Chapter Text
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fanfiction based on The Rookie. I do not own any of the characters, settings, or original concepts—they belong to ABC, their creators, and writers. I am not affiliated with the show in any way and receive no financial gain from this work. This story is written purely for personal enjoyment and the enjoyment of fellow fans.
Author's Note:
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story. It truly means the world to me. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Your thoughts, feedback, and reviews are always welcome and deeply appreciated—they help me grow and keep me inspired. This story means a lot to me, and I'm so grateful you've chosen to spend time with these characters and their emotional path toward healing and reconnection.
Content Warnings:
This story contains scenes involving a panic attack and flashback related to a past kidnapping, as well as non-consensual restraint, and emotional manipulation. There are also mentions of bruising and mild language. Please read with care.
Chapter 1:
Tim's phone rang just as he was locking up his truck for the night. Tamara's name flashed across the screen, he answered, but the moment he heard her voice, his pulse spiked.
"Tim— I— I don't know what to do," she rushed out, breath hitching. "It's Lucy— something's wrong. Chris— he— he came out of her room half dressed, saying she was losing her shit, and then he just left. I tried to go in but she yelled at me to stay away— she's sobbing, and I— I can still hear her—"
Something primal in Tim snapped taut. It wasn't the frantic words, though they were bad enough, it was the tremor underneath. The kind of fear that made your gut twist before your brain even caught up.
"I'm on my way." His voice was clipped, no hesitation. The door to his truck slammed hard enough to make the frame shudder. "I will be there in 5 minutes. Stay with me on the phone. You, okay?"
"I'm fine," Tamara sniffled, "but she's not, please hurry."
He didn't remember most of the drive. Just the grinding of his teeth and the thud of his heart, loud and relentless, as every worst-case scenario clawed at his brain.
By the time he was at Lucy's door, his pulse was hammering in his ears, breath tight in his chest. Tamara was on the couch, knees pulled in, eyes red. He wanted to kneel, to make sure she was really okay, but the muffled sobs coming from down the hall made the decision for him.
"She's in her room," Tamara whispered. "I'm okay, please… help her."
Tim's jaw flexed. He squeezed her shoulder gently before moving down the hall.
The sound got clearer with each step. Fractured, uneven. Not just crying—sobbing so hard it scraped raw on every exhale.
"Lucy" he called gently standing outside the door.
No answer.
He knocked once.
Nothing.
He knocked again. Still no response.
"Chen— it's me. I'm coming in."
No answer. Just a sharper, more broken sound.
He pushed the door open and froze.
His stomach lurched. For a half-second, his brain refused to make sense of what he was seeing.
Lucy was on the floor beside her bed, knees drawn up, arms wrenched behind her back. A tie looped around her arms, high above her elbows, forcing her shoulders back at a painful angle. She was stripped to nothing but underwear, trembling so hard the blanket on the bed quivered with the vibration. Her hair was plastered to damp cheeks, and her wide, wild eyes didn't see him at all.
Jesus Christ.
A cold, hollow fury lit up in his chest. It sat right alongside something heavier, almost paralyzing—grief, maybe. Or helplessness.
He took a step forward, hands open. "Lucy— it's me. I'm going to—"
"Get away from me!" Her voice ripped through the room, hoarse and panicked. She recoiled, kicking at the carpet. "Fuck you, Caleb!"
The name hit him like a blow to the ribs. Caleb. Kidnapper. Flashback.
His chest tightened to the point of pain. This wasn't Lucy talking to him this was her back in that barrel, in that hell, and she was fighting for her life.
And she was going to hurt herself if he didn't act.
His training told him she could dislocate a shoulder if she kept straining like that. His heart told him the last thing she needed was to feel trapped again. Both instincts clashed painfully in his head, each one screaming for a different kind of action.
"Lucy—" His voice softened, almost pleading. "It's me. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you. I'm just going to get this off you, okay?"
Her gaze was wild, fixed on something that wasn't him, and she jerked back as he reached for the tie.
