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Chapter Text

The air in the parking lot was cold, almost harsh, when Lucy followed him to his car that night. She could still feel on her skin the weight of what had happened with Ray, Tim’s former partner, and the tension hung between them like a thread that could snap at any moment.

“Tim…” she called, her voice trembling more from exhaustion than fear.

At first, he didn’t look at her. He rested his hands on his hips, took a deep breath, and when he finally turned, his eyes seemed older than usual.

“You deserve better, Lucy.” He said it with that firmness he used to end arguments—the same he had honed in the army, at the academy, in every place that had taught him not to give in.

Lucy blinked, unable to process.

“Better?” she repeated, as if the words made no sense coming from her mouth.

Tim swallowed, took a step toward her, and instead of an explanation, he let fall a gesture that broke her soul: a brief, warm, devastating kiss on her forehead.
A goodbye disguised as affection.

“I’m telling you this because I owe it to you, Lucy.” His voice was low, but every syllable stabbed her like a knife. “I’m not what you need.”

She wanted to respond, to scream that he was, that she could no longer imagine her life without him. But the words wouldn’t come. All she could do was stand frozen as she watched him walk away into the night.

And now, five days later, the echo of that scene still throbbed inside her like an open wound.

The police station, for its part, offered no comfort. Lucy forced herself to smile, to walk with her back straight, to pretend everything was fine. But it wasn’t easy when every interaction was a reminder of what she had lost.

She moved through the bullpen hallways with her head down, trying to organize her thoughts after the difficult conversation with Tim. Her uniform was impeccable, but inside she felt fragile, like a house of cards about to collapse.

“Lucy, can you help me with these reports?” Grey asked, his usual calm so contrasting with the storm she felt inside.

“Of course,” she replied, taking the papers with slightly trembling hands.

Working alongside him, Lucy remembered one of the reasons she had been assigned to the station instead of patrol. Grey had decided to place her there temporarily, away from the streets, for intensive training. The idea was for her to learn to work closer to detectives—assisting in case investigations, reviewing reports, helping prepare interrogations, and seeing firsthand how the strategies at the sergeant’s post were managed.

“This will do you good,” Grey had told her weeks ago. “No matter what you decide to do in the future, Lucy. Watch, learn, participate. You’ll see how a sergeant moves, how cases are coordinated… and you’ll grow in any path you choose.”

Although Lucy had doubted at first, she now understood that the experience was valuable. Every case she helped review, every detective she worked with, every decision she heard from Grey was a small step in her professional development. And even though her head ached from so many personal worries today, she kept fulfilling her tasks, knowing her future depended on her dedication and learning.

As she organized files and drafted reports, she could observe the detectives in action, learning how they handled cases, how they made quick, precise decisions. Grey guided her patiently, correcting her when needed and showing her strategies that would be crucial later, when she decided which path to take: detective, sergeant, or any other role she chose to advance her career.

It was exhausting, yes, but also stimulating. And for the first time in days, Lucy felt that, despite everything tearing her apart inside, there was a purpose behind every move—a thread of control in a world that seemed to be falling apart around her.

Her days now were a constant echo of orders and errands:

“Chen, I need you to review these reports and pass them to Nolan before lunch,” Nyla said, handing her a stack of papers without looking at her. “Oh, and while you’re at it, call the witness from yesterday’s case.”

Lucy held the papers against her chest, forcing a smile.
“Of course, I’ll do it right away.”

Angela appeared shortly after, in her always-direct tone.
“Lucy, can you bring me the file for the robbery victim? It’s in records, and I really don’t have time to go down there.”

“Yes, of course,” Lucy nodded, and the smile returned to her face, though this time it cracked slightly at the corners.

Nyla glanced at her briefly, as if to soften the situation, but ended with a pat on the arm.
“Thanks, Chen. You’re efficient, you know that.”

Efficient. Not a colleague. Not a friend. Just someone doing the work they didn’t have time for. Lucy understood: they weren’t malicious. They simply didn’t know how to connect after she had placed seventeenth in the detective exam, after she had become the less brilliant version of herself.

The apartment, in contrast, was far too quiet. Tamara was no longer there—she had moved in with her college roommates, and though Lucy was proud of her, the void she left at home was enormous. Too big.

That morning, stepping into the shower, she thought the hot water might wash away the tension from her muscles. She rubbed herself slowly, trying to ignore the fatigue built up in her bones. That’s when her fingers stumbled upon something strange: a hard lump in her chest.

Lucy froze, the soap sliding over her skin unnoticed.
“No… no, it can’t be,” she whispered into the emptiness, breath catching.

She repeated the motion, feeling again, until she convinced herself it wasn’t imagination. Her heart raced. The sound of the shower suddenly deafened her.

The appointment with the doctor came sooner than expected. Too soon. Barely a morning later, just coinciding with her day off, she was already seated in the hospital waiting room, hands clasped with knuckles white from gripping so tightly.

The place smelled of disinfectant, stale coffee from the machine, fear disguised as normalcy. There were other women sitting around: some flipping through magazines without reading them, others staring at the floor with the same rigidity Lucy displayed now. An older woman’s legs trembled; a young woman her age bit her nails until they bled.

Lucy tried to focus on anything—the informational posters on the wall, the clock showing 10:07, the receptionist’s voice calling names. But every time her thoughts wandered, they returned to the same point: What if it’s the worst? What if everything I’ve built ends here? What about my detective dreams? And Tim…?

She instinctively placed a hand on her chest, as if she could convince her body that she was wrong. But she wasn’t. The lump was still there. Present. Threatening.

“Lucy Chen.” The nurse appeared at the door, smiling with that professionally kind manner that fell short of calming her.

Lucy rose as if weighed down by tons. She walked into the consultation room with unsteady steps, as if she could collapse with each one.

The doctor was a middle-aged woman with a serene face and soft voice. She asked Lucy to sit, reviewed her history, asked questions that were hard to answer with a dry throat. Then came the examination—cold and clinical—and the rapid tests that seemed to take hours.

The silence in the office became unbearable until finally the doctor spoke.

“Lucy…” Her eyes searched Lucy’s gently but without avoiding the truth. “We’ve found a tumor. It’s breast cancer.”

The word hit like a hammer. Cancer.

Lucy went blank.

“Is it… advanced?” she asked in a faint voice, afraid to hear the answer.

“No. We caught it in time. But that means we need to start as soon as possible. We’re talking intensive treatment: chemotherapy, possibly radiation, and depending on your response, we’ll evaluate surgery.”

Lucy blinked, trying to follow every word, but it was as if she were hearing from underwater.

“Treatment…?” she repeated awkwardly.

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” The doctor maintained her firm tone, as one who knows there’s no other option. “The important thing now is not to face it alone. You’re going to need support, Lucy.”

She nodded, though she had no idea whom to turn to. Support? From whom? Nyla and Angela, who barely spoke two sentences to her a day? Tim, who had decided he didn’t want her in his life? Tamara, whom she had tried to let fly, not burdened with her own problems? Her parents, who hadn’t spoken to her because of her career choice?

Tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them back fiercely.

“Thank you, doctor.” She forced the words out, though her voice sounded like an echo.

She left the office with the crumpled brochures in her hand. The hallway was too bright, too noisy. People talking, elevators opening, phones ringing. Everything was normal, terribly normal, while her world had shattered.

When she finally reached her car, she slammed the door and sat there, motionless, keys in hand. The dashboard clock read 11:22. When she looked again, it was nearly 1:00 p.m. Two hours sitting, mind dazed, unable to move a muscle.

She thought of everything she had done so far: the endless shifts, the failed exams, the risks taken, the sacrifices… For what? What was the point if she might not have a future?

And then, almost without thinking, she took out her phone. She searched for the only number she needed—the only one that had ever made sense in her darkest moments.

Tim.

The tone rang once, twice, three times.
No answer.

The diagnosis still thundered like a drum in her head, and the idea of calling Tim—her only close person she felt she could trust—had felt impossible. She had tried, but he didn’t answer.

Desperate and trembling, she thought of her mother. After all, she was her mother, and maybe, just maybe, she could offer some comfort. With shaking hands, she dialed and waited as the tone rang.

“Lucy!” her mother answered in a high-pitched voice, without even a cordial “hello.” “Have you left the police to continue your master’s in psychology? Do you finally have a real job?”

Lucy swallowed hard, feeling her heart shrink.

“No… mom, no… it’s not that… I’m calling about something else,” she tried to explain, voice trembling.

“Something else?” her mother replied sharply. “What are you talking about? I don’t want to waste time on nonsense!”

Before Lucy could say anything more, the call ended. Her mother had hung up.

Lucy sat in silence for a few seconds, phone still in hand, feeling each heartbeat accompanied by a stab of loneliness. Her only real support network had shown itself to be fragile, distant, and even hostile.

She hugged herself, trying to hold back tears, repeating mentally that for now, she would have to bear her fear and pain alone. No one else yet knew what she was facing, and maybe that was what kept her alive: the decision to survive, even if one day at a time.

With a sigh, she rested her forehead against the steering wheel and allowed herself a moment of complete vulnerability. Then, finally, she started the car and drove back home, feeling that, at least for now, she had to be her own refuge.

Chapter Text

The day felt endless. Lucy had arrived early, her shoulders tense and her stomach churning from something that had nothing to do with the unfinished breakfast she hadn’t managed to eat. From the moment she stepped through the bullpen door, she felt that suffocating pressure in her chest: she knew what she had to do, knew she couldn’t put it off any longer, but every time she approached Grey’s office, her legs shook, and she turned back on her heels with any excuse.

She repeated to herself, “At the end of the shift, I’ll do it. I have to do it,” but the end of the shift seemed like an eternity.

Between tasks and errands that Nyla and Angela assigned almost without looking at her, Lucy clung to work as if it were a lifeline: filing, reviewing reports, answering calls, carrying folders back and forth. It was exhausting, but it gave her a tiny sense of control amid the chaos.

Mid-morning, she decided to get a coffee. The simple ritual of pouring it silently kept her going. But just as she turned, cup in hand, she collided head-on with Tim.

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Sorry,” he murmured, dodging her with a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Lucy felt urgency in her throat, words struggling to escape. She needed him. At least to hear his voice, not just that distant tone.

“Tim…” she dared, gripping the cup tightly so it wouldn’t fall. “Can we talk for a minute?”

He looked at her, uncomfortable. He tilted his head as if the answer were obvious.

“Lucy, I don’t think it’s a good idea. Not yet. We both need… space.”

She swallowed, her hand trembling slightly.

“Just a minute, I…”

“No,” he interrupted, this time gently but firmly. “It’s better this way. Trust me.”

He left her there, words hanging in the air, the coffee cooling in her hands, and the hollow feeling spreading through her chest. She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve to know. He didn’t want to be near her.

She took a deep breath, holding back tears, and returned to work like an automaton.

The clock crawled cruelly. Lucy tried two more times: she approached Grey’s office, raised her hand to knock, but turned back before doing so. The knot in her stomach became unbearable.

Finally, when the precinct was starting to empty, she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. Tomorrow would be her first treatment. She had no choice.

She knocked softly on Grey’s office door.

“Come in,” said the deep voice, as always.

Lucy entered, closing the door behind her. Grey looked up from his papers and immediately sensed the tension on his officer’s face.

“Chen, what’s going on?”

Lucy swallowed. She had prepared a speech, but it crumbled as soon as she opened her mouth.

“Sergeant… I need the day off tomorrow. And… and probably more later too.”

Grey frowned, leaning forward.

“Family matter? Are you okay?”

The air felt heavy in her lungs. Lucy clenched her fists.

“No, I’m not okay.” The words came out in a whisper, full of fear. “I’ve been diagnosed with breast cancer.”

Silence followed instantly. Grey blinked, stunned, as if he hadn’t heard correctly. His rock-like expression cracked slightly, and for a moment, Lucy saw something in his eyes: pain, disbelief… fear.

“Lucy…” His voice became grave, slower. “I’m so sorry.”

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“I start treatment tomorrow. I don’t want anyone to know yet. But I need you to approve the days off for medical appointments, when I need them.”

Grey let out a long sigh, struggling to maintain control.

“Of course. You don’t have to worry about any of that. If you need leave, you have it immediately.”

“No,” she cut him off, a flash of determination in her voice. “I want to keep working. As long as I can. I need to keep my mind busy, not stay home thinking… about the other thing.”

Grey studied her, that determination he knew well shining behind Lucy’s wet eyes. He nodded slowly.

“All right. You’ll work as long as your body allows it. And if at any point you need to stop, don’t hesitate.”

Lucy breathed easier, though the relief was only a brief respite amid the storm.

“Thank you, Sergeant. And… please, don’t tell anyone. I’m not ready yet.”

Grey looked at her long and hard, with that mix of toughness and tenderness he rarely showed.

“Your secret is safe with me. And I want you to know something, Lucy: you are not alone. You have support here, even if you don’t always see it.”

She only nodded, unable to reply. She left the office with quick steps, heading straight to the parking lot. As soon as she closed the car door, the tears came uncontrollably. Everything was too real: the diagnosis, the start of treatment, the loneliness heavier than fear.

She rested her forehead against the steering wheel and let herself cry, alone in the darkness.

The day ended, but for Wade Grey, it was as if it had never begun. He spent the rest of the day on autopilot, signing documents, giving orders, pretending a normalcy he didn’t feel. In his mind, Lucy’s words echoed: breast cancer.

Every time he remembered her in the bullpen, so young, so full of potential, his stomach twisted. He had learned to see her as a daughter; stubborn, brilliant, with that fire that challenged him and yet made him proud. And now, knowing she faced this battle… made him feel powerless.

When he arrived home, Luna greeted him with a calm smile.

“Hi, love. Long day?”

He left the keys in the bowl by the door, heavier than usual.

“Yes,” he replied, but his voice sounded muted.

Luna knew him too well. She approached, placed a hand on his arm, and looked him in the eyes.

“What happened, Wade?”

Grey hesitated. A lump formed in his throat. He had thought about staying silent, protecting her from this burden too. But the weight was too much.

“Lucy,” he finally said in a hoarse whisper. “Lucy is sick. She has cancer. She starts treatment tomorrow.”

Luna’s eyes widened, shocked.

“Oh my God…”

Grey looked away, bringing a hand to his face. The firm, solid man everyone knew at the precinct broke down in his own home.

“It shouldn’t affect me like this, but…” His voice broke, and finally tears ran down his cheeks. “I see her like… like a daughter, Luna. I’ve seen everything she’s fought for, everything she’s endured to get here. And now this…”

Luna hugged him tightly, letting him bury his face in her shoulder.

“Of course it affects you, Wade. Because you love her. Because you care. And it’s okay to cry.”

He pressed his lips together, trying to hold back, but vulnerability overcame him. Luna stroked his back calmly, until the tremor in his breathing settled.

