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It had been a long day—the kind that felt like it had been carved out of grit and adrenaline. But as Lucy stepped into the house, the familiar hum of their shared life acted like a balm. They had only officially moved in together a few days ago, but the space already felt like a sanctuary. Her sanctuary.
Tim had ordered Italian—her favourite—and kept it warm. It was a simple gesture, but after a shift that had tested her soul, it made her heart swell.
“You’re spoiling me,” she teased, gently nudging the empty plate aside as she retreated to the sofa. She burrowed into a knitted throw and tucked her toes beneath Kojo’s massive, warm flank. The dog let out a contented huff, his head resting on her shin, his tail thumping rhythmically against the cushions.
Across the room, the bane of Tim Bradford’s existence sat in a daunting pile: the ‘miscellaneous’ boxes.
"Don't think I don't see you getting comfortable," Tim’s voice floated over from the kitchen island. He was wiping down the counter, looking far too good in soft grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt that hugged his frame.
"I can't move," Lucy said, her voice thick with feigned helplessness. She scratched Kojo behind the ears; the dog let out a long, soulful groan. "Kojo has managed to paralyse my lower half."
Tim rounded the island, drying his hands on a dish towel. He stopped in front of the couch, crossing his arms, one eyebrow arched in that familiar gesture of skepticism that used to intimidate her as a rookie but now just made her want to kiss him.
"You were the one who laid down the law this morning, Sergeant," Lucy reminded him, batting her eyelashes. It was a low blow, weaponizing those big brown eyes, but she was too tired to fight fair today. "What were your words? 'If it isn't unpacked in forty-eight hours, it’s clutter.' I’m just respecting your timeline, Tim. But alas... the dog."
Tim stared at her. Then he looked at the traitorous dog snoring on her lap. He let out a sigh that was 20% genuine annoyance and 80% pure affection.
"You are unbelievable," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
"I love you too," she beamed. "AND, I had a long day. Being a Sergeant is hard work."
Tim huffed a laugh, leaning down to drop a firm kiss on her forehead. "Fine. Supervise away, Sergeant Chen. Let’s see what kind of hoard you’ve brought into our home."
For the next hour, the house was filled with the sound of rustling paper and Tim’s running commentary. He hauled a large cardboard box marked BEDROOM/MISC into the centre of the rug with a heavy thud. Lucy watched him work, finding a quiet joy in the way he grumbled while performing acts of service.
He sliced the tape open with his pocket knife—which he still carried everywhere, even in loungewear—and ripped back the flaps.
"Okay," Tim began, pulling out a handful of silky hangers. "First of all, we share a closet now. A normal human closet. I don't think it’ll allow for the sheer volume of clothes you own."
"It’s about curation, Tim. And layers. Those hangers are space-saving."
He pulled out a vacuum-sealed bag that looked rock hard. "What is this? It feels like a brick of contraband."
"Winter scarves."
Tim stared at her blankly. "Lucy. We live in Los Angeles. It dropped below fifty degrees exactly three times last year."
“Fashion isn’t about the weather, Tim,” she said, all mock indignation. “It’s about possibility. What if we travel, huh? What if we go somewhere cold? What if—”
He opened his mouth—ready with stats on closet space or how scarves were a gateway drug to excessive clutter—but her unwavering ‘I’m right and you know it’ gaze stopped him cold.
He exhaled, defeated. "Right. Of course. Scarves. Totally... essential."
Lucy grinned, triumphant but fond, her eyes softening as she watched him give in. She knew that look—the quiet surrender that wasn’t really defeat at all, just Tim deciding that arguing with her was a battle he’d already lost… and didn’t mind losing. "Good answer, Bradford."
He shot her a sideways glance, one corner of his mouth twitching up. "You’re lucky I’m gone for you, Chen."
"I know," she said sweetly, reaching for her mug. "Now play nice and fetch the next box?"
He huffed—half exasperation, half amusement—already grabbing the next box. She owned every skirmish, and they both knew it.
The new box yielded a faint shimmer; he upended a velvet pouch, and tumbled gemstones caught the light.
