Rabbit Hearts & Bulletproof Vests || Tim Bradford??

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Mid-Wilshire Division – 6:00 AM

Alice Hartwell stood in front of the locker room mirror, adjusting her collar with slow, methodical care.

Her bruises had faded, but she still saw shadows in her reflection — not from pain, but memory. The funeral, the blood, the feel of Tim's lips on hers three nights ago. A kiss that wasn't just a kiss. It had felt like something shifting.

But nothing had been said since.

Not a word.

Not a text.

Not even a nod in the hallway.

And today, that silence felt louder than ever.

"Morning, Rabbit."

Her spine straightened. She turned slowly — and there he was. Tim Bradford. Vest already on. Coffee in hand. Eyes unreadable.

"Morning, Wolf," she replied, tone light but cautious.

"You ready for today?" he asked.

She nodded. "Depends. Am I back to being just your rookie again?"

His gaze flicked away. "It's a work day."

"Right," she said softly. "Just the job."

But something in her chest pinched anyway.

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7:12 AM – Dispatch Call: Armed Suspect Barricaded in a House

The house sat like a wound on the block — windows boarded, lawn overgrown. Inside, a suspect armed with a shotgun had barricaded himself with one confirmed hostage: a teenage girl, fifteen years old, possibly his daughter.

Tim and Alice were called in as part of the perimeter team while SWAT geared up. The air crackled with tension. Civilians stood behind caution tape, whispering. The girl's mother sobbed quietly into a patrol sergeant's shoulder.

Alice's eyes scanned the windows, reading angles, distances.

"Hostage is at high risk," she said. "That window—east side—looks like a bedroom. It's the only one not covered."

Tim nodded. "You thinking he's keeping her in there?"

"I'd bet my badge."

He looked at her. "You don't gamble."

"I don't need to."

She didn't realize it, but her voice was sharper than usual. A little colder.

Tim noticed.

"You okay?"

Alice didn't answer. Just adjusted her gloves and took a breath.

"Let's just save the girl."

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7:26 AM – Tactical Break-In Imminent

Over the radio, SWAT requested eyes on the north entrance. Tim and Alice flanked left, crouching behind the rusted remains of a tool shed. The grass crunched beneath their boots. The air was heavy — not from heat, but from the kind of dread that sticks to your lungs.

Tim glanced at her.

"You're not talking."

Alice didn't look at him. "I'm focused."

"No. You're pissed."

She finally met his gaze. "I'm professional."

"That's not what I asked."