“We can’t leave her alone in this,” she continued, with the firmness she always found amid chaos. “I’ll be there, watching her at the hospital, seeing how she’s doing. And you… you can be her rock, like you’ve always been.”

Grey looked up, his eyes red.

“She doesn’t want anyone to know yet. Just me.”

“Then we’ll keep it quiet,” Luna nodded, stroking his cheek. “But quiet doesn’t mean abandonment. Lucy will feel that we’re here, even if she doesn’t say it.”

Grey nodded, taking a deep breath. The pain was still there, but also a spark of calm. With Luna, he always found balance.

“Thank you,” he murmured, taking her hand.

“You don’t have to thank me. Lucy is family too. And families don’t leave each other alone.”

Grey closed his eyes for a moment, engraving those words. For the first time all day, he believed that, though the road would be hard, Lucy would have someone watching over her, even when he couldn’t be there.

That night, Lucy got into bed, curling under the blankets as if they could protect her from everything to come. Outside, the city went on with its routine, indifferent to her inner world, and she remained in silence, her breathing uneven.

Her mind kept turning over everything: the diagnosis, the treatment starting tomorrow, how she would feel after the first session, the needles, the side effects, the endless hours in the treatment room. She imagined herself dizzy, tired, nauseous, with a heavy head and exhausted body… and yet, she knew she had to face it.

She thought of her friends at the precinct, those with whom she shared laughter and long hours of work, and how since her breakup and the tension over position 17, they had left her to her own devices, not knowing how to reach out. And still, she loved them; even if they didn’t show it, her affection for them remained, silent and firm.

Her mind drifted to Tim. Her heart tightened recalling his kiss on her forehead, his words of “you deserve better,” and the distance he had imposed between them. She still loved him, with the same intensity as always, and the pain of his absence mixed with the quiet guilt of wishing he were present during these coming days.

For a moment, her thoughts flew to Jackson. She wondered how he would have felt if he had known about the cancer. She imagined him caring for her, being there in the hardest moments, holding her hair when she vomited, holding her hand when fear overtook her. That image drew a sad sigh, because although Jackson was no longer in her life, the memory of his support comforted her amid the emptiness she felt.

Lucy closed her eyes, trying to find a thread of calm. The bed seemed small against everything that awaited her, but she forced herself to breathe, to let the darkness envelop her, even if only for a moment. Tomorrow, her real fight would begin. And though she was scared, though she felt alone, something remained intact: the certainty that she had to stay strong, for herself, for her future… and for those who, even from afar, loved her.

Chapter Text

The alarm went off at six, but Lucy had been awake since four. She had barely slept a couple of hours, her thoughts chasing each other in endless circles. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she ran her hands over her face and took a deep breath, trying to convince herself that she could do it.

It’s just the first step. One day at a time. Breathe.

She forced herself to get up, choosing comfortable clothes instead of her uniform, because this battle she would fight not as a police officer, but as a woman. Simple jeans, a loose sweatshirt that seemed to belong to Tim (she needed something comforting today, and that forgotten sweatshirt she borrowed to walk around the house worked perfectly), and sneakers. In front of the mirror, she tied her hair into a firm ponytail, as if that small action could give her control over everything slipping through her hands.

She couldn’t eat before the tests, so she decided to leave early to find a good parking spot.

The drive to the hospital felt endless. The city was already waking up, traffic filling with honks and rush, but Lucy drove in silence, her heart pounding in her chest like a war drum. When she parked in front of the building, she stayed in the car for a few minutes, staring at the automatic doors as if they were the gates of a battlefield.

“You can do this, Lucy,” she whispered, gripping the wheel tightly before stepping out.

Inside, the hospital smelled of disinfectant and reheated coffee. The receptionist greeted her with a routine smile, and after giving her name, she was guided to the oncology area. A young, kind but quick nurse led her to the extraction room.

“Good morning, Lucy. It’ll just be a quick prick for a blood test, alright?” the nurse said professionally.

Lucy nodded, swallowing hard as she rolled up her sleeve. She wasn’t unfamiliar with needles; the police had taught her to endure physical pain. But this was different. This prick wasn’t just a formality—it was confirmation that everything was real.

The nurse filled several tubes of blood, attached labels with her name, and handed her a sheet.

“The results take about an hour. In the meantime, why don’t you go down to the cafeteria and have something to eat? It’s important to have something in your stomach.”

Lucy nodded again, holding the paper as if it were a written sentence.

In the cafeteria, the atmosphere felt strangely normal. People in white coats were reviewing reports while sipping coffee; family members spoke quietly by the windows. Lucy chose a secluded table and forced herself to order something: half a turkey sandwich and a soy latte.

She took a bite, but the food caught in her throat. She barely managed to finish half. The coffee, however, she drank slowly, seeking warmth in her trembling hands.

While waiting, she looked around. It was like entering a parallel world: solitary people, couples in silence, children too small to understand why they were there. The normality of the hospital was cruel because no one seemed surprised. Here, illness was part of the routine.

Lucy closed her eyes for a moment, reminding herself that this was only the beginning. One step. One of many. And she had to take it, even if it terrified her.

When her phone vibrated in her pocket, she pulled it out, irrationally hoping to see Tim’s name on the screen. It wasn’t him. It was a hospital reminder: Results ready. Please proceed to the treatment area.

Lucy took a deep breath, left the empty cup on the table, and stood up. The first step was taken. Now came the real test.

Lucy arrived at the treatment area, her stomach in knots. The hallway was painted in soft tones, but the feeling was cold, too quiet. At the end, an automatic door led her to a large room with reclining chairs, IV drips hanging from metal stands, and patients who seemed to have learned to wait for hours.

A middle-aged nurse with her hair in a braid and a warm smile approached her.

“Hello, you must be Lucy,” she said, checking the folder in her hands. “I’m Clara, and I’ll be with you today.”

“Hi…” Lucy responded, her voice a mere thread.

“Don’t worry, I’ll explain every step. And if you need to stop at any time, just tell me, alright? There’s no rush here.”

Lucy nodded, grateful for the calm. Clara guided her to one of the free chairs, adjusted the backrest, and offered a light blanket.

“First, we’ll prepare the IV. We’ll use your left arm today, okay?” Clara asked, spreading the materials on a metal tray.

Lucy nodded, swallowing hard. The nurse tied the elastic band, palpated her vein with skill, and disinfected her skin with a cold cotton ball.

“Take a deep breath… it’s just a prick.”

The needle went in smoothly, and Lucy tensed slightly, closing her eyes. Clara secured the cannula with tape and connected the tube.

“Very good. The first thing you’ll receive is saline to hydrate you. Then we’ll start the main drugs: one is clear, the other a bit reddish. It will take a few hours, so make yourself comfortable.”

Lucy watched the drip begin, the liquid descending slowly. It was strange to think that those drops were both poison and hope at the same time.

“And… will I feel sick right away?” she asked softly.

“Some people do, some don’t,” Clara explained gently. “You may feel tired, nauseous, or simply nothing during the first session. Every body reacts differently. That’s why we’ll observe you closely. And remember: you’re not alone here.”

Lucy looked down and nodded, grateful for that mix of professionalism and tenderness.

She spent half an hour in silence, listening to the hum of machines and the murmur of other patients. Then a woman in her fifties entered, accompanied by her husband. She had short hair with proud gray streaks and an energy that instantly filled the room.

“I’m Margaret,” she introduced herself, dropping a fabric bag full of things. “First time, right?”

“Yes…” Lucy admitted, her voice barely audible.

“I guessed. Don’t worry, we all go through it. I’ve been here for six months. And I won’t lie, it’s not a walk in the park… you survive. And you also learn to laugh again.”

Margaret opened her bag like it contained a treasure.

“Look, I have romance novels, salty cookies, mint candies, even dark chocolate. Want to choose? Helps pass the boredom.”

Lucy couldn’t help but smile, surprised by so much generosity.

“The chocolate… thank you.”

“Perfect. And if you want, when you finish, I’ll lend you a book. Trust me, this goes by faster with a good story.”

Lucy nodded shyly, but the gesture relieved her more than she had expected.

Margaret then pointed to a man sitting near the entrance.

“That’s my husband, Peter. He always insists on accompanying me. In a little while, he’ll go to the cafeteria to wait for me, because he can’t stand seeing me hooked up to these machines. But I like knowing he’s nearby.”

Lucy waved, and the man returned the gesture with a kind smile before focusing back on Margaret.

The atmosphere already felt more human, less hospital-like, when a familiar figure appeared at the door. Lucy straightened, surprised.

“Luna?”

The sergeant Grey’s wife walked toward her with a serene smile and a folder in hand.

“Hi, Lucy. I hope you don’t mind me dropping by. Wade and I thought maybe a little company would do you good…”—she paused, lifting the folder—“…and, well, someone had the brilliant idea that reviewing reports could distract you.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow, both amused and moved.

“Work? Really?”

“I don’t completely agree, believe me,” Luna laughed, placing the folder on the small table. “But I know you two. Work is… part of how he feels strong.”

Lucy looked down, feeling understood.

“Thank you. Really.”

Luna gently touched her shoulder, conveying more support with that gesture than a thousand words.

“Just promise me you won’t read everything at once. And that when you’re tired, you’ll stop.”

Margaret leaned in, conspiratorial.

“Or you can swap those reports for one of my romance novels. Much more entertaining.”

The three of them laughed together, and for the first time in days, Lucy felt she could breathe a little easier. Between Clara’s warmth, Margaret’s unexpected company, Peter’s silent gesture, and Luna’s reassuring presence, that first day stopped being just the beginning of fear… and became the start of an unexpected support network.

Hours later, Clara carefully removed Lucy’s IV and pressed a soft gauze.

“All done, first round completed. See? Not so terrible.”

Lucy let out a sigh she hadn’t realized she was holding. She had expected dizziness, nausea, something to knock her down immediately… but for now, she felt fine. Tired, yes, but whole. As if the real blow was still hidden around an invisible corner.

Margaret smiled knowingly as she gathered her things.

“The trick is to enjoy these calm hours. Don’t trust it completely—side effects sometimes come later… but today, today you can afford to feel normal.”

Lucy nodded, putting away the half-finished chocolate bar her new friend had shared.

“I warn you, tonight you’ll probably feel tired, maybe a little nauseous or dizzy. Every body reacts differently, but I can recommend something that always helps me: some ginger tea or a light toast before bed. And if you’re hungry later, fruit or simple cookies. Nothing heavy.”

Lucy nodded, grateful.

“Thank you… really.”

“And if you ever need someone who understands how you feel…” Margaret took a small piece of paper from her bag and handed it to her. “This is my number. Call me if you want, anytime. Don’t worry about bothering me.”

Lucy took it carefully, feeling that this stranger was offering her a bridge amid the storm. She kept the paper between her fingers, not daring to look at it too closely, but certain she was not completely alone.

When she left the room, Luna waited for her in the hallway. She didn’t need to say anything; she simply accompanied her to the car, making sure she was okay. Lucy didn’t protest. For a moment, she liked feeling cared for.

Across the city, in an unassuming building, Tim Bradford sat in one of the chairs of a veterans’ circle. His large hands rested clasped over his knees, tense, as if he still held a weapon between his fingers. The moderator’s voice resonated, deep but calm:

“We’re here to share the weight. No one judges. No one interrupts.”

Tim took a deep breath. He remembered the precinct hallway, Lucy’s searching gaze, the way he had built a wall between them with a few harsh words. He had wanted to protect himself… but in the end, the only thing he had done was hurt her.

“I’m Tim,” he began, his voice hoarse. “And… I’m here because I don’t want to keep being the man who pushes away the people he cares about most.”

Silence surrounded him, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a silence full of recognition. Others had been there. Others had felt the same.

Tim looked down, a huge weight pressing on his chest. He didn’t know if Lucy would ever forgive him, didn’t know if they would be friends again, let alone anything more. But he knew one thing: he needed to change. For her, for himself, for any chance to build something different from the pain he had carried for far too long.

And for the first time, even if just a small step, he felt he was beginning to do it.

Chapter Text

Lucy arrived home dragging her feet, her body heavy and her mind a whirlwind. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, taking a deep breath, as if she had left the entire world and everything weighing on her shoulders on the other side. But the silence of her apartment offered no comfort; it only amplified the echo of her loneliness.

After dropping her bag on the couch, she forced herself to take a warm shower, hoping the water would wash away the fatigue that seemed to have seeped into her bones, and then changed into comfortable clothes—loose pants and a t-shirt suspiciously similar to one she had borrowed from Tim during their academy days (even though they weren’t together, his clothes comforted her, wrapping her in a blanket of security).

Then she went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. She stared inside for a few seconds, trying to recall what Margaret had told her hours earlier in the treatment room: “Eat little, but often. Don’t force heavy meals. Stay hydrated: water, light broths, herbal teas. Always have something light on hand, cookies, soft fruit… your body will thank you more than a large feast.”

Lucy made a mental list as her eyes wandered across the nearly empty shelves:
Salty cookies. Ginger tea. Soft yogurts. Soft fruit. Chicken broth.

Everything Margaret mentioned seemed so simple and, at the same time, so distant. She closed the fridge with a sigh.

She prepared something quick, the simplest thing she could find: white rice with a bit of boiled chicken. She forced herself to sit at the table and poke at it with her fork, repeating like a mantra that she needed to eat, that her body would need every nutrient, that she had to be strong. But every bite was a struggle. She barely finished half the plate before a knot in her stomach warned her of the inevitable.

Nausea hit suddenly, violently, and she ran to the bathroom. She fell to her knees beside the toilet, feeling her body rebel with every retch. Time lost all meaning as chills ran up and down her skin, her muscles aching as if every fiber were at war. When she tried to stand to go to bed, the world spun, cold and dark, and the tiled floor met her as she fainted.

The apartment door opened shortly after.

“Lu?” Tamara’s voice rang with a mix of joy and routine. “I thought we could have one of our greasy pizza and trashy show nights.”

Her words echoed off the walls, but no response came. Tamara took a couple of steps forward, still smiling.

“Lucy… are you in the shower?”

Nothing.

A bad feeling pushed her down the hallway. Then she saw it: the bathroom door open and Lucy lying on the floor beyond it. Pale. Motionless.

Tamara’s heart nearly stopped.

“Lucy!” She dropped to her knees, cupping her face, lightly shaking her cheeks. “Wake up! Come on, wake up, please…”

There was no response. Panic surged through Tamara. She fumbled for her phone, tears stinging her eyes, and dialed emergency services… and just then, a moan. Lucy half-opened her eyes, lost.

“No…” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t call. I’m fine… just the food… help me up.”

“Fine?! You’re lying on the floor like you’ve fallen apart.” Tamara wasn’t convinced, but carefully helped her stand and guided her to the couch. Lucy collapsed onto the cushions, exhausted, trying to regain strength. Tamara went to fetch water, and upon returning, noticed something on the coffee table: crumpled pamphlets with letters too clear to ignore.

