borrowed warmth
pairing: tim bradford x reader
summary: After a long shift, bonfire night with friends is supposed to be about laughter, cider, and roasted marshmallows. But when Tim drapes his jacket over your shoulders, it feels anything but casual.
warnings: pure fluff, autumn indulgence, canon-adjacent downtime, mutual pining, reader is gender neutral but they have hair, use of y/n
word count: 1130
a/n: this is so so so ooc ew but this was mostly for the vibes. also yes the end was cause i was listening to chappell roan
You almost missed the text. It came in as you were tugging a sweater over your head, static snapping against your hair.
lucy: don’t be late y/nnn, we’re carpooling. be outside in 10.
You chuckled under your breath, tossing your phone on the bed. Outside the window, the street was painted in gold and rust, the kind of autumn evening that made you want to stay in with tea. But since Lucy had insisted, and when Lucy insisted, resistance was basically futile.
You shoved your boots on, grabbed your bag, and padded outside just as Angela’s SUV pulled up. The windows were down, music blasting, and the warm hum of your friends’ voices spilled into the chilly air.
“Look at her,” Angela called as you slid into the back beside Nyla, “already dressed like a pumpkin.”
Lucy twisted in the passenger seat, grinning. “Well, there’s only one season where you get the chance.”
Nyla just raised a brow at you, lips twitching. “You look cold. Bet you’re gonna regret not bringing a heavier jacket.”
You rolled your eyes, though the truth was already biting at your skin. “I’ll be fine.”
Angela cackled. “Famous last words.” And then the SUV peeled away, headlights chasing the falling leaves.
The shift had dragged on in that way only October could manage — traffic jams, cranky civilians, and a chill in the air that seemed to somehiw make everyone short-tempered. By the time you and the others clocked out, all you wanted was something warm to drink and somewhere to shake the weight of the day.
Which was how you ended up here: a wide backyard on the edge of town, grass scattered with folding chairs and blankets, a bonfire crackling in the center.
Angela plunked down a tray of steaming mugs on the nearest table. “All right, guys. So, we got cider and food is on the way.”
Lucy, already sprawled across a plaid blanket, reached for a mug like she’d been waiting her whole life. “I’m telling you right now,” she said, steam curling around her words, “bonfire nights are superior to every other kind of night. It’s a fact.”
“That’s not a fact,” Tim argued from behind you.
“It’s a feeling,” Lucy shot back, grinning.
You laughed into your own mug, cider sweet and spiced, the heat radiating through your palms. You let it warm you as you eventually drifted closer to the fire, your boots crunching through brittle leaves.
The flames snapped and hissed, sparks spiraling upward like fireflies against the setting sky. Smoke clung to your sweater, mixing with the sugary smell of marshmallows someone had already skewered.
But still, despite almost touching the fire, the October chill snuck in wherever it could, sliding under your collar, brushing cool fingers against your skin.
“You’re shivering.”
Tim’s voice was low, close enough that you nearly jumped. You glanced sideways; he stood at your shoulder now, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, expression unreadable.
“Huh—” you asked, wondering what have it away. “Nope, I’m fine.” you said, ignoring the goosebumps that were climbing your arms.
But, without ceremony, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it across your shoulders.
The weight of it startled you. Heavy, worn soft in places, still warm from his body. It smelled faintly of aftershave and smoke
“Tim—”
“Don’t argue.” He was already turning back to face the fire, as if he hadn’t just completely unraveled your composure.
You curled your fingers into the sleeves before you could stop yourself. Heat flushed your face, only partly from the fire. Casual. It was supposed to be casual. It is casual.
So why did it feel like it wasn’t?
Across the flames, Angela caught your eye. She smirked knowingly over the rim of her mug. A second later, Lucy leaned over and mouthed a very dramatic ooooh, smiling so hard you nearly choked on your cider.
You ducked your head, pretending to focus on your marshmallow roasting on the fire.
The night sprawled out warm and messy. Nyla told a ridiculous undercover story that had Angela laughing so hard she nearly spilled cider onto her boots. Lucy tried (and failed) to teach Wesley how to perfectly toast a marshmallow without setting it on fire like a torch. At one point, Smitty wandered in late, made himself a s’more, and then just dozed off in a chair near flames.
Through it all, Tim’s jacket stayed wrapped around your shoulders. Grounding. Comforting. Too much and not enough all at once.
You felt so guilty. You knew he wouldn’t let you give it back, but he must be freezing.
Later, you wandered a little away from the group to toss an empty cup. The air was sharper there, quieter, the night pressing close around you.
When you turned back, Tim was watching you. Not in his usual guarded, assessing way — softer, like he’d caught himself staring and hadn’t looked away fast enough.
Your breath caught.
You fiddled with the collar of his jacket, pretending you hadn’t noticed. Pretending your pulse wasn’t hammering in your ears.
Eventually, the fire began to burn low, collapsing into glowing embers. People started gathering blankets, corralling stray mugs, shepherding Smitty toward a car. Angela clapped you on the back as she passed.
“Cute look,” she teased, nodding at the jacket still draped over you. “Better give that back before Bradford turns into an icicle.”
You opened your mouth to protest — to explain, to deny, to something — but Tim was suddenly beside you, car keys in hand.
“Keep it,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You froze, blinking up at him. “I have jackets, Bradford—“
“So do I, keep it.” This time his voice was gentler, like he’d softened it just for you.
And then he was walking ahead toward the car lot, leaving you rooted to the grass, jacket snug against your shoulders, heart thundering.
Later, when you finally collapsed into bed, you folded the jacket neatly over your chair. The faint scent of smoke and aftershave lingered in the fabric. The warmth lingered in your chest.
And he’s always acting like he has no attachment to anyone.
But he just gave you a jacket just because you were cold.
Is it ‘just colleagues’’ now?
taglist:
@shesinexplainable @just-about-rio @multifandombliss
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