He couldn’t resist getting one more jab in. Old habits die hard after all.
“Crystals? Really? Are we starting a side hustle now?”
“Amethyst for calm, citrine for success,” Lucy called out, suppressing a grin. “Put them near the window. They need the moonlight.”
Tim rolled his eyes but, true to form, he didn't just toss them. He placed them neatly on the windowsill, spaced exactly two inches apart. As he worked, however, the room grew quiet. He noticed the shift in Lucy's energy—the way her playful spark had dimmed as she stared into space.
"Hey," Tim said, his voice dropping its gruff edge. He abandoned a cat-shaped mug on the table and turned fully toward her. "You okay over there, supervisor? You got quiet."
Lucy traced the pattern on Kojo’s fur. "Yeah. Just… today was a lot."
Tim’s expression softened instantly. "Samantha?"
She nodded slowly. "She’s so young. And when she started talking about what he did… where he took her…" Lucy swallowed hard, her hand instinctively hovering over her ribcage, where the faint tattoo of her own 'Day of Death' remained. "It just brought it all back. The barrel. Caleb. All of it."
Tim was there in two strides, crowding Kojo to sit on the edge of the couch. He rested a warm, heavy hand on her shin.
"You were incredible with her, Lucy," he said, his blue eyes intense. "You gave her a lifeline that nobody else could have."
"It just made me realise that it never really goes away," she whispered. "I’m a Sergeant now. I’m supposed to be past it. But some days I feel like that rookie in the desert again."
Tim squeezed her leg. "Don't do that. Don't minimize what you survived. Being a Sergeant doesn't mean you aren't human, Luce. You went through hell, and you came back swinging. And today, you used that hell to pull someone else out."
He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You’re the strongest person I know. And you are safe. Right here. We’re safe."
Lucy leaned into his touch, the tight knot in her chest finally loosening. Tim Bradford, the man who used to demand she recite penal codes under duress, was now her anchor.
"Thanks," she murmured, covering his hand with her own. "I know. It just… helps to hear you say it."
"I’ll say it as many times as you need." He held her gaze for a moment longer, making sure she believed him, before gently pulling back. He knew her well enough to know she didn't want to dwell in the sad place all night. She needed the levity back.
He stood up and dived back into the box, pulling out a stack of brightly coloured paperbacks. He squinted at the top cover, which featured a man with impossibly defined abs and leather breeches. Tim’s eyebrows shot up.
"Okay, Sergeant Chen. Care to explain… 'Ravished by the Rogue'?"
Lucy felt a hot blush creep up her neck. "Give me those!"
She lunged forward, dislodging a protesting Kojo, but Tim held them just out of reach. "'Captain Dashiel Thorne knew want, but he had never known obsession until he laid eyes on the fiery Lady Arabella…' Jesus, Lucy. There’s more. 'The Duke’s Wicked Wager'. And… oh my god. 'Alien Warlord’s Prize'?"
"Sometimes you just need an escape from reality, okay?" she defended hotly. "Don't act superior. I’ve seen your Netflix history. You watch those terrible truck restoration shows."
"Those are educational! It’s engineering!" He waved the stack of smutty novels. "This is… pirate porn."
"You’re just jealous of Dashiel Thorne’s abs."
Tim dropped the books onto the coffee table and gave her a look that was pure, unfiltered smolder. "I assure you, baby, I have absolutely nothing to be jealous of."
Lucy’s breath hitched. "Prove it," she challenged, her voice dropping an octave.
Tim smirked, reaching back into the depths of the box. But his expression shifted from playful to intrigued as his hand closed around something cold and metallic. He pulled them out, the silver links jingling. These weren't standard-issue; they were lined with soft, pink faux fur.
“Lucy,” Tim’s voice was a low rumble.
Lucy didn't even try to hide it this time. She leaned her chin on her hand, watching him with a predatory sort of sweetness. “Those were a gag gift from Tamara. Mostly.”
Tim arched a brow. “Mostly?”
