Aftershock: Bradford's Barbie
Main Masterlist | The Rookie Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Tim Bradford x younger!reader
Fandom: The Rookie
Summary: You and Tim are not dating. But also aren't not dating. Until he pulls back, you shut down and every feeling comes crashing down on you both.
Angst to fluff
Warnings: description of gunshots maybe? not proofread yet
Words: -
It didn’t start with fireworks. Or candlelight. Or anything remotely poetic.
It started with a crash.
Not the earthquake kind, not this time. Just you—exhausted, makeup smudged, hair in a bun that had declared war hours ago—falling asleep on his couch after a late-night takeout run and a shared bottle of whiskey neither of you meant to finish.
You woke up tangled in his arms. The next morning, you told yourself it was a one-time thing.
It wasn’t.
Somehow, in between shifts and field assignments, takeout orders and inside jokes, it became a routine. Your body in his bed. His scent on your clothes. His lips on your skin, hot and heavy in the silence after dark. And, weirdly, you slept better at his place. He did too, not that he ever said it out loud.
You weren’t dating.
You weren’t not dating, either.
Tim called it “convenient.” You called it “friends with benefits.” Lucy called it “a catastrophe waiting to happen,” though she didn’t know the half of it.
Because somewhere between him calling you a menace and you calling him a fossil—somewhere between him brushing your hair off your face and you learning how he liked his coffee—you started catching feelings.
Like a dumbass.
And the worst part? You didn’t even mean to. It just… happened. The way feelings do. Quiet at first, like a hairline crack. Then spreading, splitting, splitting, splitting.
Until something inside you started to break.
You told him once.
Sort of.
A few weeks ago, lying in his bed with your cheek pressed to his chest, you’d murmured something dumb and sleepy like, “I think you like me, Bradford.”
He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t kissed you either.
He’d just gone still.
“Don’t make this complicated,” he’d said finally, voice low. “It’s already risky. You’re… you’re too young. This thing is just for fun. Let’s not pretend it’s more than it is.”
And like a fool, you nodded.
You told yourself you could deal with it.
But here you are, two months later, being reckless all over again.
Because now, thanks to a shiny new contract between LAPD and your father’s construction firm, you’re officially partnered with none other than Timothy “Emotionally Constipated” Bradford.
You might’ve pulled a few strings. Okay, a lot of strings. But in your defense, it was the perfect setup: a project pairing cops with civil engineers to evaluate post-quake building damage. Everyone wins. Especially you.
Except you forgot one detail.
You’re still in love with him.
And he still thinks you’re a goddamn risk.
You’re halfway through assessing a condemned strip mall in East Hollywood when it all goes to hell.
The street’s quiet, a little too quiet, the kind of quiet that prickles under your skin. Tim’s beside you, hand on his vest, eyes scanning every window and alley like he’s waiting for something to jump.
You’re marking a crumbling doorway with bright red chalk when it happens.
A pop.
Then another.
Gunfire.
You drop instantly, instincts kicking in, but not before Tim grabs your shoulder and yanks you behind the rusted frame of a dumpster. His body covers yours, warm and solid, one arm braced against the metal and the other curled around your waist.
“Stay down,” he growls, eyes blazing.
Your heart is beating in your ears, faster than it should. Too fast. His breath is hot on your cheek. His chest rises and falls against your back, firm and steady, while yours feels like it might explode.
And all you can think is: this isn’t casual. This isn’t just “fun.”
This is him shielding you like he’d die for you.
When it’s over—when backup arrives, when the scene clears, when the world rights itself again—you’re sitting on the tailgate of an LAPD shop with an ice pack pressed to your knee and a very pissed-off Tim looming over you.
“You okay?” he asks. The words are tight. Controlled. But his hand won’t stop gripping your thigh.
“I’m good,” you reply lightly. “But damn, Bradford. You almost made me think you caught feelings.”
His jaw ticks. “Don’t.”