“Breast Cancer: What You Need to Know.”

Her fingers clenched the paper, incredulous. She slowly turned to Lucy, who was watching her with pressed lips, as if that could erase the evidence.

“What is this?” Tamara asked, her voice breaking between fear and anger.

“Nothing. Just… just some information I got at the hospital.” Lucy tried to sound calm, but her tone was fragile, as fragile as she was.

“Lucy…” Tamara placed the pamphlet on the table, her eyes glistening. “Don’t lie to me.”

Lucy lowered her gaze, unable to meet her.

“I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want anyone to know yet.”

“Cancer?” Tamara swallowed hard. “You have cancer?”

Lucy closed her eyes, as if doing so could stop the world.

“Yes.”

The silence was absolute for a few seconds, broken only by Tamara’s ragged breathing. Then, without thinking twice, she leaned in and hugged her tightly. Lucy, weak, didn’t know how to react, but the warmth of the gesture disarmed her.

At first, Lucy remained stiff, but gradually gave in, burying her face in her shoulder. Her weak, tired sobs tore at Tamara’s soul.

“I didn’t want to burden you with this,” Lucy whispered, haltingly. “You’ve had enough with your life, with everything… I didn’t want you to be the one taking care of me now.”

Tamara stroked her hair gently, with determination.

“Do you hear what you’re saying? You gave me a home when no one else did, you picked me up when I was lost, you saved me from myself. And now you think I’m going to leave you alone? I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to fight this together.”

Lucy trembled in her arms, overwhelmed by the weight of everything she had been keeping silent. The fear was still there, fierce, but for the first time in weeks, she was not alone against it.

On that couch, with the warm light illuminating the scattered papers on the table and the shared tears, Tamara became her refuge. Her first real emotional support. And Lucy, though broken, allowed a spark of hope to ignite in her chest.

Minutes passed, maybe more, hugging in silence. When Lucy finally seemed to calm a little, Tamara pulled back slightly, wiping her tears with her thumbs.

“I want you to tell me everything,” she said softly, though her tone left no room for evasion. “When did you find out? What’s going to happen now?”

Lucy swallowed hard, still hesitant.

“A few weeks ago. They ran tests, biopsies… and confirmed the diagnosis. I started treatment today.”

Tamara’s eyes widened.

“Today? And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want to scare you,” Lucy lowered her gaze. “I’m barely learning to say it out loud.”

Tamara took her hand, squeezing it tightly.

“And how does it work? What do they do to you?”

Lucy took a deep breath.

“Chemotherapy. Multiple sessions. Today was the first. I don’t know how my body will react… everyone is different. I just know it’s going to be tough.”

Silence fell again, but this time charged with determination. Tamara caressed her knuckles.

“Well, I’ll be here. For the hard, for the ugly, for everything. I won’t let go.”

Tamara rubbed her back in slow circles, trying to give her comfort, and after a long silence asked quietly, her voice tight with emotion:

“Does Tim know?”

Lucy closed her eyes at the sound of his name. The pain hit immediately, a sharp blow to her chest.

“No,” she whispered, broken. “I called him when I got the diagnosis. I needed… I needed to hear his voice, to have him near, even if we’re not what we were anymore. But he didn’t answer.”

Tamara pursed her lips, containing the rage boiling inside her. “And in person? Did you talk to him?”

Lucy nodded, with a broken smile.

“Yes. I tried. I asked for a minute at the station, told him I needed to talk… and he told me it was better we didn’t have contact for a while. That we had to rebuild our lives separately.” Her voice cracked. “And I thought… if he couldn’t even hear me, I didn’t deserve to burden him with this.”

Tamara clenched her jaw, her heart hammering with pure indignation. Damn Tim Bradford.

“And your friends? Nyla, Angela, Nolan…?” she asked, a thread of hope in her voice.

Lucy let out a bitter, humorless laugh.

“They haven’t even noticed I’m falling apart. They treat me like I’m a rookie again. Sending me here and there, as if my only purpose is to carry papers. They don’t mean harm, I know, but… it hurts. It hurts to feel invisible.”

Tamara looked at her with eyes shining with restrained fury.

“They’ll regret not being there when you need them most.”

Lucy shrank, as if the words stabbed into her bones.

“And my mother…” she paused, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I called her too. But she wouldn’t even let me speak. All she cared about was asking if I had quit the police to finish my psychology master’s. When I said no, she hung up abruptly.” Her voice broke into a whisper. “I’m her daughter. And she didn’t even ask if I was okay.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks again. Tamara wiped them away with gentle hands, with the tenderness of someone who feels half-daughter, half-protector.

Inside, Tamara seethed. She cursed Tim, the so-called friends, the mother who didn’t deserve Lucy. They had all abandoned her, all except her.

Tamara held her face firmly.

“Listen to me, Lucy Chen. Don’t worry about Tim, or your friends, or your mother. Don’t worry about any of that. Because I’m going to be here. I’m going to take care of you, you hear me? Just like you took care of me when no one else did.”

Lucy sobbed again, but this time nodded slowly. Tamara hugged her tighter, as if wanting to seal her promise into her bones.

“So nobody else knows?” Tamara asked, still with tears in her eyes.

Lucy took a deep breath.

“Grey knows. I had to tell him, I needed to request days off for treatments. And… it was hard, because I saw in his face how much it hurt to hear. But he supported me. He told me to work while I could, and not to worry about anything else.”

Tamara nodded slowly.

“Grey is a good man.”

“And Luna, his wife… she also showed up today in the treatment room. She stayed with me a while.” Lucy gave a small smile. “She brought me reports to distract me, and even joked that she didn’t agree with bringing work to the hospital, but she knew it would do me good. And Margaret… she’s a patient I met there. She was very kind, gave me advice.”

Tamara watched her tenderly, but also with silent determination.

“They’ll be there, yes. But I’m going to be with you every day, Lucy. I won’t leave you alone for a second.”

In her mind, she had already made the decision: she was going to move back to the apartment. No matter what she had to do at the university, no matter the sacrifices. Lucy had been her savior, her refuge, her mother when she needed one most. Now it was her turn to be Lucy’s guardian, the one who would lift her every time cancer tried to knock her down.

And in that silent embrace, Tamara vowed that she would never let anyone make her feel alone again.

On the other hand, the shift at the precinct carried on as usual for everyone—except Tim. Most of the day had already passed, and he still hadn’t seen Lucy at her desk or moving around the bullpen like she always did. She wasn’t reviewing reports, checking files, or helping Grey with cases. Her absence was all too noticeable.

He took advantage of a moment when the sergeant was reviewing some documents to casually approach.
“Lucy’s not assigned here at the precinct today?” he asked, as if seeking simple routine information.

Grey looked up at him with that steady calm he often used when he didn’t want to leave room for more questions.
“Chen needed the day off. That’s all you need to know, Bradford.”

Tim gave a small nod, but the answer didn’t ease the knot in his stomach. He returned to his desk, forcing himself to focus on his own reports, though the question kept circling in his mind: Why did Lucy need a day off today, of all days?

Later on, while he crossed paths with Nyla and Angela in the break room, he tried again.
“Do you know if Lucy’s okay?” he asked, feigning indifference.

Angela shook her head.
“I didn’t see her this morning. I thought she was with Grey.”

Nyla shrugged, her tone neutral—not meant to sting, though it sounded distant to Tim.
“Maybe she needed some space. You know, after ranking seventeenth… she’s probably still processing it.”

The words landed colder than Nyla had intended. Tim frowned, his gaze sharpening, and though his voice was low, it carried a protective edge.
“Lucy isn’t just a test result, Nyla. Don’t reduce her to that.”

Silence lingered for a moment. Angela glanced sideways at him, noticing the shift in his tone, while Nyla raised her hands in a conciliatory gesture.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Tim.”

He didn’t answer. He just took a sip of his coffee, jaw tight. Even if they weren’t together anymore, even if Lucy had pushed him out of her life and he had forced himself to keep his distance, he would always protect her. From careless remarks. From anyone. Even from himself, if it came to that.

That instinct never faded. And her absence, that day, still burned deep in his chest.

Chapter Text

Tamara could hardly take her eyes off Lucy. After last night’s storm—after the vomiting, the fainting, and the truth that had struck like a blow to the chest—she had helped her into bed with the utmost care, as if she were made of glass. Lucy had fallen asleep quickly, exhausted both physically and emotionally. But Tamara… Tamara couldn’t.

She lay beside her, listening to the slow, steady breathing of the woman who had been her savior, her guide, her family. Lucy seemed peaceful in her sleep, but for Tamara every minute felt like walking on the edge of a blade. She feared Lucy would wake up in pain, that her fever would spike, that the treatment would steal away another fragment of her strength. And what terrified her the most—what lodged in her throat like a stone—was the possibility that one day Lucy wouldn’t wake up at all.

She grabbed her phone and, in the dim bluish glow of the screen, began searching for information about breast cancer. She shouldn’t have, but once you step into the rabbit hole it’s nearly impossible to climb out. Still, she was determined to learn everything she could to help her sister—her almost-mother. Later, when her eyes and head ached from all the reading, she started making lists. It was the only way she knew how to feel less powerless.

List 1: Moving. She needed to bring her things right away, go back to her apartment, and settle next to Lucy. This wasn’t an option—it was urgent. Lucy couldn’t be left alone in this condition.

List 2: Food. Check the fridge. Buy light, easy-to-digest, nutritious things. Fresh juices, soups, soft fruits. Margaret—the treatment friend—had told Lucy that keeping her body hydrated and nourished was vital, even when nausea became unbearable. Tamara memorized every detail as if Lucy’s life depended on it, drafting a preliminary shopping list with the help of the internet for tomorrow, after the move.

List 3: University. Talk to her professors. Maybe she could study from home, maybe not. If that wasn’t possible, she’d put it all on hold. School could wait; Lucy couldn’t. Lucy would argue about it endlessly when she found out, but in the end she’d have to accept it.

Tamara turned off the screen and looked at her friend. Lucy was sleeping deeply, her pale face barely lit by the streetlight seeping through the curtains. A mix of tenderness and fear swelled inside Tamara, and her eyes brimmed with tears.

“I have to be strong for you.”

And then, in the silence heavy with thoughts, Lucy’s confessions replayed in her mind: how Tim had turned his back on her at her lowest, how her own parents had abandoned her, how some friends had drifted away. Tamara clenched the sheets in restrained anger.

“How could they leave you now? How could they not see you?”

She swore, right there, that Lucy would never feel that abandonment again. She would protect her not just from the cancer, but from those who had failed her. If she had to stand between Lucy and the world, she would do it without hesitation.

Eventually exhaustion overcame her. She managed barely an hour of sleep before Lucy’s alarm rang.

The beeping shattered the silence, and Lucy stirred slowly, opening her eyes with a tired expression. Her features were still pale, but the nausea seemed less overwhelming. She sat up carefully, rubbing her face with one hand.

“I have to go to work,” she murmured, as if it were an unavoidable duty.

Tamara watched her from the bed, her heart in her throat.
“Lucy, no. You should stay home. Rest.” She jumped up, standing in front of her. “You nearly gave me a heart attack yesterday.”

Lucy forced a faint smile.
“If I stay here, I’ll lose my mind. I need to feel like I’m still myself, Tamara. Work gives me that. And I won’t be on the streets, just at the precinct. It’s not dangerous.”

Tamara pressed her lips together. She could argue for hours, but she knew Lucy’s stubbornness was unshakable. Instead of fighting, she chose to care. She went to the kitchen and remembered Margaret’s advice: “small bites, soft foods, easy to digest, and plenty of hydration.” Gently, she prepared lightly toasted bread, some soft fruit, and a mild tea. She also filled a water bottle and packed a small container with oatmeal cookies, something Lucy could snack on at the precinct.

When she returned to the living room, she set the tray in front of Lucy with quiet determination.
“At least eat something before you go. And take this with you to work. I don’t want you running on empty. I’ll go get my things and head to the store to buy us food.” Her voice carried a firmness that allowed no debate.

Lucy stared at her in silence for a few seconds, her heart tightening. She accepted the tray and took a sip of the warm tea. The taste wasn’t anything special, but the love in each gesture made her smile softly.
“Thank you, Tamara,” she whispered, her eyes shimmering.

As she nibbled slowly on a piece of fruit, she realized words weren’t needed to express what she felt. Tamara cared for her like no one else, with a simple but fierce love—the same love that kept her steady when she was on the verge of collapse. She felt grateful and guilty all at once: grateful not to be alone, guilty for pulling Tamara into this storm.

And yet, when she grabbed her bag and saw the thermos of tea Tamara had prepared for her, Lucy knew that this companionship was the only thing that would keep her going.

When the door closed behind her, Tamara remained in the apartment, her heart heavy but her resolve unshakable: she wouldn’t let Lucy feel alone again—not with the cancer, not with the people who had failed her. She was Lucy’s guardian now, and nothing would change that.

At the precinct, Lucy walked in slowly but with steady steps. Her uniform looked impeccable, as always, though under the white lights her skin seemed even paler. She had made a huge effort to look as though it were just another day: hair neatly tied, shirt buttoned, badge in place. She needed to feel like she was still Officer Chen, even if inside the battle had only just begun. Her stomach was still unsettled, but Tamara’s tea had given her a brief reprieve.

After dropping her things in the locker room, she headed straight for Grey’s office. She knocked lightly, as she always did, and entered when he gave the go-ahead. The sergeant looked up from his reports and studied her carefully.

“Chen,” he greeted in a grave tone. “How was the first treatment?”

Lucy hesitated, but knew there was no point in lying.
“Good… more or less. It was long, and rough afterward, but nothing I can’t handle.” She forced a small smile, aware of Grey’s analytical gaze.

He narrowed his eyes, assessing her in silence. She looked far too pale, more worn than usual.
“You should be home resting,” he said, with that blend of sternness and care that always disarmed her.

Lucy lowered her gaze, fidgeting with her hands as if searching for excuses.
“I know. And I appreciate you saying that, really. But I need to work, Sergeant. If I stay home just thinking about it all…” She inhaled deeply, holding back her emotions. “I don’t know if I can handle it. Here I feel useful, still part of something.”

Grey exhaled slowly, knowing arguing was useless.
“You’re stubborn, just like when you were a rookie.”

Lucy smirked faintly.
“Thanks, I guess. Oh, and… thank you for sending Luna yesterday with the reports. She helped me keep distracted during the treatment. Although she made it very clear she didn’t approve of me bringing work there.” She let out a nervous laugh.

Grey allowed a small smile too.
“That does sound like Luna.”

There was a brief silence before he set his papers aside.
“Alright. I’m assigning you to me today. I’d rather keep you close, so I can make sure you don’t overdo it.”

Lucy looked at him gratefully, her eyes warm.
“Thank you, Sergeant.”

He pointed to a pile of folders on his desk.
“Your task today is simple. Go through these reports, prioritize them, and help me put out the little fires that might come up. You’re excused from roll call—I don’t want you going through that. Better sit at your desk and get to work.”