"Don't touch me!" she screamed, twisting hard enough that he saw her shoulder joint strain. Panic poured off her in waves. "Get away—get away—"
Every muscle in his chest pulled tight. "You're not there. You're in your room. I'm right here with you." He kept his tone steady, willing her to latch onto his voice. "Just breathe. That's it—slow it down. I'm going to help you. Just let me—"
But she thrashed harder, the tie biting into her skin. Her wrists twisted awkwardly in an attempt to break free, and his stomach turned at the thought of her injuring herself because he hesitated.
"Shit," he breathed, a spike of helpless anger pushing through his chest.
He didn't want to do it. Every cell in his body rebelled at the thought. But he couldn't let her rip her shoulder out of the socket while he stood there begging her to stop.
"Damn it, I'm sorry, Lucy."
He moved quick, controlled, grabbing her shoulders and guiding her down onto the mattress. He pinned her face-down, using the kind of pressure that stopped resistance without crushing her. It was muscle memory, the way METRO trained you to immobilize someone safely. But every second his hands were on her like that; he hated himself a little more.
She screamed, jerking under him. The sounds she made—raw, desperate—would haunt him.
"Lucy, listen to my voice," he said, low and steady, forcing himself to speak over his own pounding heart. "You're not there. You're safe. Caleb's gone."
Her breathing was ragged, bordering on hyperventilation, struggling hard against him as he reached for the tie.
"I'm here. It's me Tim. You know me. I'm not letting anyone hurt you. Not now. Not ever." His voice dropped softer. "You're at home. You're safe. Just breathe for me slow. In. Out."
Her breath was ragged, breaking on sobs, he could feel some of the fight shifting from frantic to desperate. He found the knot, yanked the tie free, and tossed it aside like it was toxic.
Then he moved away fast, giving her space, every muscle in his body still coiled and ready, but his heart aching at the sight of her trembling.
Her arms curled in tight, her body folding in on itself. She was shaking, gasping like she'd run miles.
The sight of her, small, stripped of all her usual spark, squeezed something sharp in his chest.
He grabbed the crumpled blanket off her bed, moving slowly, making sure she could see every motion. "I'm covering you up, okay?"
She flinched but did not pull-away when the blanket settled over her shoulders.
He lowered himself onto the far side of the room, deliberately leaving distance but keeping himself in her line of sight. His own pulse was still pounding in his ears, but he forced it down, controlling every breath so she'd mirror it.
"You're safe," he said, keeping his tone low and steady. "You're here, in your apartment. With me. I've got you."
Her breaths were shallow, erratic. He clocked the way her shoulders rose too quickly, the white-knuckled grip she had on the blanket. Her pupils were still blown, eyes darting like she was trying to track threats that weren't there.
"That's it," he murmured, keeping his voice the anchor. "Breathe with me—slow. In… and out." He exaggerated the motion, letting her hear and see the rhythm. "You're not there anymore. You're here. Right here."
Her eyes flicked toward him, quick, unsure.
"Feel the blanket under your hands. That's real. The floor beneath you. That's real. Hear my voice. That's real. No one else is here but us. Just me and you. You survived Lucy. You're okay"
At her name, something shifted, just a flicker, but enough for him to catch. He kept his gaze locked with hers, willing her to hold it. "That's it. Eyes on me. I'm not going anywhere. You're safe. I've got you. Always."
Her grip on the blanket loosened slightly. The tension in her jaw eased by a fraction. Tim stayed exactly where he was, his posture open, unthreatening, every muscle in his body telling her he was here, he was steady, he wasn't going anywhere.
It took minutes, long silent minutes broken only by the sound of her breathing shifting, before her eyes finally flicked to his. Recognition flickered there, fragile but present.
"There she is" he murmured, relief bleeding into the words. "You're in your room, its safe"
Her gaze dropped and widened as she realized how little she was wearing. The blanket tightened around her. Tim didn't hesitate, he stripped off his zip hoodie, keeping his t-shirt in place, and handed it over without meeting her eyes.
She slid it on, zipping it up to her chin.
Another shaky inhale rattled through her, and then she was moving. Not fast, not in a rush—just inching toward him like every step was its own decision.