“What? Can’t a girl joke around with her—what are we again? Bed buddies?”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps back like your words physically burned him.
You wait for him to say something—anything. But all you get is silence. His walls are up again. Brick by goddamn brick.
You nod, lips tightening.
“Got it.”
You stop texting him after that.
No goodnight emojis. No sarcastic memes. No more midnight rides to each other’s places. You pull out. Clean cut. No drama.
You tell yourself it’s the right thing. The smart thing.
You also start sleeping like crap again.
You expect him to call.
He doesn’t.
You expect him to knock on your door like he always does when things go sideways. Show up with a six-pack and that dumb grumpy look he pretends isn’t fond.
He doesn’t.
Instead, silence.
You last three days before deleting his name from your favorites. Five days before you fold the hoodie he left behind and tuck it in a drawer. Nine before you hear through one of the engineers that he requested a reassignment. A new partner.
The hurt isn’t new.
You just didn’t expect it to land like this. Like a slow tear in your chest every time you turn a corner expecting to see him, but don’t.
Tim is worse.
He doesn’t talk about it. Not to Lucy. Not to Thorsen. Not to Lopez. He just… broods.
He snaps faster. His fuse is shorter. He works more shifts, runs more drills, volunteers for the worst hours.
Lucy notices.
Of course she notices.
“You’ve been insufferable lately,” she says one day while they’re stuck in the locker room post-shift, both drenched in sweat and sun. “Worse than usual.”
Tim grunts, slamming his locker shut harder than necessary. “Just tired.”
“Bullshit.”
He shoots her a look, but she doesn’t back off.
“Is this about her?” Lucy asks casually. Too casually.
Tim stiffens. “What?”
“The blonde. Barbie. Earthquake Barbie. Whatever nickname you gave her in your grumpy little brain.”
Tim says nothing. Just pulls his shirt over his head like the conversation’s over.
It isn’t.
Lucy leans against the row of lockers, arms crossed. “Look, I didn’t want to get involved, but you’re spiraling. And when Tim Bradford spirals, people start punching walls and doing push-ups until their triceps cry for help.”
Tim’s voice is low. “She’s fine.”
“She’s not talking to you.”
“She doesn’t have to.”
Lucy raises an eyebrow. “So you were hooking up.”
He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch.
Lucy whistles. “Damn. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Tim exhales slowly, resting his forehead against the cool metal. “It wasn’t supposed to be anything.”
“But?”
He hesitates.
Lucy watches him carefully. “But?”
“I don’t know,” he says finally. “She got under my skin.”
Lucy nods. “Yeah. That tends to happen when you’re in love.”
Tim turns to her, eyes flinty. “It wasn’t love.”
“Sure.”
“She’s almost twenty years younger than me.”
“And?”
“She’s reckless. She pulled strings to partner with me.”
“She also stood her ground during a live gunfire incident and patched your hand when you busted your knuckles punching a brick wall.”
Tim doesn’t respond.
Lucy softens. “Look. I don’t know what happened between you two. But I’ve known you long enough to know when someone’s got you twisted in knots. Go to her. Fix it.”
It takes him until midnight.
You’re not surprised when he knocks.
You hear the heavy sound of his boots on the hallway first—then the pause, then the knock. He doesn’t knock like a neighbor. He knocks like someone who built you into his routine and doesn’t know how to function without it.
But you don’t answer.
You sit cross-legged on the couch, hoodie pulled over your knees, and sip from a lukewarm mug of tea you don’t even like.
You hear the second knock. Then his sigh. Then silence.
“I know you’re there,” he says through the door, voice low and rough. “You’re loud in heels. But I swear—you’re louder barefoot.”
Your heart stutters.
You stay quiet.
He exhales, palm pressing to the door.
“I didn’t mean to push you away.”
You roll your eyes. “You didn’t push me away, Bradford. You made it very clear where I stand. Or don’t stand.”
He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Yeah. I’m a dumbass.”
You don’t deny it.