Lucy nodded, gathered the files carefully, and left his office. Each step was a little heavier, but having concrete tasks kept her upright. Settling into her place at the precinct, surrounded by the noise of keyboards, phones, and chatter, was the only thing holding her together—making her feel like she still had some control over her life.

As she sat down, she couldn’t help but think of Tamara, of the breakfast she had so lovingly prepared, even the thermos of tea for the road. The thought comforted her. She wasn’t alone, even if it sometimes felt that way.

She placed the files in front of her, took a sip of the still-warm tea, and let out a long sigh, ready to begin. This wasn’t just another shift—it was proof that she could still fight to remain Lucy Chen.

Lucy had been at her desk for a while, the reports stacked before her, the thermos of tea at her side. She tried to focus on work, though she often felt someone’s eyes on her. The bullpen buzzed as usual, but that lingering discomfort unsettled her.

Finally, she looked up—and saw him. Tim. He had just left roll call, and instead of heading straight to his rookie, he stopped to watch her from a distance. His brow was furrowed in that familiar mix of worry and confusion.

Tim crossed the room and stopped at her desk.
“Chen…” His voice was low, almost cautious. “You didn’t show up yesterday. Everything okay?”

Lucy kept her eyes on the papers, refusing to give in.
“I’m perfectly fine, Bradford. And why I wasn’t here yesterday is none of your business.”

His jaw tightened, tilting his head as if searching for another angle.
“I’m just worried.”

Lucy raised her gaze then—steady, firm, leaving no cracks.
“It doesn’t look like it. You were the one who asked for space, remember? You said you needed to learn to be without me. Well, Tim, now you have to be consistent. I can’t live at the mercy of your moods, wondering if today we talk or tomorrow we don’t.”

Her voice was calm, gentle even, but every word landed like a stone. Tim stood frozen, thrown off, unable to respond. Finally, he nodded stiffly and turned away, walking back toward his rookie.

Lucy exhaled, lowering her eyes to the reports again. The slight tremor in her hands was barely visible, but it was there.

A few minutes later, Nyla and Angela approached her desk.
“Chen, can you grab yesterday’s robbery file for us?” Nyla asked casually, as if it were just routine.
“And while you’re at it, the assault victim’s file from Wilshire. It’s in records,” Angela added bluntly.

Lucy nodded without hesitation.
“Of course, I’ll get them right away.”

She stood with the papers in her hand, but before she could take a step, a deep, firm voice cut through the room.
“Chen, sit down.”

All three turned toward Grey, who had stepped out of his office with his folder in hand, eyes locked on them.
“Lucy’s assigned to me today. Her job is to go through and organize these reports. If you need files, find them yourselves—or ask a rookie.”

The silence was short but heavy. Angela and Nyla exchanged looks, resigned, before shrugging.
“Fine,” Nyla said simply, and the two walked off toward the records room.

Lucy sat back down, biting her lip discreetly. She couldn’t help it: inside, she felt a flicker of satisfaction. Not because her colleagues had to do the errands she usually handled without complaint, but because—for the first time in a long while—someone had stood up for her without her having to ask.

As she returned to the reports, she thought of Tamara, of Luna, of Grey. Maybe not everyone had abandoned her. Maybe some people still saw her, even when she tried to hide behind a smile.

A few feet away, Tim walked with his rookie toward the elevator. His steps were steady, but his mind was elsewhere. Lucy’s words replayed in his head, each one hitting harder than the last.

“I’m perfectly fine… It’s none of your business…”

He had always been good at reading between the lines. Lucy wasn’t fine—he could feel it in her voice, her face, in that coldness that wasn’t truly hers. And though he had sworn to keep his distance, to stop hurting her, something burned inside him with the certainty that he was making a mistake.

Because Lucy could say she was fine a thousand times, but he knew her too well. Something was wrong. And now, he had to find out what.

Chapter Text

In the room reserved for the veterans’ group, the circle was small, intimate. A dozen chairs arranged around a coffee table where glasses of water and a couple of untouched cookies rested. The air smelled of old coffee and disinfectant, as if the space could never fully shake off the mixture of routine and pain.

Tim sat at the end, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He stared at the floor, pretending to listen, though his mind was miles away.

“Bradford,” the group coordinator’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “You’re quiet today. Do you want to share something?”

Tim slowly lifted his gaze. He had promised himself not to hide anymore, at least here. He clenched his jaw before speaking.

“It’s… complicated.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but expectant. Everyone there understood the weight of unspoken words. Tim took a deep breath.

“Recently… I hurt someone who…,” he swallowed, correcting himself, “someone who means a lot to me. And since then, I feel like I can’t fix it. Now I know for sure that something’s wrong, but she won’t let me in.”

A murmur of agreement ran through the room. No one judged him; on the contrary, every face reflected a similar scar.

“Did you try talking to her?” asked an older man with a white beard and tired eyes.

Tim shook his head.

“A little. At first, I was the one who said we needed distance. She tried to talk to me, but then I guess she gave up. I thought it was the right thing. That it was better for her. But now… I don’t know… I don’t know if I was wrong. The other day I tried asking her what was going on because she missed a day of work, and that’s not like her. She told me it wasn’t my business.”

A woman to his right, hair pulled back in a ponytail, leaned forward.

“Sometimes we think protecting someone means deciding for them. But it doesn’t work that way. Everyone is the master of their own choices, Tim.”

He frowned, as if wanting to protest, but the woman continued.

“You can care, you can support, you can be there. But you can’t impose what you think is best. You can’t force anyone to speak if they don’t want to.”

Tim stayed silent, feeling her words sink in. He didn’t fully understand them yet, but something inside him knew there was truth there.

The bearded man added in a grave tone:

“The hard part isn’t giving orders. The hard part is learning to wait, to let people let you in when they’re ready.”

Tim looked down at the floor again. The phrase hung in his mind, repeating like an uncomfortable echo: wait. Don’t impose. Don’t decide for others.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t know how to move forward.

Tim left the room with his head full of thoughts. The cool afternoon air didn’t clear him completely; his companions’ words continued to bounce around in his mind like an unbearable echo: you can’t decide for the people you love, you can’t impose what you think is best.

“Hey, Bradford,” Max’s deep voice made him turn. One of the few he had spoken to in recent weeks, a man his age, broad-shouldered and tired-eyed. “Fancy a beer?”

Tim hesitated. Normally he would have declined. He preferred going home, locking himself into his routine, keeping his walls intact. But something inside him, perhaps the need not to return so quickly to solitude, pushed him to accept.

“Okay. A beer.”

They walked in silence to a discreet bar, the kind with worn wood and barely audible background music. They sat across from each other at a small table and ordered two beers.

Max was the first to speak.

“I guess I should tell you a little about myself, right?” He smiled with a touch of irony, as if recounting his story had become mechanical. “I spent two years deployed in Afghanistan. I did things… that still wake me up in the middle of the night. I came back with more scars than my wife could see.”

Tim listened in silence, understanding more than he wanted to admit.

“I have three kids,” Max continued, taking a sip of his beer. “The oldest is twelve, and every time she looks at me, I feel like she’s asking where I’ve been all this time. My wife…” He paused, swallowing hard. “She waited for me, but I almost lost her because I thought the best thing was to protect them from my pain.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. That statement hit an uncomfortable corner of his mind.

“And what did you do?” he asked gravely.

Max sighed.

“I learned to let them decide if they wanted to carry me with them. You can’t decide for the people you love. You can’t keep them out of your life thinking that’s protecting them. That only pushes them away.”

Tim looked down at his beer, rotating the glass between his hands. That uncomfortable truth repeated itself.

“And you?” Max broke the silence. “What’s got you so trapped?”

Tim hesitated, as he always did when opening up. But Max watched him without judgment, with the calm of someone who had already carried his own burdens. Finally, he spoke.

“It’s… someone important to me. Lucy. We were together, but I ruined it. I… was the one who asked for distance. I thought we needed space, that it was best. She…” He stopped, searching for the right words. “She has incredible strength, but I feared being with me would be a burden for her, for her future, for her career.”

Max listened attentively, nodding.

“Let me guess. You didn’t ask her what she thought.”

Tim let out a bitter laugh.

“No. I assumed it was the right thing.”

Max leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.

“Then maybe what you’re missing isn’t just her. You’re missing the chance to be part of her life, her worries, her pain. Sometimes, the bravest thing isn’t protecting, Tim. Sometimes the bravest thing is staying.”

The words hit him like a punch to the stomach. Tim didn’t respond immediately. He just took a long drink of his beer, trying to process what he had just heard.

In that moment, he knew: he didn’t fully understand what he had to do yet, but he was beginning to realize how much he was losing.

Tim got home late, the echo of Max’s words and the session resounding in his chest. He closed the door, set his keys on the table, and collapsed onto the sofa, not even turning on the light.

He brought his hands to his face, trying to calm the whirlwind inside him. You can’t decide for the people you love. You can’t keep them out of your life thinking that’s protecting them.

Lucy’s name appeared like a painful heartbeat. He imagined her laughing in the coffee room, talking to someone else. Or alone, as he had seen her so often lately. The urge to call her, to go see her, to tell her he was still there, that he hadn’t stopped loving her for even a second… shook him with a force that almost made him jump up.

But then he remembered the warning: you can’t force anyone to speak if they don’t want to. And he knew that was the hardest limit of all.

He leaned back on the sofa, the silence of the house wrapping around him, and let himself sink into a bitter truth: loving Lucy also meant learning to wait. And that waiting could be the biggest battlefield of all.

The next day, the alarm clock buzzed insistently, rousing Lucy from a light, unrestful sleep. She opened her eyes lazily, first noticing the mess in her room: Tamara’s boxes and bags piled in the corner, the pending promise of unpacking today after cleaning her room. A tangible reminder that she was no longer alone in this, that someone had decided to stay.

She forced herself to stand, though every muscle protested. The pain was diffuse, a general malaise reminding her of what she was going through. She stepped into the shower, letting hot water run down her back. She closed her eyes, trying to make the tension melt away, seeking relief in the pressure of the water she knew would be fleeting.

She took her comb and began carefully detangling her hair, as always while applying conditioner. But suddenly, she felt a strange tug in her fingers. She opened her hand, and air escaped her lungs: a full, thick, dark strand rested in her wet palm.

The world seemed to stop.

The water kept running, hitting the shower floor, but she didn’t hear it. She could only stare at the strand, feeling an icy knot take over her stomach. It was real. It wasn’t just fatigue, or nausea, or pain. Her hair, part of her identity, was starting to leave her.

A pang of despair pierced her chest. She leaned against the cold tile, closing her eyes tightly as tears mixed with the running water. This is just the beginning, she thought. And I’m already losing so much.

When she stepped out of the shower, barely covered with a towel, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She still held the strand in her hand, as if letting it go meant accepting the inevitable. She studied her reflection: swollen eyes, pale, dry skin, tense body. And the image returned the raw truth of her battle.

Tamara appeared in the doorway, still sleepy, hair in an impromptu bun, and a tired expression. It took her just a second to understand. Lucy’s gaze, the held-back tears, the strand in her hand.

She said nothing. Offered no empty words. She simply approached and hugged her. Wrapped Lucy in her arms, holding her to her chest, as if she could keep her from falling apart completely.

Lucy trembled in the embrace, letting out the silent cry she had been holding back.

Once they both calmed down, Tamara took a deep breath, wiped her tears with the back of her hand, and stepped forward. With calm determination, she searched for a comb in the drawer and carefully ran it through Lucy’s hair, avoiding any tugs, as if combing crystal.

“You’re going to look beautiful, with or without this,” she whispered, almost like a mantra.

Lucy looked at her silently through the mirror, throat tight, unable to thank her but deeply aware of the love she was receiving.

Tamara, with a faint but firm smile, finished arranging her hair and set the comb aside.

“Today I’ll find products that can help you, something gentle that makes you feel better. I promise, before the day ends, I’ll go buy them.”

“Could you also get me a gel and moisturizer for dry skin? It feels so tight, and my clothes bother me,” she asked timidly.

“Consider it done, Lucy. I’ll go get everything today.”

Lucy looked down at the strand she still held and slowly dropped it into the trash. She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to pull herself together. She knew this was only the beginning of the fight, and though the fear was real, so was the strength she found in these small gestures.

She looked at herself in the mirror again, and for the first time that morning, allowed herself to think: I am not alone.

Lucy arrived early at the precinct. The constant murmur of phones, footsteps, and conversations felt distant, almost alien, as she sat at her desk with a stack of reports Grey had prepared. The pen moved between her fingers, the computer screen glowed, and she kept her head down, lost in the mechanical work that, while keeping her occupied, reminded her of how alone she was.

No laughter nearby, no knowing glances. Nyla and Angela went about their own world, and though not hostile, they didn’t try to get close. Lucy understood, but the emptiness grew heavier with each passing minute.

Her phone buzzed on the desk, pulling her from her thoughts. A message from Margaret:

“Good morning, battle buddy. Today I woke up feeling like a truck ran over me. But hey, at least I’m prettier than the truck.”

Lucy let out an involuntary laugh, louder than expected. Feeling humor in the midst of all this pain eased her chest like a breath of fresh air.

She decided to get up. Made a coffee in the small break room and, without overthinking, dialed Margaret’s number.

“Hello?” the woman answered, voice hoarse but cheerful.

“Hi, it’s Lucy.” Her voice was timid, like calling someone she was barely getting to know but already felt a bond with.

“Lucy! I was just thinking about you. How’s my chemotherapy sister?”

Lucy hesitated for a second, gripping the coffee cup. Then sighed.

“Today… something happened in the shower. My hair…” Her voice cracked slightly. “…a whole strand fell into my hand.”

There was silence for a few seconds, and Lucy feared she had ruined Margaret’s good mood. But then she heard warm laughter on the other end.

“Welcome to the club, sweetheart. The first time, I spent an hour crying on the bathroom floor. Then I looked in the mirror and thought: you know what? At least now I don’t have to worry about conditioner.”

Lucy, against all odds, laughed through her tears.

“That’s not funny…” she protested, but still laughing.

“Of course it is. If you don’t learn to laugh at these things, cancer wins. It takes too much; we won’t give it our laughter too.”

Lucy covered her face with her hand, laughing and crying at the same time. For the first time in days, she felt someone understood exactly what she needed to hear.

At that moment, Nyla and Angela entered the coffee room. They paused for a few seconds, watching her. She wasn’t the quiet, cold Lucy of the past weeks, nor the one who replied with monosyllables and tense smiles. She was different. Lucy laughed on the phone, eyes bright in a new way, as if connected with someone who pulled her out of that pit.

Angela raised an eyebrow, surprised, while Nyla murmured quietly:

“It’s been a while since I saw her like this.”

Lucy, oblivious to their looks, continued speaking with Margaret, allowing herself, even for a moment, to laugh in the midst of the storm.

