephen’s and Tim got caught in yet another conspiracy.
He watched a co-worker–his friend– die, and then got suspended.
And Lucy just had to do something. Anything.
So she gave him what she knew he needed, even if he’d never ask for it.
Compassion.
It was easier than she expected. And somehow, infinitely harder.
His arms around her were so achingly familiar. The way tension bled from him when she felt him exhale against her shoulder. The way he held on just a little longer than necessary before letting go.
It knocked something loose in her chest.
She was still mad at him, and the hug didn’t fix that. That’s what she told him.
And maybe she’d meant it, at that moment.
But she was wrong, because it did change something.
At least one thing.
—
The bullpen was crowded when Tim walked in. The end of shift was looming and it seemed like every cop in the division was scrambling to finish their paperwork and get the hell out.
He glanced around, expecting to spot Lucy, but didn’t. He did spot Angela, shutting down her computer and chucking things haphazardly into her bag.
“Oh no! I know that face, Bradford. I’m off duty. I’m going home to cuddle my babies and maybe convince my husband to take a nice warm bath with me.”
Tim grimaced. “How many times do I have to tell you–stop giving me visuals I can’t scrub from my brain.”
Angela grinned wickedly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Then stop looking like you’re about to drag me into something that’s going to kill my turn-over rate.”
He held up a hand. “Relax. This one’s more up Lucy’s alley. Have you seen her?”
Angela raised an eyebrow. “Of course it is.”
She glanced toward the desk Lucy had been at earlier—still a mess, but no sign of her. “I think she mentioned needing caffeine to slog through a report. She’ll probably be back soon. But hey, if you want to practice your ‘they-kicked-my-puppy’ face, go ahead.”
Tim shot her a glare. “I don’t have a kicked-puppy face.”
“Sure, keep telling yourself that, Bradford.” Angela smirked. “Catch you later, manpain.”
Tim winced at the nickname, grateful the station had started to clear out. Nicknames tended to stick around Mid-Wilshire.
Besides, he hadn’t been that bad, had he?
Sure, the tightness in his chest loosened every time he caught sight of her across a room. And yeah, maybe he felt lighter every time she smiled–even if it wasn’t at him.
But that didn’t mean he was pining. Or falling apart. Or any of the things Angela and Nyla liked to give him crap about.
He was fine. They were fine.
Or at least… getting there.
He tapped the folder in his hands against his thigh, glancing once more around the bullpen. Still no Lucy. The thing he needed her for wasn’t urgent, exactly, but it wasn’t something he could drop over the radio either. Not when it involved one of her aliases.
So he pulled out his phone and dialed.
It rang once.
And then music drifted up from the desk behind him.
“Whether I’m gonna be your wife or,
Gonna smash up your bike, I
Haven’t decided yet
But I’m gonna get you back.”
He froze.
“Whether I’m gonna curse you out or,
Take you back to my house, I
Haven’t decided yet
But I’m gonna get you back.”
Her phone buzzed gently against the desktop, screen lit up with his name.
He stared at it for longer than he meant to.
Then he thumbed out of the call before Lucy could walk back in and catch him standing there–wrecked and way too obvious.
—
She wanted to turn back the second the door closed behind her.
Valentine’s day ex sex?
She didn’t even know where that came from. Probably some flailing attempt at self-preservation. At pretending she had more distance than she did.
Because the second the words were out, she’d realized how very wrong they were. Even as he’d agreed, like it meant nothing, she saw it. That flicker in his eyes.
The quiet resignation underneath his words. The hurt. Quickly buried behind flippant words and the awkward scramble to get dressed.
It should have made her feel vindicated. In control.
Instead, it made her want to turn around and take it back.
Because they both knew her words were a lie.
No matter how many times she repeated them to herself every time their eyes met across the bullpen. Every time their hands brushed accidentally while on a case. Every time she caught herself looking for him in the chaos after.
They weren’t exes. Not really. What they had, it wasn’t over. Not for either of them.
It was paused.
Wounded.
Waiting.
Tim had been putting in the work—facing his demons, making real progress—and Lucy wasn’t blind to it. She knew he was trying to fix what he’d broken, piece by piece. He knew her well enough to understand he had to earn his second chance on her terms. At her pace.
She was still hurt. Still cautious. Not sure she could trust him not to shut her out again when the pressure mounted. But like him, she was trying. She noticed the changes—small and large alike—and felt herself already more than halfway toward forgiveness.
And maybe it wasn’t everything. But it was something.
That night, after shift, Lucy decided on a new ringtone.
—
Angela stared at her, arms crossed, one brow raised as she dropped onto a desk in the roll call room.
“You want me to call you… from Tim’s phone?”
Lucy nodded, looking way too calm for someone clearly up to something. “Yes.”
Angela squinted. “Can’t you just call him yourself?”
Lucy leaned it, voice low. “No! It has to be the other way around. It’s… important.”
Angela tilted her head, eyeing her for a beat before her lips curved into a knowing smirk. “You changed his ringtone again, didn’t you?”
Lucy bit her lip, saying nothing.
“Oh my God.” Angela grinned, giving her a playful shove. “You totally did. This is already the highlight of my week. I love this for me. I mean–for you. But mostly me.”
“Just…” Lucy sighed. “Please don’t make a big deal out of it.”
Angela gave her a look. “Define ‘big deal’.” Then, without waiting, she spotted Tim outside. “Two minutes.”
Lucy dropped her phone onto a nearby desk and slipped out.
Angela leaned into the doorway and called out, “Yo, Bradford–I need you for a sec!”
Tim turned at the sound of her voice, brows furrowed. “What’s going on?”
“Come in here,” she said, beckoning. “It’ll be quick.”
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. “What’s up?”
“I need to borrow your phone.”
Tim looked at her, confusion on his face. “What? Why?”
Angela held up her phone. “Battery’s dead. I need to call Lucy.”
He blinked. “Lucy? You just saw her. She left the room like thirty seconds ago.”
Angela gave an exaggerated shrug. “Yeah, and she’s probably halfway down the hall. I just need to catch her before she heads out again.”
“Why not just go after her?”
Angela rolled her eyes. “Because I’m a mother of two under five, I’ve been on my feet since dawn, and I’m not chasing the love of your stubborn life down a hallway when I could just press one button. Stop being dense, Timothy. Hand it over.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but Angela had already snatched his phone from his hand.
“Thanks, bestie,” she said sweetly, unlocking it with alarming ease and scrolling right to the contacts. “Now let’s see who’s in the coveted number one spot…”
She smirked. “Predictable.”
Then she tapped the call button.
A beat later, from across the room, Lucy’s phone lit up–and music exploded into the space.
“Don’t give up
There’s a mountain in the middle of the road
It’ll take a little longer to get home
Baby, all we’ve got is time.”
Tim turned toward the sound, the lyrics filling the roll call room.
“You can’t help when your stomach sinks
See life happen in a flash
In your head it can be so real
That you almost feel the crash
The panic is temporary
But I’ll be permanent
So when it hits don’t forget
As scary as it gets
It’s just turbulence.”
Angela turned slowly, positively glowing with delight. “Huh. Guess your call went through.”
Tim stared at the phone like it had just revealed national secrets.
She handed it back to him with a bright, innocent smile. “You’re welcome.”
Then, with a satisfied hum, Angela walked past him–whistling the chorus under her breath as she went.