Tim didn't move, didn't break the spell by closing the distance for her. He waited until she was right there in front of him, close enough that he could feel the tremor in her hands where they hung at her sides.
"Okay?" he asked softly, giving her the out.
She gave the smallest nod, and that was all the permission he needed. His arms came up slowly, wrapping around her with the kind of gentle touch that made it clear he'd let go the second she wanted him to. But she didn't pull away. Instead, she sank into his chest, her forehead pressing against the solid warmth of him like she'd been holding herself up for too long.
"You okay?" The question came out rougher than he wanted.
"Better now," she whispered into his chest.
For a moment, he didn't ask anything else. He just held her, his hand rubbing slow, steady lines up and down her back, the weight of his arm firm enough to anchor but gentle enough to let her breathe. He murmured quiet things—not questions, just soft assurances. "You're safe. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."
He could feel her heartbeat against his ribs, still too fast, still uneven. The tremor in her arms hadn't stopped.
After a long stretch of silence, he tightened his arm around her just a fraction and asked softly, "Do you want to talk about it?"
Her head shifted slightly, but she didn't pull away. He could feel the hesitation in the way she drew in a slow breath, like she was weighing whether she could even say it out loud. She was embarrassed—he could see it in the slight duck of her head, the way her fingers curled against the fabric of his shirt—but it was him. And he was here. And he was safe. And some part of her knew he needed to understand.
Her voice was so low he had to lean in to catch it.
"Chris… he tied me up."
She paused, eyes flicking away like she wasn't sure if he should even hear this. A beat passed before she continued, voice quieter. "I didn't— I should've said no. But I didn't."
Her throat worked around the words, shame creeping in where it didn't belong. She couldn't see—not yet—that none of this was her fault.
"And when he pulled it tight, I panicked. Told him to stop." Her voice wavered. "But he didn't listen. I was screaming before he realized. He tried to… take it off, I think, but I just...I lost it. I think I kicked him." The words came faster. "He left. But I was stuck. And that… made it worse."
The last words cracked apart on her tongue. The moment they were out, her composure splintered—her face pressed harder into his chest, and she started to cry again, small, choked sobs shaking through her.
He moved them to the edge of the bed sitting beside her, worried her legs would give out.
She was spiraling now, the sharp edge of fear blending with betrayal. Her body tensed in his arms, breaths coming faster again.
"Hey, hey," he murmured, shifting his weight so he could pull her fully into his lap. He held her close enough that she could feel every steady rise and fall of his chest, hoping she'd match her breathing to his.
Tim tightened his hold, one broad palm cupping the back of her head, his other arm wrapped solidly around her like he could shield her from the memory itself. Hatred for Chris burned through him—cold, sharp, absolute. That smug bastard had taken something precious, this beautiful, kind woman who trusted him, and he'd hurt her. Broken that trust. Left her bound and terrified.
It was unforgivable.
Tim's jaw locked so hard it ached, his teeth grinding against the urge to move—now—and make sure Chris understood exactly what "too far" meant.
The image was almost satisfying enough to act on.
Almost.
But then she shifted against him, and he felt the slight tremor still running through her shoulders. She wasn't just shaken—she was still somewhere between the memory and the present, still coming down from a terror most people would never understand.
And right now, she didn't need his temper. She needed his steadiness.
He forced his hands to relax where they rested on her, loosening the tension in his shoulders, making sure every part of him she could feel was calm, solid, unmoving.
"I've got you," he said quietly, the words like an oath. "You're safe. He's not here. No one's going to hurt you."
She clung to him tighter. Her chest rising and falling too quickly, panic lacing through every breath. But somewhere in the blur of fear and betrayal, a thought pressed in—Tim would never. Tim wouldn't walk away. He wouldn't leave her like that. Not ever. Tim was here and he was safe.
Tim kept his voice low and even, the kind of tone you used when talking someone back from a ledge. "Breathe with me, Lucy. Right here. In through your nose… slow… now out."
He exaggerated the rhythm, his own chest rising and falling under her cheek so she could feel the pace as much as hear it. "Again. In… hold… out. That's it."
"I'm not going anywhere," he murmured. "Not now. Not ever. You're safe."