Lucy’s grin widened; she shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “They made for a solid conversation piece during girls’ night.”
He hummed, turning the cuffs over in his hands, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Can’t imagine what kind of conversations these started.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” she said lightly, her eyes never leaving his. The air between them thickened, charged with the familiar game they both pretended not to play.
Tim rolled the cuffs in his palm, thumb brushing over the line of faux fur, and for a long moment he said nothing at all. The silence stretched, charged and deliberate, his gaze dragging from the metal to her mouth and back again.
“Yeah,” he murmured at last, the corner of his mouth kicking up. “Definitely going in the ‘follow‑up questions’ pile.”
Lucy propped her chin on her knuckles, eyes glittering. “If you really want clarity, we could always test them out…” Her eyes traced a lazy path from his chest back to his face. “Fair warning though—I’m wiped. You might have to do most of the work.”
He stepped over Kojo, who’d resumed snoring like an old engine, and leaned in—hands braced on either side of her head, eyes locked on hers. The scent of soap and cedar filled the narrow space between them.
“I think I can handle the heavy lifting,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over her lips. “I am the one unpacking, after all.”
“Mmm. Good point.” She tilted her chin, brushing her lips against his. “You’re very supportive.”
“I try.”
The kiss that followed was unhurried, a slow burn of heat and promise. It said everything neither of them ever needed to say out loud: I’ve got you. I want you. We’re home.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were darker, his voice a low rasp. “But first—the boxes.”
Lucy groaned, dropping her head back against the cushion. “Timmm. You’re killing the mood.”
“The mood will survive,” he said, straightening with that small, smug smile she both loved and wanted to swat off him. “But if I don’t get half this stuff put away, we’re going to trip over Dashiel Thorne in the middle of the night.”
Lucy shot him a withering look and swatted at his chest, more flustered than she wanted to admit. “You’re never allowed to say that name again, Bradford,” she muttered, cheeks warming.
Tim’s grin turned downright sinful. “Dashiel Thorne?” he repeated, savoring every syllable. Before she could launch another halfhearted smack, he flipped open the next box and peered inside.
“What’s this? Stationery?”
“Open it and see,” Lucy purred, her tone sliding back into pure mischief.
Tim popped the box open and eased out a glossy poster. He went utterly still, jaw tightening as he took in the image: himself, stripped down to nothing but a strategically placed cupcake.
“Lucy,” he growled, voice low and edged with warning, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”
“It’s a classic, Tim!” She dissolved into giggles, hugging a throw pillow to her chest. “The Copcake deserves a place of honor—mantelpiece, maybe?”
Tim turned the poster around, looking horrified. "Do you have any idea the look I got from the movers when this slipped out earlier?"
Lucy burst out laughing, clutching a sofa cushion. "Oh no. Did they see?"
Tim groaned. “You really think I stuck around to find out?”
Lucy’s laughter erupted full force, breathless and delighted. “Oh god, I wish I’d seen their faces.”
“No wall in this house sees this.”
Still giggling, she sat upright. “Oh, it's going up—it would really brighten up the living room.”
He shot her a look. “No.”
“Office?”
“No.”
“Fine,” she said, feigning thoughtfulness. “Bathroom. Perfect compromise.”
“Still no.”
Her laughter filled the room, and he couldn’t help the reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. He reached over and took her hand, giving it a squeeze.
“You are way too pleased with yourself.”
“Of course I am,” she said softly, eyes warm. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.” She tilted her head, mischief returning. “Besides…” Her grin deepened. “I’ve always liked the view better without the cupcake.”
Tim didn't need to be told twice. He bypassed the sofa, pulling her up and wrapping his arms around her waist, lifting her until they were eye-to-eye.
“You are the most incredible, frustrating, beautiful woman I have ever known,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
“And you,” Lucy whispered, looping her arms around his neck, “are a very good unpacker.”
“Is that so?”
“Mhm. Very efficient. Very… thorough.”
Tim glanced at the pink handcuffs and then back at his girlfriend. He scooped her up in one fluid motion, Lucy squealing with laughter as she clung to him.