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The bar was loud.
The kind of loud that usually felt like a relief after a twelve-hour shift, but tonight, the bass was thrumming right under Lucy’s skin in a way that made her feel frayed.
They were at a fundraiser for the Children of the Fallen.
Half the precinct was there, casual civilian clothes blurring the lines of the hierarchy.
But for Lucy, the lines were sharper than ever.
She was standing by the high-top table, a club soda in her hand, watching the woman across the room.
The woman was tall.
Athletic.
She had long, honey-blonde hair that caught the light every time she tossed her head back to laugh.
She looked like Isabel.
She looked like Ashley.
She looked like every woman Tim Bradford had ever officially, publicly, been with before her.
And she was currently leaning so far into Tim’s personal space that she was practically part of his shirt.
Tim was leaning against the bar, looking effortless in a dark navy henley with a black leather jacket. He was nodding, listening with that focused, intense expression he gave everyone—whether it was a rookie with a flat tire or a beautiful civilian asking for his "professional opinion" on home security.
The woman laughed, her hand landing on Tim’s forearm.
Her fingers trailed over the sleeve, her thumb grazing the spot where his pulse was.
Tim didn’t move.
He didn’t pull away.
He just kept talking, oblivious to the way the woman was looking at him like he was a prize she was five minutes away from winning.
Lucy felt the cold spike of it again.
Insecurity.
It was a jagged, ugly thing.
It told her that maybe she was the exception, not the rule.
That maybe, despite the rings and the vows and the "I love yous," he would eventually wake up and realize he had a type.
And that she wasn't it.
“You okay?” Angela asked, appearing at her elbow.
Lucy didn’t take her eyes off the bar. “Fine.”
Angela followed her gaze. She let out a low whistle. “Wow. She’s really going for it, isn’t she?”
“He isn’t even stopping her,” Lucy whispered, her voice tight.
“Because he’s a man, Lucy. And he’s Tim. He has the situational awareness of a hawk on duty, but off duty? He’s a brick wall. He doesn’t think she’s flirting. He thinks she’s really interested in the response times for the 77th.”
Lucy didn’t laugh.
She couldn’t.
Then, Lucy saw her lean in, whispering something that made Tim reach into his back pocket.
The woman pulled out her phone, a triumphant, glittering smile on her face as she tapped in digits.
"Did he just—" Lucy's voice died in her throat.
"Give her his number?" Angela finished, appearing at her elbow.
Lucy didn’t take her eyes off the bar. "He did. He actually did."
"Lucy, look at his face," Angela prompted. "He's in 'Watch Commander' mode. He isn't giving her his personal cell for a late-night chat."
Across the room, Tim finished speaking, his expression professional and clipped. "If you have more questions about the recruitment demographics, that's the desk line. My aide handles the scheduling for civilian inquiries. Have a good night."
He didn't linger. He didn't wink. He didn't even notice the way the woman's face fell as she realized she’d just been handed the equivalent of a digital business card for a government office.
But the damage was done.
The image of her hand on his arm, the exchange of information, the closeness—it snapped the last thread of Lucy’s composure.
“I’m going home,” Lucy said, setting her drink down so hard the ice rattled.
“Lucy, wait—”
But she was already gone, weaving through the crowd, her heart hammering a frantic, painful rhythm against her ribs.
‧˚₊‧ ┈┈┈ ⟡ ┈┈┈ ‧₊˚⊹ ‧˚₊‧ ┈┈┈ ⟡ ┈┈┈ ‧₊˚⊹ ‧˚₊‧ ┈┈┈ ⟡ ┈┈┈ ‧₊˚⊹ ‧˚₊‧ ┈┈┈ ⟡ ┈┈┈ ‧₊˚⊹ ‧˚₊‧ ┈┈┈ ⟡ ┈┈┈ ‧₊˚⊹
The house was too quiet.
Lucy was sitting on the edge of their bed, her heels kicked off, her hands trembling in her lap.
She felt small.
She felt like the girl who was just never enough.
The door opened ten minutes later.
Tim’s footsteps were heavy, hurried.
He didn't even take his boots off before he was in the bedroom doorway, his chest heaving like he’d run from the bar.
“Lucy? What happened? Why did you leave? Angela said you just vanished.”
He stepped into the room, the light from the hallway casting his shadow long across the floor.
“Luce? Talk to me.”
Lucy didn’t look up. “Was she nice?”
Tim blinked, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Who?”
“The blonde,” Lucy said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. “The one who was practically sitting in your lap for forty-five minutes. The one you gave your number to.”
Tim stilled.
“The woman at the bar? That was… that was a daughter of a retired Chief, honey. She was asking about the new recruitment initiatives. I gave her my office line so she could talk to the recruitment liaison on Monday.”
“She was touching you, Tim!” Lucy finally looked up, her eyes bright with tears. “She was touching your arm. She was whispering in your ear. And you just stood there. You laughed!”
Tim stepped closer, his hands out as if he were approaching a jumper on a ledge.
“She was being friendly, baby. I didn't think— I didn't even notice.”
“That’s the problem!” Lucy stood up, her movements restless, frantic. “You never notice! And she looks just like them, Tim. She looks like Isabel. She looks like Ashley. She’s exactly what you go for.”
“Lucy, that’s not—”
“I can't do this anymore,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
The words hung in the air like a gunshot.
Tim’s face went white.
Literally white.
He didn’t just stop; he looked like he’d been struck.
The air left his lungs in a sharp, panicked wheeze.
“No,” he gasped, the word raw. “No, Lucy. Wait.”
He moved toward her, his hands shaking, his voice rising into a frantic, spiraling pitch she had never heard from him. Not in a firefight. Not ever.