Little by little, the rigid set of her shoulders began to give. The shaking in her arms eased into tremors, then slowed further. Her breathing started to sync with his, each exhale a little longer than the last.
"That's it," he said softly. "Good girl"
Her grip loosened just enough for her to shift, her forehead pressing into the hollow of his collarbone. The fight had drained out of her—not in defeat, but in exhaustion. The adrenaline crash was hitting, leaving her limp and quiet in his arms.
"You okay?" he asked again, this time gentler, not pressing for an answer.
She didn't speak right away, but she nodded against him. And for the first time since he'd walked into her apartment, he felt her body truly relax, her weight settling into his lap like she believed him when he said he wasn't leaving.
At some point, when the adrenaline had ebbed enough for her thoughts to wander, Lucy became aware of just how little she was wearing.
Nothing but Tim's hoodie and her underwear.
She'd been curled in his lap for, she didn't know how long, and not once had his gaze flickered downward. Not once had she felt him shift in a way that suggested he was even thinking about the fact she was basically naked. His focus had been steady, unwavering, all on her.
And that… hit somewhere deep.
It wasn't just that he was a good man. It was that he was that kind of good man; the kind who could see her at her most vulnerable and only think about making her feel safe.
She cleared her throat quietly. "Um… I should probably get dressed."
"Okay," he said, easing her gently out of his lap. He stood without looking at her, scanning the room instead. "What drawer?"
"Bottom," she said softly.
He nodded, went straight to it, and pulled out a pair of well-worn gray sweats. "These okay?"
"Perfect."
He handed them over without once glancing at her bare legs, then stepped toward the door. "You okay to change?"
She nodded.
"I'm just going to check on Tamara. I'll be right outside."
The quiet certainty in his voice was as grounding as his presence had been.
When he closed the door behind him, she let out a slow breath and pulled on the familiar sweats.
She took another minute, sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to smooth her hair and will her expression into something less… wrecked.
When she finally stepped into the hallway, she saw him first, Tim, standing just outside the living room, holding Tamara in a protective hug. His head was bent toward her, voice low and steady.
"She's okay, kid," he murmured, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. "It's okay now"
Lucy stopped, letting the words sink in. There was something about the tone—solid, certain—that wrapped around you like armor. Tim didn't just protect people; he made you believe you were untouchable in his care.
Tamara sniffled, her voice muffled against his chest. "She sounded so… I didn't know what to do."
"You did exactly the right thing," Tim reassured, his hand still moving in that slow, grounding rhythm. "You called me. You kept yourself composed. You did everything right."
Lucy's throat tightened at the fatherly way he said it, how fiercely he guarded Tamara without hesitation. She'd always been Tamaras protector, but knowing Tim had stepped into that role without question… it was something she didn't have words for.
Tim must have sensed her in the doorway; he always seemed to know her presence. His gaze lifted, finding hers instantly. He looked her over, quick but thorough, like he was taking inventory of her state without a single word.
The look they shared was short but deep, that unspoken conversation only the two of them could have.
It's okay. She's okay. Come here, his eyes told her.
She stepped forward, and Tamara turned at the sound of her footsteps. In an instant, she was out of Tim's arms and barreling into Lucy.
The force of the hug made Lucy flinch, her shoulders still ached from the tie, but she adjusted in a heartbeat, making sure Tamara couldn't see it. Of course, Tim noticed. He always did.
"I'm okay," Lucy murmured, wrapping her arms around Tamara despite the soreness. Her voice softened into that motherly tone she'd perfected. "I'm sorry I scared you."
Tamara's grip tightened, and Lucy smoothed her hand over the girl's hair, ignoring the twinge in her shoulders. Whatever pain she was in could wait, Tamara needed reassurance, and that was all that mattered in the moment.
Over her shoulder, Tim watched, his expression a mix of relief and quiet awe. Even now, after what she'd just been through, she was putting someone else's feelings ahead of her own. That strength, her unwavering love for her people, it gutted him every time.
"God, Lucy—" Tamara's voice broke.
"Hey, it's okay. I'm okay," she murmured into Tamara's hair, even though part of her knew it wasn't entirely true.