Angela and Nyla lingered in the doorway, watching Lucy. She still had the phone in her hand, giggling softly, a mix of shyness and relief she hadn’t shown in a long time.

“Well, well…” Nyla murmured with a half-smile. “Look at Chen. I don’t remember the last time she smiled like that. Want to bet she’s flirting?”

Angela squinted and glanced sideways.

“Flirting? I don’t know, Nyla.” She crossed her arms. “Doesn’t seem like her style right now.”

“And what other explanation do you give?” Nyla pressed, amused. “She’s hanging on the phone like a teenager, laughing at every little thing. That’s a classic sign of someone getting to know someone.”

Angela shook her head, a bit more serious.

“Look, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to see her smile. But we shouldn’t speculate.”

Nyla looked at her with mild suspicion.

“Is it because of Tim?”

Angela stayed silent for a couple of seconds, biting her lip, uncomfortable.

“I’m just saying… I don’t want to have yesterday’s conversation with him again. Okay?”

Nyla raised her eyebrows.

“Ah, so it is about Tim.”

Angela sighed, tired.

“He can say whatever he wants, but we all know what he feels. Even if they’re not together now, if he had to choose, it wouldn’t be me or anyone else. It would be her.” She paused, lowering her voice. “And I’m not getting in the middle of that fire again.”

Nyla looked a bit surprised but finally nodded.

“Alright. Then we just watch, no comments.”

“Exactly,” Angela concluded, setting the boundary clearly.

The two stepped aside, leaving Lucy in her small oasis of laughter and camaraderie with Margaret, unaware that on the other side of the line, it wasn’t a new romance but a friendship born from the illness quietly consuming her.

When she hung up, Lucy stared at the phone screen for a moment, still with a faint smile. Laughter had given her a breath she didn’t expect to find amid the precinct.

She got up with the coffee in her hands, and as she returned to her desk, a thought crossed her mind like a bitter whisper: I wish my friends here could make me laugh like that. I wish, instead of sending me from one place to another like a rookie, they could look at me and see beyond what I no longer am.

With a sigh, she placed the coffee on her desk and forced herself to focus on the reports, keeping her secret like an invisible wall between herself and the rest of the world.

Chapter Text

The alarm rang far too early for Lucy’s exhausted body. She had barely managed to sleep, worn out from the previous day, but when she opened her eyes it was with the silent resignation of someone who already knows the ritual that awaits. Another day of treatment. Another day of needles, of anticipated nausea, and of the deep fatigue that seemed to sink into her skin like a shadow impossible to shake off.

She lay staring at the ceiling for a few seconds, trying to gather strength, until she heard Tamara’s light footsteps approaching her room.
“Good morning, Lu,” Tamara greeted, forcing a casual smile even though her eyes carried the same worry as always.
Lucy sighed.
“Tam, you don’t have to come with me today. You’ve got things to do—classes, work… I don’t want you wasting more time on me.”
But Tamara shook her head firmly, crossing her arms like someone who doesn’t accept negotiations.
“Not a chance. I’m coming with you today, end of story. And besides…” She turned toward the living room table and lifted a backpack that looked bigger than usual. “I came prepared.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow, intrigued, and slowly sat up as Tamara opened the bag with a triumphant gesture.
“Look: thermos of tea, bottles of water, the chocolate you like, soft fruit for your stomach, sandwiches for after they’re done torturing you with the bloodwork. Oh, and in case boredom tries to beat you…” She pulled out a well-worn romance novel, some reports Grey had given Lucy yesterday, and finally her laptop.
Lucy let out a surprised laugh at the display.
“Your laptop?”
“Of course. My professors already know your situation and let me work from home. I just have to show up for exams and a few classes. Today, while I’m with you, I’ll catch up on a couple assignments. Win-win.”
Tamara’s words brought Lucy her first genuine smile of the morning.
“You’re amazing, you know that?” she murmured, gently touching her friend’s hand.
Tamara held her gaze, as if trying to memorize that smile for the harder moments.
“No, you’re the amazing one. I just make sure you remember it when you want to forget.”
Lucy lowered her eyes, moved, and nodded silently. For the first time in days, she allowed herself to believe that while the battle ahead was hard, she wouldn’t be facing it alone.

The hospital smelled of disinfectant and carried the heavy hush that Lucy was beginning to recognize as part of these days. Walking the hall with Tamara at her side, the backpack slung over her shoulder, felt like stepping through a routine she hadn’t chosen but had to accept. The echo of their steps mixed with the distant sounds of other patients, all carrying stories like hers.

In the blood-draw room, Lucy let herself be guided without resistance. She sat on a metal chair while a kind-faced nurse tied the tourniquet around her arm. The prick barely made her flinch—by now it wasn’t about pain, but about the mechanical repetition of something becoming routine.

When it was over, Tamara pulled out sandwiches and water. They found a corner in the waiting area and settled in. Lucy nibbled without appetite, more to please Tamara than from hunger. Across from her, Tamara opened the laptop with a determined look.
“Today I need to work on a sociology assignment,” she explained while typing quickly. “We have to analyze how social media influences contemporary social movements. I was thinking of comparing it to the student movements of the sixties, you know? It’s interesting—different dynamics, but in the end it’s always about finding community and a voice.”
Lucy listened with a faint smile, grateful for the lightness of the conversation, something almost normal. While Tamara talked, she could forget the smell of the hospital and the long hours ahead.
“I like it when you get passionate,” she said softly, interrupting her. “You make me forget where we are.”
Tamara’s expression softened, and she closed the laptop for a second.
“That’s the deal, right? I talk, you smile.”

Soon they were called into the treatment room. The setting was familiar: rows of beds, soft monitor beeps, patients absorbed in their silent battles. Lucy chose her usual corner, searching for comfort in routine. She lay down while Tamara sat beside her, backpack still on her lap. Before long, the nurse from her first session arrived—a woman with a warm gaze and steady hands.
“Hello, Lucy,” she greeted kindly. “Good to see you again.”
“Hi, Clara,” Lucy replied, relaxing slightly at the recognition. “This is Tamara, my… well, practically my sister.”
The nurse smiled and shook Tamara’s hand.
“Nice to meet you. I’m sure having you here helps Lucy a lot.”
Tamara squeezed Lucy’s hand gently, as if to underline the point.

“How have you been since last time?” Clara asked as she prepped supplies.
Lucy hesitated, shrugging.
“A little tired, some nausea… but manageable.”
“That’s normal. Every body reacts differently. What matters is that you take care of yourself and listen to your body. And accept help,” she added, throwing a knowing glance at Tamara.
Tamara smiled, smug with validation. Lucy, resigned, let Clara get to work.

The nurse returned with the cart of IV bags and supplies. Lucy lay back, watching the ceiling with a mix of resignation and calm. Tamara never took her eyes off Clara’s movements.
“I’ll clean your skin and place the IV,” Clara explained softly. “Then we’ll start with the first medication—it preps your body for the rest.”
Lucy nodded, used to the explanation. But Tamara leaned forward, unable to hold back.
“And what exactly is that?”
Clara smiled, accustomed to curious companions.
“It’s an antiemetic—it helps control nausea. Then we’ll run fluids for hydration, and finally the main medication.”
Tamara nodded seriously, as if taking notes.
“Thank you. I want to know what’s going into her, what everything does.”
Lucy glanced at her, half amused, half touched.
“Tam, you don’t need to control everything.”
“I say I do,” Tamara retorted, eyes still fixed on the IV. “If you’re going through this, I want to understand it too.”

Clara inserted the line with practiced ease. The medication started dripping down the tube. Lucy sighed as the cold liquid ran through her vein.
“Here we go,” Clara said, checking everything. “Now it’s just patience.”

Not long after, Margaret appeared at the door, her husband waiting protectively outside. Lucy smiled immediately.
“Margaret.”
“Lucy,” she replied warmly. “And I see you’re not alone today.”
Lucy introduced them, and soon Margaret was seated nearby.
“So, what did you bring today to survive these endless hours?” Lucy asked.
Margaret chuckled and pulled items from her bag. “Oatmeal cookies, my half-read novel, and a thermos of coffee I hope lasts. And you?”
Tamara proudly rattled off her list: fruit, chocolate, sandwiches, tea. “I’m ready for a war in here.”
The three laughed, and the tension eased. Clara, finishing with Margaret, glanced up and smiled. “I love seeing my patients like this—good spirits do more than you think.”

Their conversation turned to books. Lucy admitted lately she only read police manuals, earning a playful grimace from Margaret.
“That doesn’t count as leisure reading.”
“Don’t worry,” Tamara jumped in. “I brought a romance novel to balance it out. We’ll see if I can get her to read it.”
Margaret arched a brow. “Romance, huh? Then we’ll have to compare notes. I’m more of a thriller girl, but a good love story now and then doesn’t hurt.”
They all laughed together, sharing that small reprieve amid the heavy atmosphere.

Hours passed in their peculiar rhythm—the drip of IVs, the murmur of conversations. Lucy alternated between reports Grey had given her and resting her eyes. Tamara typed on her laptop with headphones in, occasionally nudging Lucy to drink water or nibble chocolate. Margaret, seemingly knowing everyone, introduced Lucy to other patients: Peter, the shy “kid” of the group, and Sam, the 65-year-old who liked to remind them they had no excuses if he could endure. Each small exchange chipped away at Lucy’s isolation.

Margaret eventually handed Lucy her phone.
“You have to join this group—it’s the law.”
Lucy read the chat name with a smirk: “Drip Survivors.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Margaret said, eyes twinkling. “We complain, share weird symptoms, ridiculous photos… and terrible jokes. Laughter helps more than meds.”
Peter leaned over. “The last meme was mine. I’ve got talent.”
Lucy laughed, agreeing to join. That small notification on her phone, that gesture of belonging, made her feel a little less alone.

Later, when Tamara stepped out, Margaret grew serious.
“So tell me, how are you really?”
Lucy hesitated, then spoke in a low voice. “This morning, a chunk of my hair fell out in the shower. Not enough to notice… but holding it in my hand made everything feel real. Not just a diagnosis, but my life.” Her voice trembled. “I felt… vulnerable.”
Margaret gently placed her hand over Lucy’s.
“Of course it’s a shock. And you have every right to feel it. But listen—you’re not less strong for crying in front of the mirror. You’re not less you because your hair starts falling. All of this—” she gestured at her own hair “—is just decoration. You are much more.”
Lucy inhaled deeply, letting the words sink in.
“I know… I try to tell myself that. But it hurts.”
“Of course it hurts,” Margaret said softly. “That’s why we’re here—to remind each other pain doesn’t define us.”

Hours later, Clara returned and removed Lucy’s IV.
“Second day done. How do you feel?”
“Tired… but okay, I guess.”
“That’s enough for today,” Clara said warmly. “Hydrate, eat light, and rest.”
Margaret leaned in as they packed up. “See you in the group later. Dark humor is allowed.”
Lucy smiled more genuinely.

The hallway to the exit felt longer than usual. Lucy walked slowly, leaning on the wall. Tamara noticed.
“We’ll take it slow, no rush.”
“I’m fine,” Lucy lied, though her breath betrayed her.
Tamara simply slipped an arm around her shoulders.

In the car, Lucy collapsed into the seat with a long sigh, eyes closing.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Tamara looked at her, stubborn and tender.
“I told you—you won’t go through this alone. Not a single day.”

The ride home was quiet but not uncomfortable. Lucy thought of everything—fear, exhaustion, but also laughter, new names, reminders that she wasn’t alone. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to believe she might endure.

Meanwhile, at the precinct, the morning shift buzzed along, but Tim couldn’t focus. Roll call had ended, and Lucy’s absence hung heavy in his thoughts. He didn’t ask Grey—he knew better by now. Instead, he sought Angela in the break room.
“Have you seen Chen?” he asked casually.
Angela frowned. “No. I thought she was with Grey. Isn’t she?”
Tim shook his head. “Not today.”
Angela’s frown deepened, but she simply said, “I have no idea.” Tim left without pressing, but unease gnawed at him.

Angela later mentioned it to Nyla.
“Have you seen Lucy today?”
“No. Why?”
“Tim asked. She’s supposed to be on duty, but she’s not here.”
“Maybe she took the day off?” Nyla suggested.
“That would be on the calendar,” Angela countered, arms crossed.

Nolan walked in and Angela asked him too. He shrugged.
“Haven’t seen her. Honestly, with the wedding and Bailey, I haven’t kept up much.”

Angela and Nyla exchanged a look but said nothing more. Still, the absence weighed on Angela. She knew Lucy was scheduled, yet she wasn’t there—and nobody seemed to know why. She didn’t bring it up with Grey, Tim, or Nolan again, but the question stuck with her like a pebble in her shoe. Her detective’s instinct whispered: something was off with Lucy Chen.

And though she pushed it aside for now, Angela knew she wouldn’t forget.

Chapter Text

That first month after the diagnosis had gone by slower than usual.
The days blurred together between reports, lukewarm cups of coffee, and a tiredness that no longer faded with rest or willpower. Lucy felt it deep in her bones—the weight of the treatment, of fear, and of pretending everything was fine.

Every morning she looked at herself in the mirror before leaving home and barely recognized the reflection. The dark circles, the sallow tone of her skin, the hair growing thinner each day. And still, she dressed with the same care as always, as if the uniform could shield her from everything else.

At the precinct, the atmosphere had changed.
Not from tension, but something subtler: attention. The kind that hadn’t been there before.

Angela was the first. One morning, after seeing Lucy rub her temples in front of the computer, she quietly placed a cup of hot tea on her desk without saying a word. Lucy looked up in surprise.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Angela replied with a brief smile before returning to her desk.

Lucy stared at the steam rising from the cup, not fully understanding the gesture. For weeks they had barely exchanged more than work instructions. The change threw her off.

Days later, while Lucy was reviewing a batch of old reports, Nyla approached her.
“Hey, this note here…” she said, pointing at the document. “Where did you find this connection?”
Surprised, Lucy explained how she’d cross-referenced data from two seemingly unrelated cases.
“I just thought some of the patterns matched.”
Nyla listened carefully, genuinely interested.
“Good catch, Chen. I hadn’t looked at it that way.”
Lucy nodded with a shy smile, though inside she still couldn’t believe it.
Were they actually talking to her with respect?
After months of treating her like she was invisible?

Then, toward the end of the week, Nolan came by.
He leaned against the edge of her desk while she typed on her laptop.
“Did you know Bailey wants to redecorate the whole living room again?” he said with a half-smile.
“Again?” Lucy asked, glancing up.
“Yeah. Says the couch ‘no longer reflects our couple energy.’”
Lucy let out a small, genuine laugh that surprised even her.
“That definitely sounds like Bailey.”
Nolan shrugged.
“I miss you on patrol, you know? It’s not the same without you pestering me with your priority lists.”
Lucy looked down at the keyboard, uncomfortable but also… touched.
“I miss it too,” she admitted softly.