“I know I’m hard to be with,” he started, the words tumbling out of him in a desperate, panicked flood. “I know I’m not good at this—the talking, the feelings. I’m too rigid. I’m a drill sergeant even when I don’t mean to be.”
“Tim, that’s not—”
“I know I shut down,” he continued, his voice cracking, his eyes wide and wild. “I know I still carry a lot of baggage. I’m moody, I’m difficult, I’m probably exhausting to love.”
He reached for her, his fingers digging into her shoulders, his gaze searching hers with a desperate, soul-deep fear.
“I’ll work on it. I’ll double my therapy sessions, I’ll try even harder to communicate, I’ll learn how to be the guy you actually deserve. Just tell me what to do. Tell me how to be better.”
He was spiraling into the belief that his own personality was the reason she was hitting a wall.
“I’m just a guy who knows how to be a cop, Lucy. I don’t know how to be a 'partner' half the time. But I can learn. Please. Don’t leave me. Don’t do this. I’ll be whoever, whatever you need me to be. Just, please… don’t say you can’t do this anymore.”
Lucy stared at him, the anger and jealousy draining out of her, replaced by a sudden, sharp realization of just how much power she held over this man’s heart.
“Tim,” she said, her voice soft, firm. “Stop.”
“I’ll change the shift,” he said, “I’ll go back to patrol. I’ll do anything. Just don’t leave.”
“I’m a mess of a man, I know,” he whispered, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, his breath hitching in a way that sounded dangerously close to a sob. “I’m a project you shouldn’t have had to take on. I know I’m probably suffocating you. But I love you. God, I love you so much.”
“I’ll fix it. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it. Please.”
“Tim Bradford, look at me!”
She cupped his face, forcing him to meet her eyes.
She realized he hadn't even heard the end of her sentence.
He had heard the first five words and his entire world had collapsed.
“Tim,” she said, her voice soft, firm. “Stop.”
He looked shattered.
His blue eyes were glassy, filled with a primal terror of losing her.
“I wasn't going to leave you,” she said, each word slow and deliberate.
Tim blinked, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down his cheek. “You… you said you couldn’t do this anymore.”
“I meant I can’t do the jealousy anymore,” she clarified, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “I can't do the feeling of watching women flirt with you and feeling like I don't measure up. I wasn't talking about us. I was talking about my own head.”
Tim stayed frozen for a long second, the information slowly sinking in through the fog of his panic.
He let out a breath so long and shaky it rattled his entire frame.
He slumped forward, his weight falling into her, his arms wrapping around her waist so tightly it was almost hard to breathe.
“God,” he choked out against her neck. “Lucy. Don’t… don’t ever start a sentence like that again. I thought my heart actually stopped.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, holding him back, her heart aching with the weight of his devotion. “I didn't mean to scare you. I just… she was so beautiful, Tim. And she’s so much your type.”
Tim pulled back just enough to look at her, his brows furrowed in that familiar, stubborn way.
The panic was fading, replaced by a deep, genuine confusion.
“Type? Lucy, what are you talking about?”
“The blonde hair. The height. The… everything.”
Tim shook his head, his hands sliding down to rest on her waist, grounding himself.
“I don't have a type, Lucy. I had a history of trying to find something that worked. But I didn't find it until I found you.”
He looked down at his own hand, specifically at the silver band on his finger.
“And for the record?” he said, his voice regaining some of its Sergeant-level firmness. “I was oblivious because I literally don't care. I’m always wearing a wedding band, Lucy. A very visible, very intentional wedding band.”
He huffed a small, disbelieving breath.
“If a woman is flirting with me and she didn’t notice the ring on my finger, then she’s clearly not paying attention. And if she did notice it, she’d only have to look three feet to my right to see the most gorgeous, brilliant woman in the room wearing the matching one.”
He leaned in, his nose brushing hers.
“Why would I look at anyone else when I’m married to you?” he whispered. “Why would I even notice them?”
Lucy felt the last of the insecurity evaporate, burned away by the sheer sincerity in his voice.
“You really didn't see it?”
“I saw a woman talking about the department,” Tim said, his gaze locking onto hers. “I gave her the office line because that’s where professional inquiries go. But the only person I was actually seeing was you. I was counting down the minutes until we could leave so I could get you home and do exactly this.”
He pulled her closer, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear.
“You’re it for me, Lucy. There is no 'type' that compares to you. You’re the only person I want to be stuck with. Forever. No returns, remember?”
Lucy let out a soft, shaky laugh, her hands winding into the hair at the nape of his neck.
“I remember.”
“Good,” Tim murmured, his voice low and gravelly. “Because I’m not going anywhere. And I’m never letting you go, either. Even if I have to be 'too clingy' for the rest of our lives.”
“I think I can handle the clingy,” Lucy whispered, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted like a homecoming.
The air in the bedroom was warm now.
The bass from the bar was a world away.
In the quiet of their home, the insecurity was gone.
There was only Tim.
There was only Lucy.
And the matching rings that meant they were never, ever alone.
“I love you,” she murmured against his lips.
“I love you more,” he replied, his voice steady and sure.
“And Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you’re jealous? Just tell me. Don't leave. Just come over and put your hand on my arm. Remind me that the world exists outside of my own head.”
“Hell, pull me into a kiss in th middle of the bar.” he said with a smile.
Lucy smiled, her heart full.
“Deal, Sergeant.”
“Good,” he whispered. “Now let’s go to bed. I’ve had enough drama for one night.”
Lucy laughed, pulling him toward the bed, the golden light of the hallway fading as they closed the door on the rest of the world.
They were exactly where they were supposed to be.
Together.
Always.