She felt Tamara's grip tighten anyway, like neither of them were ready to let go.
Lucy kept one arm looped around Tamara as they walked to the couch, letting the younger girl tuck in close beside her.
Tamara pulled back just far enough to search her face. "Are you sure you're, okay?"
Lucy hesitated, her fingers absently smoothing Tamara's hair. "I… had a flashback," she admitted, her voice gentle but steady. "It was bad, but I'm okay now, Tim helped pull me out of it."
She didn't give more than that, Tamara didn't need the details, not tonight, probably not ever. Tamara didn't press, though her brow pinched like she wanted to. Lucy gave her hand a small squeeze, a silent promise that they'd be okay, and Tamara seemed to take it.
The room went quiet for a beat, the weight of the night settling in again. Tim lingered nearby, his presence steady but unobtrusive, giving them their space while still close enough to step in if needed.
Finally, he cleared his throat quietly, breaking the silence without disrupting it. "Have you two had dinner"
Neither answered right away, so he took that as a no and headed for the kitchen. She heard the fridge door open, the muted clink of a skillet hitting the stove. He moved with quiet efficiency, the kind of focus that came when he needed his hands to be busy so his mind wouldn't get stuck replaying things he couldn't change.
Even while cooking, he never drifted far from earshot. She caught him glancing over more than once, eyes scanning her like he was checking for signs she was fading again.
Lucy and Tamara sat together in comfortable silence, their fingers loosely linked, the hum of the stove filling the space between them. Eventually, Tim slid plates onto the coffee table—grilled cheese, and tomato soup simple but warm—and took the armchair across from them.
Tamara picked at her food, then set the plate down and straightened. "I, um… I should go study. I've got a test tomorrow."
Lucy opened her mouth to tell her she didn't have to, but something in Tamara's expression stopped her. She wasn't running from the room—she was giving Lucy space.
Tamara hugged her tight, arms wrapped around her like she could pour everything unsaid into the gesture. Lucy hugged back just as fiercely, whispering, "I love you, kid."
When Tamara finally pulled away, she glanced at Tim. "Thanks… for coming."
His voice was quiet, but certain. "Always."
She nodded like she understood more than she was saying, then disappeared down the hall to her room, the door clicking softly shut.
The apartment felt heavier once Tamara's door shut, like the air had settled but the weight of the night hadn't lifted. Tim stayed in the armchair for a minute, watching Lucy absently pick at the crust of her grilled cheese. Her shoulders were sloped forward, gaze distant—still tethered to the aftershocks of what had happened.
"You want some tea?" he asked, voice gentle.
She hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. That… sounds good."
He rose, moving into the kitchen without rushing, giving her the space to follow or stay put. She stayed. The quiet clink of mugs and the low hum of the kettle filled the silence until he returned, setting one in front of her and taking the black coffee he had brewed for himself.
"Still with me?" he asked softly.
Her lips curved in a faint, tired smile. "Yeah. I think so."
He nodded, taking a slow sip of his drink before setting it down on the table. His voice was soft when he spoke again, almost careful.
"Lucy… I want to look at your arms and shoulders. I need to make sure you're okay."
It wasn't a command, it was a plea, a request. And he said it so tenderly that she knew he understood exactly what he was asking. After everything tonight, after how exposed she'd already felt, letting someone look—really look—wasn't easy.
She hesitated, her fingers tightening around her mug. Part of her didn't want to think about it anymore. She didn't want to feel vulnerable again. But this was Tim.
She nodded once, the motion small but certain.
She glanced toward the hallway, then back at him. "In my room," she said quietly. "Just in case Tamara comes out." Even now, she was thinking about protecting someone else from the sight of her bruises.
He followed her down the hall, close enough to be there if she needed him but giving her the space to lead.
She stopped in the doorway, and so did he.
Her bed was a wreck—sheets twisted in knots, blankets shoved halfway to the floor, pillows scattered like they'd been thrown. The chaos didn't stop there. Her nightstand had been shoved sideways, its contents spilled across the carpet. The lamp lay on its side, the bulb dark. A water glass was overturned, dampening the rug. Books and a framed photo had been knocked to the floor.