Still, something inside her resisted.
The affection, the guilt, the distrust—all tangled together.
Why now? Why just when she was falling apart inside?
She didn’t know whether to trust these hands reaching out again.

At least she had one thing keeping her afloat: the WhatsApp group.
Margaret had called it “Drip Survivors,” a name so ridiculous that Lucy burst out laughing the first time she read it.
Every morning brought new messages—chemo memes, photos of wigs in impossible colors, and terrible jokes about nausea.

“Daily challenge: eat without the soup saying hello back 🤢💪,” wrote Sam, the 65-year-old veteran one morning.
Peter, the youngest of the group, replied with stickers of bald cats wearing sunglasses.
Lucy laughed. Really laughed.
It was absurd, dark humor—but freeing, too.
There, in that tiny group of strangers, she found a refuge she couldn’t find anywhere else.

A few desks away, Tim watched in silence.
From his seat, his eyes kept drifting toward her. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help it.
She looked thinner, paler, with deep circles under her eyes and a fragility that unsettled him.
She wasn’t the Lucy he knew. Not the woman he’d trained, nor the one who used to disarm him with a smile. She was another version—quieter, colder… more tired.

At lunch, he pretended to check his phone while watching her leave with her cup of tea toward the parking lot.
He didn’t know where she went or if someone was waiting for her. But he knew something was wrong.
Sometimes, when she looked too exhausted and drove away, he did the only thing his instincts allowed: he followed her, even if he knew it was wrong.

He kept his distance. He didn’t want her to notice. He just needed to make sure she got home safely. When she finally parked in front of her building and stepped out of the car, Tim waited a few minutes.
He saw her open the door and disappear inside.
Only then did he exhale and lean his head against the seat.
He knew he shouldn’t do it. Shouldn’t follow, shouldn’t watch, shouldn’t feel that sharp pain in his chest every time he saw her fragile.
But he couldn’t help it.
He couldn’t turn off what he felt—or that desperate need to protect her, even from the shadows.

Then he started the car, but before leaving, he looked one last time at the building.
“Take care, Lucy,” he murmured softly.
And he disappeared among the city lights, unaware that despite the distance, they were both fighting the same battle—to keep going, each in their own way.

The morning of the checkup dawned gray.
Lucy had spent the night tossing and turning, unable to quiet the anxiety roaring in her chest. Her muscles ached, her head throbbed, and there was a constant sting behind her eyes.
Tamara, who knew her too well, didn’t need to ask how she’d slept. One look was enough.

The drive to the hospital passed in silence. Tamara tried to talk about trivial things—school, a movie, the weather—but Lucy only responded with monosyllables.
Each word seemed heavy.
Each breath, an effort.

When they entered the doctor’s office, Dr. Herrera greeted them with her usual calm—but there was a different kind of seriousness in her eyes.
Lucy noticed it immediately.
That kind of silence that comes before bad news.

The doctor reviewed the results on the screen and then turned toward them.
“Lucy, the tests show the treatment is working… but slower than expected. The aggressiveness of the tumor means we need to adjust the dosage.”
She paused—just long enough for the air to turn heavy.
“The side effects will be stronger. Nausea, fatigue, hair loss… and probably fever episodes. It’s important that you know, so we can support you properly.”

Lucy heard Dr. Herrera’s words, but for a few seconds, couldn’t process them.
“The treatment isn’t responding as well as we hoped.”
The oncologist kept talking—adjustments, new doses, possible side effects—but in Lucy’s head, it was just noise.
That hollow ringing right before tears when you’re trying to be strong.

It’s not working.
What do you mean it’s not working?

For weeks she had endured the pain, the exhaustion, the nausea. She’d smiled at Tamara, joked with Margaret, pretended everything was under control in front of Grey and the others. All that… for what?

The air grew heavier, the room seemed to close in around her.
Her body was there, but her mind was scattering in every direction.
What if I don’t make it? What if this can’t be fixed? What if people start forgetting me?
The thought hit hard, and she hated herself for thinking it.
She couldn’t afford to think like that. Not her. Not Lucy Chen.

She tried to hold on to something tangible—the sound of the doctor’s pen, the feel of Tamara’s hand on her leg, the calm voice saying “adjustments,” “new combinations,” “don’t give up yet.”
But inside, everything burned.
Of course I won’t give up. I can’t. Not now. Not after everything. But… what if I just don’t have the strength anymore?

She closed her eyes for a moment.
She remembered Jackson—his laughter, his way of finding light in the darkest moments—and pain stabbed through her chest.
She also remembered Tim, the way he used to look at her when they were still “them,” that look that said you can handle anything.
And for the first time, she wasn’t sure she could.

Part of her wanted to scream, to break something, to demand fairness from the universe.
Another part—the disciplined one, the survivor—forced her to breathe.
Breathe, Lucy. One, two, three. Don’t fall apart here.

When the doctor finished, Lucy just nodded. She didn’t trust her voice; she feared any word would shatter the fragile wall holding her tears back.

After the appointment, Lucy walked out on autopilot. She didn’t remember grabbing her bag or finding the waiting room. Her body moved by inertia, as if routine alone could keep her from collapsing.
She sat by the window, staring out at nothing.

Next to her, Tamara pretended to check her phone. Her hands trembled. She didn’t know what to say. Nothing felt right. “It’s okay” would be a lie. “We’ll get through this” sounded hollow. And the truth—that she was scared, that she didn’t know how to help—would break her.
And she couldn’t break. Not in front of Lucy. Not today.

So she stood up quietly.
“I’m going for coffee. Want something?”
“No… thanks,” Lucy said softly, eyes still on the floor.

Tamara nodded, more to convince herself she could walk without crying, and stepped into the hallway.
At the cafeteria, the air felt thick. She ordered a coffee she didn’t need, stepped aside, and covered her face with her hands.
The tears came uninvited.
She cried silently, biting her lip to keep from making a sound.
She cried for the helplessness, for the unfairness, for that terrible feeling that love wasn’t enough.
She cried for Lucy—for her strength, for her fear.

When it became unbearable, she forced herself to take a deep breath.
You can’t fall apart. Not in front of her. Not while she needs you.
She wiped her tears on her sleeves, stared at the now-cold coffee, then tossed it in the trash, washed her face, and went back upstairs, wearing a calm she didn’t feel.

Meanwhile, Lucy still sat in the waiting room, body hunched forward, fingers interlocked.
The silence was so heavy it filled the air.
The doctor’s voice echoed in her head:
Not responding as expected… adjustments… more aggressive… don’t give up yet.

That last word stuck in her chest: yet.
Such a small word, yet so cruel.
Yet? What if after that, there’s nothing left to do?

For a moment, she thought of giving up.
Of letting the exhaustion win, of not coming back to the hospital, of accepting that maybe her fate was already sealed.
The thought scared her as much as the illness itself.
What if I just let go? What if I stop fighting?

She imagined Tamara’s face, Margaret’s, even Grey’s.
She imagined Tim’s—the stubbornness and guilt always there—and hated herself for it.
She didn’t want to cause anyone pain, but she didn’t know how much longer she could endure.

Then an older man with white hair sat beside her.
“First time with bad news, huh?” he asked with a sad smile.
Lucy looked at him, surprised.
“That obvious?”
“We all have the same face the first time.” He shrugged. “I’ve been coming for three years. Sometimes I get better, sometimes not so much. But I’ve learned something: bad news are like waves. They hit you hard… but then they recede. The key is learning how to breathe between each one.”
Lucy managed a faint smile.
“I don’t know if I can breathe like that.”
“Of course you can.” He nodded kindly. “Because you keep coming. Because you keep fighting. People who give up don’t get up in the morning. You do.”
There was a pause.
“You know,” he added, “it’s not about not being afraid. It’s about accepting that it’s going to hurt—and doing it anyway. I’ve wanted to give up plenty of times, but my grandson told me once that if I did, the monsters would win. So I’m still here, giving fear a hard time.”
She lowered her head, swallowing tears.
“I don’t have a grandson to tell me that.”
“Then find something—or someone—you don’t want to give up for,” he said, smiling. “It doesn’t matter who.”

And without knowing why, an image flashed in her mind: Tim, standing in the precinct hallway, watching her in silence.
It hurt to think of him—but it hurt even more to imagine him gone.

Tamara returned then.
Her eyes were red, but her smile steady.
“Let’s go home. I’ll make soup.”
Lucy nodded.
Before leaving, she turned to the old man.
“Thank you.”
He winked.
“See you next round, soldier.”

That night, while Tamara served the soup, Lucy scrolled through the group messages.
Margaret had sent a photo of herself in a fluorescent purple wig with the caption:
“New look: my husband says I look like a mix between a punk grandma and Barney the dinosaur 💜.”
Peter replied with a crying T-Rex sticker.
Lucy burst out laughing.
From the kitchen, Tamara heard her and smiled.
For a moment, everything felt lighter.

Tim’s veterans meeting that afternoon was quieter than usual.
He sat beside Max, arms crossed, eyes on the linoleum floor. He didn’t feel like talking—but silence was heavier.
For weeks, he’d been a listener, absorbing stories of men and women trying to rebuild themselves—stories far too familiar.

Paul, the coordinator, began as always with a simple question that somehow weighed a ton:
“What have you learned about yourself since last time?”

One by one, the others answered—until the silence pointed at him.
Tim cleared his throat, uneasy.
“I’ve been thinking about… what we talked about before,” he began. “About making decisions for others. About fear. And I think I finally get what I did.”
Max watched quietly.
“I thought pushing Lucy away was the right thing. That if I stepped back, she’d be better off. But I didn’t do it for her. I did it for me. Because I couldn’t stand seeing her hurt—or being the one to cause it. Maybe I was afraid she’d see the worst in me and walk away.” He let out a dry, bitter laugh. “In the end, it was cowardice.”
“Recognizing that is already a huge step,” Paul said. “What will you do with it now?”

Tim was silent for a moment, thinking.
“I’m not sure yet. But I know what I won’t do—keep hiding.”
Some nodded. Paul held his gaze.
“And what does that mean, exactly?”
Tim took a deep breath.
“It means… I won’t push her, or force anything. I’ve made enough choices for her already. But I’m done pretending I don’t care.” His voice trembled slightly. “I want to be there—in her life—in whatever way she’ll let me. Even if it’s in silence.”
Max looked at him with something like pride.
“That sounds a lot like staying.”
“Yeah,” Tim replied with a half-smile. “Guess I finally get what that means.”

When the session ended, Tim walked out feeling, for the first time in months, like he could actually breathe.
The sunset painted the street in orange hues, and for a brief moment he wondered what Lucy was doing—working, maybe, or resting after another draining day.
He didn’t need to see her to know something was wrong.
He could feel it in his chest.

He got in his car, but this time, didn’t drive home.
Instead, he parked in front of a flower shop and sat there, watching the flowers through the window. He didn’t go in, didn’t buy anything. He just looked, thinking of all the times he’d wanted to say I’m sorry and stayed silent.

I’m not running anymore, he told himself.
But he wouldn’t storm back into her life either.
This time, he’d do it right—patiently, respectfully, letting actions speak for him.

When he finally started the engine, he knew something had changed.
Not in Lucy, nor in what stood between them—but in him.
For the first time, Tim Bradford had a plan born not from fear, but from the desire to make things right.

Chapter Text

The hospital smelled of reheated coffee and disinfectant. Lucy was beginning to think that it had become her new perfume.

Another day of treatment. Another morning of enduring her body, of pretending she had energy, this time with a tougher new treatment.

Tamara had insisted on accompanying her, as always, but this time she couldn’t stay the whole time. She had an exam at the university, so she left Lucy a backpack full of things as if she were going on a trip: a thermos of tea, water, chocolate, and a container with warm oatmeal.

“Promise me you’ll eat something,” she said, adjusting Lucy’s coat before entering the hospital.
“Yes, Mom,” Lucy joked, without much enthusiasm.
Tamara smiled at her, but her eyes trembled.
“I’ll pick you up when I’m done, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And don’t try to be tough if you feel dizzy. Call Clara.”
“I promise.”

Tamara hugged her tightly, more than usual, then left quickly down the hallway. Lucy watched her until she disappeared behind the revolving door.

She sighed.

She stood in the lobby for a few seconds, staring at her reflection in the glass. Every day she looked a little paler, more tired, more like a stranger to herself.

Then she straightened her shoulders and walked toward the treatment room. The sound of the medication cart’s wheels greeted her like a routine hello.

Margaret was already in her usual spot, wearing an emerald scarf and holding a pocket-sized book.

“There’s my fellow struggler!” she exclaimed upon seeing her enter. “We’re starting early today, huh?”
“I had to get my tests done early,” Lucy replied, placing her bag on the chair next to her.

Peter was a little further away, struggling with the cable of his headphones.

“I don’t understand why these cursed cables tangle by themselves. I swear I left them neat last night.”
“Maybe they have a life of their own,” Margaret replied. “With all the coffee you drink, I’m sure even your headphones have too much caffeine.”

Peter gave her a theatrical look.
“Don’t attack my diet—it’s the only thing bringing me joy these days.”

Lucy smiled weakly. She sank into her usual chair, which was already beginning to take the shape of her body. Clara, the nurse, approached with her usual brisk pace.

“Good morning, Lucy. How are you today?”
“Tired, but in one piece,” she replied.
“That’s already a good sign,” Clara responded as she prepared the tray with syringes and the IV bag. “Today we’re going to make a small change to your medication. I’ll explain it beforehand, as always.”

Lucy nodded, watching the nurse check the codes and adjust the IV tubing.

“This is a booster. A type of medication that helps protect healthy cells from the impact of the main treatment,” Clara said calmly. “It may make you sleepy, so don’t worry if you fall asleep. And we’ll increase the dose of the main treatment as Dr. Herrera mentioned.”

“Sleep here? Not so bad.”
“Believe me, it happens more than you’d imagine,” Clara said with a smile. “Half my patients say this chair is more comfortable than their bed.”

Lucy let out a light laugh.
“I’m not sure about that, but I appreciate the effort.”
“And if you feel dizzy or notice anything strange, call me. Don’t make me come find you like last time, okay?”
“Promise.”

Clara tapped her arm gently, as if sealing the deal, then continued her rounds.

Lucy stared at the IV drip. The drops fell at a perfect, constant, almost hypnotic rhythm. Each one seemed like an invisible countdown.

The murmur of Margaret and Peter surrounded her like background noise. She barely participated. Her mind was still trapped on Dr. Herrera’s words, the phrase that had haunted her all week: “It’s not working as well as we hoped.” She replayed it over and over, as if repeating it could change its meaning.

A little later, the door slammed open and Sam’s deep voice filled the room.

“For God’s sake!” he grumbled. “They told me I have to give up sugar. What kind of medieval torture is that?”