Tim leans closer. “I just… I didn’t want to ruin what we had. And I thought keeping it casual would keep it safe.”
You raise an eyebrow even though he can’t see it. “Casual? You kissed my shoulder when you thought I was asleep. You stocked your fridge with my favorite iced coffee.”
Silence.
“Casual my ass,” you mutter.
You still don’t open the door. You hear his exhale through the wood.
“I didn’t mean that,” he says, quieter this time. “You know I didn’t.”
You hate that his voice still does that to you. That low rumble laced with something vulnerable. Something only you ever get from him—when no one’s watching. Not Lucy. Not his team. Not his goddamn conscience.
“You said I wasn’t worth the risk,” you remind him, because he needs to hear it. Needs to sit with the way it burned through you like acid.
A pause.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?”
Silence.
You wait. The kind of silence where seconds stretch until they feel like bruises. He doesn’t answer, and that tells you enough.
You move to the door, pressing your back against it, still not ready to open it. “Go home, Tim.”
“I am home,” he says softly, and fuck. Fuck him for saying that.
The ache spreads. It’s not even anger anymore. It’s that thing you hate admitting even to yourself. Longing.
You press your palms to your eyes. “You don’t get to say that.”
Another pause.
“Okay. Fine. You won’t talk to me?”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to.
He must hear the way your breath hitches through the door, because his next words come sharp.
“Then I’ll make you talk.”
The knock stops. The silence twists.
Then the click of the door handle turning, slow—because you forgot to lock it. You never lock it when you expect him.
The door opens, and there he is.
Post-shift, tired eyes, hand still on the doorknob like he’s giving you one last second to throw him out.
You don’t.
He steps in and shuts the door behind him.
You’re still in your hoodie, hair up in that messy knot he always said made you look like you “tried not to look hot,” and failed.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just drinks you in. Quiet, serious, unreadable. Then, in three strides, he’s in front of you, his hand tilting your chin up.
“I fucked up.”
You blink. “You think?”
He doesn’t smile. He just leans in—closer than he’s let himself in weeks.
“Say something.”
You don’t. You won’t.
So he does what Tim Bradford always does when he’s cornered by emotion—
He acts.
His lips crash into yours before you can say another word. It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Like he’s trying to apologize with every breath he pulls from you.
Your hands fist in his shirt before your brain catches up. Before your heart can argue. Because you’ve missed this. Him. The heat. The feel of his body like a shield and a furnace all at once.
He pulls back just far enough to murmur, “You’re mine.”
You open your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to fall apart—but he kisses you again before the words come.
“Say it,” he breathes against your skin, kissing down your jaw. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you whisper, dazed, breathless, undone. “And you’re mine as well.”
His hands tighten around your waist, like he’s trying to ground himself to the words. Like you’ve said something dangerous, holy.
“I’ve been yours,” he says hoarsely, “since the moment I met you, Barbie doll.”
Your knees nearly give out.
He lifts you—effortlessly—and carries you to the couch, laying you down like you’re something fragile and irreplaceable.
This isn’t just sex anymore.
This is everything that’s been building. All the friction, the denial, the tension that snapped the moment he let himself feel.
The hoodie is the first thing to go. His hands slow, reverent. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.
He kisses your chest, your neck, your mouth again. “I don’t care about the age gap,” he murmurs. “Or the job. Or the risk. I care about you.”
You close your eyes and arch into him. He’s not just making love to you. He’s choosing you. Out loud. Without hesitation.
And the best part is—you’re finally choosing him back.
The next morning, sunlight filters through the blinds, casting a warm glow over the room. You stir, feeling the steady rhythm of Tim’s heartbeat beneath your cheek.
“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
You look up at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Morning.”
He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “So, does this mean we’re official or something?”
You chuckle. “I think last night made that pretty clear.”
He grins, pulling you closer. “Good. Because I don’t plan on letting you go.”
You nestle into his embrace, feeling a sense of contentment you hadn’t known you were missing.
And in that moment, everything feels right.