It looked like a crime scene—like someone had been fighting for their life. And in her mind, in the white-hot panic of those moments… she had been.
Before she could sink into that thought, he stepped up behind her, resting a warm, steady hand on her arm. She looked up at him, and for a moment something unspoken passed between them—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper neither was ready to name. He bent, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
They both felt it. Both knew they'd think about it later.
"Go take a shower," he murmured. "Hot water will be good for your shoulders. I'll handle everything else."
She nodded slowly. "Okay."
He didn't move until he heard the bathroom door click shut and the water start to run.
He stripped the bed, bundling the twisted sheets into his arms. On the way to the laundry nook, he bent to pick up her worn jeans and shirt from the floor—trying not to think about the fact that they were the ones Chris had pulled off her earlier. The thought landed heavy, a fresh spark of anger burning low in his chest, and he shoved it down, adding the quilt from the bed for good measure.
The bundle was awkward in his arms, but he didn't care. Every piece of fabric in it reeked of the panic she'd been trapped in earlier, and getting it washed felt like one small thing he could do to help scrub the night from her space.
He dropped everything into the washer and hit the cycle, listening to the soft churn of the water start up before turning back toward her room. There was still more he could do before she came out.
On his way back to her room, he opened her dresser and pulled out a soft tank top and a pair of loose, well-worn sweats. From the hall closet, he grabbed a clean towel.
He paused, looking at the bundle in his hands, and a memory flickered—Lucy in the driver's seat on patrol months ago, grinning over at him as she said, "Warm pajamas straight from the dryer are life-changing, Bradford. You should try it sometime." He'd scoffed then, muttering about not having time for stuff like that, but the image of her laughing stuck with him.
Now it didn't feel silly. It felt… right. Something soft, something warm, something purely hers to step into after tonight.
He detoured to the dryer, tossing in the tank, sweats, and towel, setting it to run while he went back to the room. The nightstand was still askew, its contents scattered, so he knelt and began putting things back—the lamp upright, the books stacked, the photo frame returned to its spot.
When the surface was cleared, he stepped quietly into the kitchen. He filled a fresh glass of water, the kind he knew she liked—cold, no ice—then pulled open the cabinet where she kept her small stash of over-the-counter meds. He grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen and another of acetaminophen, remembering how she sometimes alternated them when she was sore from training or long shifts.
By the time he'd finished, the dryer gave a gentle beep from down the hall. Tim crossed back to the laundry nook and pulled out the bundle, the heat radiating through the fabric into his hands. The scent of clean cotton and warmth filled the small space—simple but comforting.
He carried it to the bathroom door and knocked lightly.
"It's me," he called over the sound of the running shower.
"It's unlocked," came her voice, soft but certain.
He paused for a moment, hand on the doorframe, letting the weight of that trust sink in. No hesitation. No second-guessing. She didn't have to think about whether she was safe with him—she just knew.
He opened the door just enough to step inside, eyes kept firmly away from the shower. Setting the warm clothes and towels on the sink, he said, "Change of clothes are on the counter."
Then, without another word, he stepped back out and pulled the door shut behind him.
When Lucy stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling into the room behind her, she was dressed in the warm sweats and tank top he'd left. Her damp hair hung loose over her shoulders, and she looked a little less pale than before.
She padded into her bedroom and stopped short. The bed was neatly remade; her nightstand was back in place. The chaos from earlier was gone.
Her eyes flicked to Tim, who was sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows braced loosely on his knees. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," he said simply. Then, softer, "Okay if I check your shoulders now?"
She hesitated for only a second before nodding.
He stood and stepped toward her, his movements slow, careful, giving her every chance to stop him if she wanted. When she didn't, he reached out, fingers brushing lightly along her upper arm.
The breath caught in his chest. The bruises were already blooming, angry shades of red and deepening purple against her skin. They stood out starkly, an ugly contrast to the warmth of her complexion, wrapping almost entirely around her biceps and trailing up toward her shoulders.