Margaret almost spat her tea laughing.
“Did you overdo it with the donuts again, old man?”
“They weren’t donuts—they were crescent rolls. Sounds fancier,” he replied, hanging his jacket on the chair back.

Peter waved at him.
“You’re going to become famous, Sam. ‘The Glucose Rebel,’ the title of your biography.”

Sam snorted.
“With my luck, it would be a boring documentary narrated by a British voice.”

Everyone laughed, even Clara, passing by with a thermometer in hand. Lucy smiled too, but her mind was elsewhere, tangled in thoughts she didn’t want to face.

What if fighting was no longer worth it?
What if this was only prolonging the inevitable?

“Are you okay, honey?” Clara asked, seeing her so quiet.
Lucy looked up.
“Yes, just a little distracted.”
“Well, being distracted isn’t so bad. It means you’re still thinking about things other than this.” Clara winked. “But try to think of nice things, okay?”

Lucy nodded, though she wasn’t sure she could.

The hallway clock marked the slow passing of the morning. Outside, the day went on; inside, time had a different rhythm. One suspended, as if life were in parentheses.

Lucy rested her head against the back of the chair, feeling the weight of fatigue even in her eyelashes. She closed her eyes for a moment. She didn’t dream, didn’t rest. She just let the silence wrap around her, with the faint certainty that, at least for today, she wasn’t alone.

The session continued amid the low hum of the machines and the laughter gradually filling the room.

Peter, who could never sit still, insisted on distributing the chocolate Tamara had left in Lucy’s backpack—chocolate he had found while shamelessly snooping in everyone’s bags to see what he could get.

“If I get diabetes like Sam, blame Tamara,” he said solemnly.

Sam used the moment to stash some bars in his coat. Margaret saw him and nearly choked with laughter.
“Sam! What are you doing?”
“Reserves, Margaret. If someone ever messes with my diet, I want to have hidden reserves.”
“Sugar reserves?” Peter asked. “You’ll become famous for dying of hyperglycemia.”

Clara appeared just in time, folder in hand, with a resigned smile.
“I can’t leave you alone for five minutes. Sam, we talked about this, remember?”
“About what?” he asked with the most innocent face.
“If you keep hiding sweets, I’ll switch your IV to broccoli water.”

The entire room erupted in laughter. Even Lucy laughed, though it was more of a disguised sigh. That scene, so ordinary in her small world of needles and drips, was the closest thing to a family she had now. The group was an improvised refuge; a silent pact among people who understood without needing to explain.

Margaret noticed Lucy’s quiet when the laughter died down.
“You okay, sweetheart?” she asked, with that sweetness of hers that didn’t need softening.

Lucy looked up. Everyone watched her with concern, even Peter, pretending to be distracted by his phone.

For a moment, she thought of lying, of saying she was just tired, but she was tired of pretending too.
“Dr. Herrera told me the treatment…”—she paused—“…isn’t working as well as they hoped.”

The air seemed to stop. Sam put down the bar he was about to open.
“Well,” murmured Margaret.

Lucy took a deep breath, searching for words.
“She said we might need to change the combination or increase the doses. There are still options, but… it doesn’t sound so hopeful anymore.”

Peter frowned.
“And what do you think?”

She hesitated.
“I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself if it’s worth continuing like this. Every day I feel weaker. Every morning it’s harder to get up, and sometimes…” She looked at her own hand, so pale on the blanket. “…sometimes I think I’m just prolonging the inevitable.”

Margaret reached out and held her hand without saying a word. Her gesture said it all: I understand, I’ve been there too.

Sam, with a softer voice than usual, added:
“I thought the same once. And look, I’m still here, fighting. Sometimes it’s not about believing you’ll win, but about not giving up yet.”

Lucy looked at him. There was no pity in his expression, only a kind of serenity she envied.
“I don’t know if I have that strength,” she whispered.
“You do,” Margaret said without hesitation. “And if one day you don’t, we’ll lend it to you.”

Clara approached slowly, not completely interrupting the conversation.
“Hey, everything okay here?”
Margaret made a calm gesture.
“Just putting the world in order,” she said.
“Well,” Clara replied, “don’t take too long. In half an hour, it’s time to change your IV bag. And Sam, give back the chocolate you have hidden under the blanket, please.”
“That’s abuse of power!” he exclaimed, causing more laughter.

The tension slowly dissolved, as if humor were its own medicine.

Lucy let herself be carried along by voices, jokes, the routine of those still fighting, each in their own way.

As the IV continued dripping, she thought that perhaps it wasn’t about finding a reason to keep going, but about remembering she wasn’t alone in doing so.

Lucy had closed her eyes for a moment, trying to distract herself from the drip’s hum, when a familiar voice pulled her from her thoughts.
“So this is your secret club?” Luna asked from the doorway, smiling with a mix of tenderness and irony.

Peter was the first to react.
“Hey, you’re Lucy’s boss’s wife! You need an invitation to come in here!”
“Relax,” Luna replied, holding up a small paper bag. “I brought cookies.”
“Accepted,” Margaret said solemnly, drawing laughter from the group.

Lucy turned her head, surprised.
“Hi Luna, what are you doing here?”
“I work here, remember?” Luna replied, approaching. “But today I come as the messenger of the boss himself.” She rolled her eyes and handed Lucy a thick folder full of documents. “He asked me to bring them personally. He said, ‘It’ll be good for her to keep her mind busy.’”

Peter whistled.
“That sounds suspiciously like extra work and punishment. What did you do, Chen?”
“Nothing I know of, but with Sergeant Grey, you never know.”

Everyone laughed, even Clara, checking an IV with patient attention.

Luna crossed her arms.
“Believe me, I tried to convince him it wasn’t a good idea. I told him you were in treatment, that you deserved rest, but you know how he is.” She paused dramatically and repeated in her husband’s voice, “Chen doesn’t know how to rest. If you don’t give him something to do, he starts reorganizing the database or filing homicide reports.”

Laughter filled the room.

Lucy gave a tired smile.
“Sounds exactly like him.”
“It does.” Luna leaned slightly toward her and lowered her voice. “Although, to be honest, I don’t think he did it just to entertain you.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, really?”
“Let’s say he’s been talking about you a lot at home lately,” Luna said, feigning innocence. “He mentioned something about ‘preparing her for the next sergeant exam.’”

The room erupted in murmurs and laughter.

Peter clapped softly.
“Our Lucy, the boss!”

Sam raised his tea cup in an impromptu toast.
“To future Sergeant Chen!”

Lucy stayed quiet for a few seconds. Her first reaction was to laugh, but inwardly the idea seemed almost absurd.
“Promotion?” she murmured. “I’m still a second officer… and I don’t even know if I’ll be able to patrol again soon.”
“That’s exactly why,” Luna said softly. “Grey believes in you. Not as an officer, but as a person. He knows that when you recover, you’ll come back stronger than ever. And believe me, he doesn’t say that about just anyone.”

Lucy looked down, biting her lip. That mix of disbelief and hope rose in her throat like a knot.
“I don’t know if I have the strength to think about that now,” she admitted.
“You don’t have to today,” Luna replied. “Just remember the world didn’t stop while you recover. And when you’re ready, it will be waiting for you.”

For a few seconds, no one spoke. Only the rhythmic beeping of machines and the distant murmur of other patients.

Then Sam broke the tension again when caught hiding a chocolate under the blanket.
“Sam!” Clara exclaimed, feigning indignation. “I told you, no sweets!”
“It’s medicinal chocolate,” he said seriously.

Laughter erupted again, easing the atmosphere.

Luna took the opportunity to say goodbye.
“Well, soldier, I’ll continue my tasks now that I’ve done everything I needed here,” she said to Lucy with a knowing smile.
“Thanks, Luna,” Lucy whispered, hugging the folder to her chest.
“And if Grey sends you more work again, tell me. I’ll hide the computer.”

Laughter accompanied Luna to the door. Lucy watched until she disappeared down the hallway, then looked down at the reports.

The simple weight of the paper in her hands was comforting. Not because she wanted to work, but because she understood the message behind the gesture: Grey still believed in her.

And if he did… maybe she could start believing too.

That afternoon, when the treatment ended, Lucy could barely stand. Clara insisted on accompanying her to the car, but Lucy, stubborn as ever, just smiled weakly and said:
“I’m fine, really.”

Tamara, returning just in time from her exam, held her by the arm as they walked to the exit.
“You’re not fine,” she whispered, “but I’ll take you home anyway.”

The ride was thick with silence. Lucy rested her head against the window, watching the landscape blur. Her throat was dry, her body heavy, muscles tense. An internal chill ran through her as if the fever had been waiting for this moment to appear.

When they reached the apartment, she barely took off her shoes before running to the bathroom.

Nausea hit her hard.

Vomiting no longer scared her; what scared her was the lack of control, the feeling that her body no longer belonged to her.

She sat on the tiled floor, leaning against the cold wall, breathing in shallow gasps, sweat on her forehead.

Tamara entered with a glass of water and a damp towel.
“Lucy… please, let me call Clara or the hospital.”
“No,” she gasped. “It will pass.”
“This isn’t normal.”
“Nothing about this is normal; the doctor warned us about extra side effects,” she whispered, brokenly.

Tamara knelt before her, powerless. She wiped her face, held her hair, whispered words she wouldn’t even remember later.

Lucy curled on the floor, trying to control the shivers. She knew the new cycle would be harder, but she hadn’t imagined it this much. Every time she thought it couldn’t hurt more, her body proved otherwise.

For a moment, she thought about giving up. Not going back to the hospital, not enduring that torment. What if it was all wearing her out for nothing?

She closed her eyes, but her mind didn’t shut down.

The image of Luna smiling at her and saying, “Grey believes in you,” echoed back. Also Jackson, Margaret, Tamara silently crying, thinking she didn’t see. And, unintentionally, Tim. That memory that refused to fade. His voice, his stubbornness, his way of believing in her even when she doubted herself.

A silent tear mixed with the sweat on her cheek.

She couldn’t give up yet. Not while someone still waited for her, even if they didn’t know it.

Kilometers away, in a small bar, Tim raised his beer to Max.
“To clumsy steps,” he said.
“Clumsy steps?” Max repeated, amused.
“Yes. The ones you take when trying to fix something without knowing how.”

Max smiled, resting his elbows on the bar.
“Let me guess. This is about her.”

Tim let out a short, bitter laugh.
“It’s always about her.”

They had finished another veterans’ group session, and this time Tim didn’t want to go straight home. He needed to talk. And Max, with his patience forged by life, knew how to listen without judgment.

“I don’t know where to start,” Tim confessed, staring at the edge of his glass. “I hurt her, I pushed her away, and now I don’t know if I have the right to try to come back. But I can’t keep standing still.”

“Then don’t stand still,” Max replied naturally. “Start with what you can do, not with what you can’t.”

Tim looked confused.
“And what am I supposed to do?”

“Be consistent. Be there. You don’t need grand gestures. Just show you’re still there, even when she doesn’t see you.”

“I already do.” He let out a small humorless laugh. “I follow her home, make sure she gets there safely, watch her at work because she looks tired, pale, exhausted.”
“And does she know?”
“No.”
“Then you’re not being there, you’re hiding.”

The blow landed. Tim went silent, jaw clenched.

Max continued in his calm, measured tone:
“Listen, Bradford. When someone suffers, they don’t need a hero. They need company. Someone who won’t give up, even without answers. If you truly love her, you’ll have to learn to be there without controlling anything. Without rescuing. Just… being. You need to repair what you did wrong.”

Tim looked down, letting the words sink in. He thought about the times he had tried to solve Lucy’s life for her, protect her from everything. And how, in doing so, he had ended up pushing her away.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” he said finally.
“Of course you can,” Max replied, raising his glass. “Fighting isn’t always shooting or saving someone. Sometimes it’s staying still and enduring the fear without running.”

Tim looked at him, and for the first time in a long time, smiled sincerely.
“That sounds like hell.”
“It is,” Max said. “But it’s also the only way to come out alive on the other side.”

They toasted in silence.

That night, as Tim drove home, he thought about what Max had said. The sky was overcast, city lights reflecting on the windshield like embers. He gripped the wheel tightly, heart racing.

Yes, he was scared. But this time fear didn’t paralyze him; it moved him.

He knew he couldn’t just show up in Lucy’s life. Not like that, not yet. But he could start another way. He could write to her. Make it clear he was still there. Rebuild the trust he broke. And, above all, prepare for when she decided to let him in.

He turned on the radio, then turned it off. Silence was more sincere.

He looked ahead, determined, finally ready to fight the right way.

Elsewhere in the city, Lucy remained awake, feverish, her body shaking. Tamara, exhausted, slept on the sofa while Lucy, on the bathroom floor, forced herself to breathe slowly.

Two separate souls, the same battle. One against the fear of dying; the other, against the fear of feeling. And though neither knew it yet, both were beginning to heal.

The next day, dawn timidly filtered through the curtains. Lucy’s room smelled of ginger tea and sleeplessness. She was finally asleep after a night that had felt endless. Her skin was damp, breathing slow but steady, face calmer.

Tamara, sitting on the edge of the bed, watched silently. Her eyes were swollen, dark circles marked; she had spent the night with cold towels, thermometers, and whispered encouragements that seemed to disappear into the air.

Now, with the sun rising, her body felt heavy, but her heart relieved to see her resting.

She passed a trembling hand through Lucy’s hair, moving a strand from her forehead. The touch was warm. Alive.

For the first time in hours, Tamara allowed hope to breathe through the cracks of fear.
“You can do this,” she whispered hoarsely. “I won’t leave you alone, do you hear me?”

She stood slowly and went to the window. Outside, the city awoke with the sound of cars and the murmur of a new day. Nothing had changed, yet everything seemed different.

Elsewhere, Tim sat in his car outside his house, ready to start his day. The morning sun had just begun to shine, turning the windshield golden.

He had the keys in the ignition but didn’t start the car. He had been staring at his phone, hesitating, as if every word he wanted to write weighed too much.

Finally, he took a deep breath and typed:
“I don’t know if you’re ready to talk, and it’s okay if you’re not. I just wanted you to know I’m no longer afraid. I want to do this right this time, without rush, without pressure. When you’re ready… to really talk.”

He read it a couple of times before sending it. And when the message went through, he felt a deep, different kind of calm, as if he had finally stopped running from himself.

He left the phone on the passenger seat, ran a hand over his face, and started the engine. He didn’t expect a reply. He just needed her to know he was still there. That he hadn’t closed the door.

At the apartment, Lucy’s phone vibrated lightly on the nightstand. Tamara, half-asleep beside her, didn’t react. Lucy remained deeply asleep, body exhausted from fever and pain.

The screen lit up briefly, showing a name that hadn’t appeared for a long time: Tim.

The message sat there, unopened. Waiting.

As if fate, patient, knew that some words can only be read when one regains the strength to do so.