For a moment, his stomach turned. The thought of her tied like that—struggling until these marks formed—made him feel physically ill. He swallowed hard, forcing down the anger that wanted to take over, the protective rage that whispered how easily this could have been prevented.
His touch stayed steady, feather-light as he traced the edges of the discoloration, checking for swelling, for any sign she might have pulled something. She flinched slightly when his thumb brushed over the knot of muscle high on her shoulder.
"That's tender," she admitted quietly.
"Yeah," he murmured, his voice gentler than he felt. "Trust me?"
Her gaze lifted to meet his, unwavering. "Yeah. I do."
He shifted, moving to sit against the headboard and motioning for her to sit in front of him. She hesitated only a second before following, settling cross-legged between his legs, her back to his chest.
His hands started slow, broad strokes down her arms, working tension out of the muscle. Then he moved to her shoulders, kneading gently, careful of the sore spots, coaxing the tight knots to loosen.
She exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a release, and eventually leaned back against him, letting her head rest lightly against his collarbone. He felt her melt under his hands, the last rigid edges giving way. Without thinking, he bent and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
They'd settled into a quiet rhythm, the kind that made it hard to tell how much time had passed, when Lucy's phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She glanced over, the glow of the screen lighting up the room.
Chris: Sorry. You were freaking. Didn't know what to do. Thought I'd give you some space. Call me when you are calmed down and want to talk.
Her stomach twisted. The words weren't an apology—not even close.
Tim's gaze flicked to her face. "Chris?"
She didn't answer—just handed him the phone.
He read it once. Then again. His fingers tightened around the device, his jaw locking so hard it looked painful. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, controlled in the way that made it more dangerous.
"You were panicking. You told him to stop. And he left you like that—tied up, terrified—and now he has the nerve to send you this?" He set the phone down with deliberate care, but his eyes were still hard. "I've been biting my tongue all night because you needed me calm, but Lucy—" He shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. "There is no universe where that's okay. None."
She swallowed, watching the muscles in his forearms tense and release, his entire body coiled like he was holding himself back by sheer force of will.
"I'll head over there right now," he said, voice low and deadly calm, "and give him something to be sorry about."
She knew he meant it. And for a split second, a part of her wanted to let him go—but her hand shot out, gripping his forearm. "Please. Stay here. I need you here"
It was the first time she'd ever said it outright. I need you.
Tim's eyes softened instantly, the anger in them dimming just enough for her to see the shift.
"He isn't worth it," she continued, her voice steadier than she expected. "We haven't been working for a while, and after tonight… I'm done. I could never trust him again."
Tim didn't argue. He just wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in close. "Do you know, really know, how wrong his actions were?" he asked quietly against her hair.
She hesitated, her breath catching. "Yeah… I do."
"Good," he murmured, tightening his hold. "Because you deserve a hell of a lot better than that."
She didn't answer, not out loud. But as she lay in the steady circle of his arms, feeling the slow, even rhythm of his breathing against her back, she realized the truth of it. She already had better.
Not in some abstract, wishful way—but here, now, in the way he'd shown up without hesitation, in the way he'd shielded her without smothering her, in the way he'd pieced her space back together like it mattered to him just as much as it did to her.
Tim Bradford wasn't just "better." He was everything she hadn't let herself hope for. And she wasn't ready to tell him that yet… but tonight, she knew it.
Tim stayed exactly as he was, his arms a steady weight around her, his presence warm and unshakable. Neither of them spoke for a long time, and they didn't need to.
Her body slowly began to unwind, the lingering tension in her muscles giving way to exhaustion. Every so often, she felt his thumb brush lightly over her arm, a small, grounding reminder that he was still there, still holding her.
Her breathing evened out first, then his, the quiet of the room wrapping around them both. The world beyond these walls could wait.
She let her eyes close, sinking further into him, her head tucked beneath his chin. And for the first time since the panic had started, she felt safe enough to let sleep take her.
Tim didn't move, not even when her breathing turned slow and steady. He just tightened his hold a fraction, like a silent promise that she wouldn't wake to find him gone.
That was the last thing she felt before the night finally pulled her under—warmth, steadiness, and the quiet certainty that he was here with her.