Outside, the sun rose fully, bathing Lucy’s face in a soft, almost benevolent light. And in that quiet dawn, without either of them knowing, both had taken the first step toward their own way of healing.

Chapter Text

Lucy’s body had said enough.
After the last treatment, the night had been harder than her mind could have anticipated. The fever rose and fell like a restless tide. Every attempt to sleep ended in a start, in nausea, in her body shaking even under the blankets.

Tamara, by her side, was her silent guardian.
She covered her with cool cloths, held her head when she vomited, whispered words that even she couldn’t quite hear—just so she wouldn’t stay silent.

When dawn finally filtered through the curtains, the apartment carried that sour smell of medicine and sweat that lingers after a silent battle.
Lucy opened her eyes, exhausted.
The light of day hurt.
Everything ached: her bones, her throat, even the air.
But the worst was that hollow feeling in her chest, as if the exhaustion had stolen something she couldn’t name.

Tamara had dozed off sitting up, her head resting on the edge of the bed, an empty cup on the floor, her face marked with dried tears.
Lucy looked at her, and her heart clenched.
She didn’t know how to thank her for so much love, so much loyalty.
She just reached out a trembling hand and gently stroked her hair.

Then she grabbed her phone from the nightstand, twisting her body in a way that sent a sharp pull through her back.
She entered her password and saw a new message.
The name on the screen made her hold her breath.
Tim.

For an instant she hesitated to open it.
She was afraid that a few words could shatter the fragile calm she had built.
Finally, she did.

“I don’t know if you’re ready to talk, and it’s okay if you’re not.
I just wanted you to know that I’m not afraid anymore.
I want to do this right this time—no pressure, no rush.
Whenever you’re ready… to really talk.”

She went still.
Her heart beat slowly, heavily.
That message carried his voice—the mix of firmness and tenderness that always disarmed her.
She closed her eyes and laid the phone against her chest.
She couldn’t reply.
Not because she didn’t want to… but because she didn’t know how.
She didn’t have the strength to open the door to something that still hurt so much.

She set the phone aside, turned toward the window, and finally allowed herself to sleep a few more hours.

A few hours later, the day brought new air, though her body still felt heavy.
It was her day off, and Tamara insisted she rest when they woke. Lucy did, more for Tamara’s sake than her own.
She ate a little, took a shower, and stood in front of the mirror for a long moment.
The reflection brought her back to reality: deep circles under her eyes, pale skin, dull eyes, thinning hair.
But behind that tired image, something else glimmered—resolve.
She took a deep breath and whispered silently: I’m still here.

When she returned to work the next day, the precinct seemed oddly loud.
Phones, overlapping conversations, the echo of footsteps on polished floors—everything felt sharper, more alive.
Grey watched her from his office, brows slightly furrowed. He didn’t say a word, though his look said plenty.
Lucy was grateful.
She needed silence—not questions, not orders to go home and rest.

By mid-morning, Angela appeared at her desk holding a mug of tea.
“Green tea with honey,” she announced with her usual smile. “Your daily dose.”
Lucy took it with her cold hands.
“Thanks, Angela.”
“Jack asked about you yesterday. Said Aunt Lucy still owes him a Lego match.”
Lucy let out a raspy little laugh.
“I promised him a whole city. He might sue me if I don’t deliver.”
Angela laughed too.
“And Emi wants to see you—well, more like hug you. Fair warning: she weighs as much as a bag of bricks now.”
“I’ll take the risk. We’ll plan a day soon,” Lucy replied, letting the warmth of the mug seep into her hands.
For a moment, things almost felt normal, though she knew she wouldn’t be visiting the López-Evers house anytime soon.

Later, Nyla showed up beside her desk with an open file.
“Chen, I need your brain for a minute.”
“Again with the pawn shop case?” Lucy asked, turning in her chair.
“Yup. Something’s off, but I can’t see what.”
Lucy flipped through the pages, focused. Despite her fatigue, her mind still worked with surgical precision.
“Here,” she said after a few minutes. “Look at this witness. Says he saw the suspect on Thursday, but the camera has him there Friday night. He lied to cover someone.”
Nyla frowned, reread the file, and then looked at her with admiration.
“Good eye, Chen. You’re a contradiction detector.”
Lucy smiled faintly.
“Too many crosswords and Sudoku puzzles,” she replied dryly.
Nyla nodded, serious again.
“Thanks. This’ll help us close the case.”
Lucy went back to work, but something inside her loosened.
That sense of belonging—of still being useful—of being needed again after months of being sidelined.

Nolan, meanwhile, kept up his daily ritual.
He appeared unannounced, leaned on her desk, and started talking nonsense.
“Bailey wants to change the curtains again,” he said that day, looking resigned. “Apparently the color blocks positive energy.”
Lucy looked up over her monitor.
“And what do you think?”
“That my bank account can’t handle any more positive energy blockages or Juárez’s aura readings.”
Lucy laughed—a real laugh that tickled her chest.
That absurd normalcy, that weightless friendship, was exactly what she needed.

But what unsettled her most were the small, invisible gestures woven into her days.
A report double-checked before she touched it.
A hot coffee waiting on her desk every morning, from Nevin’s—their favorite café, where they’d shared countless mornings.
A small note with a doodle of a police badge and a smiley face.
By the third day, she couldn’t pretend she didn’t know.
Tim.
She didn’t see him. She didn’t look for him. But she felt him in those gestures, like an invisible hand holding her up from afar.
And each act was a quiet reminder: he was still there. Waiting.

Lucy didn’t know whether to be grateful or terrified.
The urge to reply burned inside her—but so did the fear.
If they saw each other, if they talked, he would notice.
Tim knew her too well. One look would be enough to understand everything.
And she wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

So every morning, when she found that coffee on her desk, she smiled softly.
It was her way of saying thank you—without saying anything.

That night, Tamara was waiting at home with a blanket, a bowl of soup, and deep shadows under her eyes.
Lucy ate slowly, without appetite, but with a faint brightness in her gaze.
For the first time in a long while, the silence between them wasn’t heavy.
It was peace.

When she got into bed, she checked her phone again.
Tim’s message was still there, unread.
But this time, rereading it hurt less.
She didn’t reply—not yet.
But she smiled before turning off the light.
And though he didn’t know it, that small, silent, sincere smile was her first step back toward him.

That same night, across town after his shift, Tim met his friend Max at their usual bar. No veteran group today—just a chat.
The place was small, warmly lit, smelling of old wood. They always ordered the same thing: two beers and a few minutes of silence to land after the day.

“So… did you do it?” Max finally asked, spinning his beer.
Tim nodded, staring at the table’s edge.
“I texted her.”
“And?”
“Nothing. No reply.”
Silence stretched between them until Tim added quietly,
“I expected that. Still… I think she read it. I want to believe she did.”
Max gave him that mix of patience and tough love only real friends have.
“What’d you say?”
“That I’m not afraid anymore. That I want to talk when she’s ready, no pressure.”
“Sounds honest,” Max said, taking a sip. “Sounds like you. The version that’s starting to get it—and take responsibility.”
Tim gave a bitter smile.
“I’m trying to do things right this time. I don’t want to push, don’t want to force anything. Just… be there.”
“And how do you do that without overwhelming her?”
“Small gestures,” Tim said quietly. “I leave coffee on her desk every morning—Nevin’s, her favorite, with something sweet. Sometimes I prep reports ahead of her, the ones that tire her out.”
“And she reacts?”
Tim lifted his gaze, smiling faintly.
“I saw her laugh the other day. Twice. Once with Nolan, once when she found the coffee with her chocolate croissant. It was… like seeing the sun rise.”
“That’s already something, man,” Max said, placing a hand on the table. “People need time to believe change is real.”
Tim nodded, biting his lip.
“I don’t want her to think I’m looking for redemption. I just want her to know I’m still here. That I never really left. That I’m ready to talk, even if it’s hard.”
“Then don’t leave,” Max said simply. “Not this time.”
“I won’t.”
“And if she doesn’t answer, that doesn’t mean she didn’t hear you,” Max added firmly. “Sometimes silence is an answer.”
Tim sat still, thinking.
“And if she doesn’t forgive me?”
“Then you live knowing you did right. That you didn’t let her face it alone—even from a distance.”
For the first time in a long while, Tim exhaled without fear of breaking.
Max was right. This wasn’t about getting something back. It was about staying.

The clock struck eight, and the gray sky mirrored the exhaustion Lucy carried. A week had passed since her last visit.
Another treatment day. Another Tuesday, the same knot in her stomach, the same effort to pretend she wasn’t afraid.

Tamara drove in silence, one hand tight on the wheel, her mind elsewhere—always on Lucy.
When she parked by the hospital, she turned to her with that mix of love, worry, and guilt.
“I’ll drop you at the door, Lu. I don’t have time to stay—my presentation’s at ten.”
“I know,” Lucy said softly. “You’ll do great.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to call Luna?”
Lucy shook her head.
“No, I’ll be fine. You know, spa day.”
She tried to smile, but Tamara knew her too well. She brushed her cheek before letting her go.
“I’ll pick you up later. Don’t overdo it. Promise.”
“Promise.”

Lucy walked in alone, scarf tight around her neck even though the hospital air was warm. Every step echoed on the polished floor, a sound she’d grown too used to.
Blood test, vitals, waiting.
The same rituals as always.

When she was finally released for breakfast, she forced herself to eat half a turkey sandwich. The bread was dry, the mayo turned her stomach, but she finished it. Her body needed it, even if it resisted.
The cold water tasted like iron.

She took the elevator up, dragging the backpack Tamara had packed like a mother: thermos, tissues, blanket, granola bars, her book.
Everything had its place.
Everything except her.

The room greeted her with the familiar hum of machines, the soft radio in the background, the quiet laughter of her companions.
Peter was already there, wrestling with his IV line.
“I swear this thing hates me,” he muttered, while Margaret watched like a patient mother.
Lucy smiled and waved.
“Morning, team.”
“Our favorite future sergeant!” Sam called out from his chair. “Think you can save me from another nurse’s punishment today?”
“What now?” Margaret asked, amused.
“They took away my sugar. And now—my salt! Say goodbye to flavor. You ever had soup without salt? It’s just water with sadness.”
Peter laughed.
“Man, your body’s begging for mercy.”
“My body needs a steak—with salt, butter, and joy!”
Laughter filled the room. Even Clara, walking in with a tray, raised an eyebrow.
“Sam, keep defying medical laws and I’ll use you as a class case.”
“A bad example?”
“The worst,” she said, laughing.

Lucy watched them quietly. She loved how life still found its way between the needles and monitors. That bond, that absurd humor—it was their way of resisting. But that morning, she couldn’t join in.
She didn’t have it in her.

Clara approached with a professional smile.
“New formula today, Lucy. You might feel a little cold or pressure, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Want an extra blanket?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t. The cold came from inside.
The liquid began to drip in. The antiseptic smell, the slight burn in her vein, the soft beep of the monitor—everything slowed, thickened.

Hours passed between jokes and complaints.
Peter told the story of a cat he’d rescued from the parking lot; Sam hid sugar-free candies under his blanket—“just to feel alive”; Margaret scolded them with mock severity.
Clara watched them fondly, like mischievous children she couldn’t help but love.
Lucy listened from afar, her head resting back. The voices blended into a soft, warm hum that lulled her.

Then something changed.
A buzz in her ears.
A rush of heat to her face.
Her heart pounding too fast, air refusing to enter.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she murmured.
She stood, dragging the IV pole.
One step. Another.
The floor shifted beneath her. The hallway stretched too long, too bright.
Her vision dimmed at the edges.
Just one more step, she thought. Just reach the door.

She didn’t.
The sound of the IV clattering, the dull thud of her body hitting the floor, muffled shouts in the distance.

“Lucy! Lucy, look at me!” Clara’s voice, frantic and near.
A rush of cold air brushed her face.
She couldn’t open her eyes. The smells, the voices, the hands moving fast—everything blurred.
“Pressure’s dropping—sats falling.”
“Get the gurney. Careful.”
The sting as the needle was pulled, the metallic clang of the stretcher beneath her.
She tried to speak, but only a weak groan escaped.
Clara grabbed her hand.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Breathe with me. You’re okay, Lucy. We’ve got you.”

But she wasn’t.
The air thickened.
Her body sank deeper, heavier.
The ceiling became a white haze.
The lights, a long tunnel.
The hospital noise faded.
And before everything went dark, one fleeting thought crossed her mind:
What if I can’t keep fighting?

Then—nothing.
Only silence.

Downtown Los Angeles. Noon sun blazing over the street.
Tim stepped out of the patrol car, adjusting his vest, still running on adrenaline from their last call.
“Penn, want to tell me what the hell that was?” he barked, sharper than usual.
The rookie fidgeted nervously.
“I—I thought the guy was reaching for something, sir.”
“And that’s why you drew your weapon?” Tim’s glare could cut steel. “The registration was in the glove box, Penn. The glove box.”
“I know, I—yeah, I know.”
“No, you don’t,” Tim cut in. “Listen—this job isn’t just reacting. It’s reading. Anticipating. If you draw your gun every time you don’t understand what’s happening, you become a danger. Got it?”
Penn nodded, head down.
Tim sighed, turning away. It was a serious mistake, but fixable.

He was about to continue when his phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He frowned. He never answered those on duty—but something, a sharp instinct, made him pick up.
“Bradford,” he said gruffly.
“Is this Timothy Bradford?” A female voice—professional.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“I’m calling from Douglas Shaw Memorial Hospital. We need you to come immediately. You’re listed as Lucy Chen’s emergency contact.”

Tim froze.
The noise of traffic, the radio, Penn’s voice—all faded.
Only that name remained.
Lucy.

“What?” His voice came out hoarse. “No, that—there must be a mistake.”
“No mistake, sir. You’re her primary contact. The patient was admitted to the ER a few minutes ago. Dr. Herrera will explain when you arrive.”
“What happened?” he demanded, his tone tightening.
“I’m sorry, I can’t give details over the phone. She’s stable and under observation.”
“‘Stable’? What does that mean? Is she conscious?”
“I’m sorry, sir. The doctor will update you.”

The line went dead.
Tim stared at his phone for a long second, his heart hammering against his ribs.
His blood ran cold.
Lucy.
Hospital.
Emergency.

The air grew thick, impossible to breathe.
Penn watched, puzzled.
“Sergeant? Everything okay?”
Tim looked up, silent.
He pocketed the phone, turned, and strode toward the car.
“Get in.”
“Where are we going?”
“The hospital. Don’t ask.”

The way he said it left no room for questions.
Penn obeyed.
Tim started the engine. Lights on, no siren.
He didn’t want attention—he just needed to get there.

He drove fast but precise, the city sliding by in blurs. His hands shook on the wheel, knuckles white.
Every mile brought a new thought:
Why did they call me?
What happened to her?
Is she alive?

He forced himself to breathe.
Losing control wouldn’t help.
But fear still crept in, silent and merciless.
He remembered the message he’d sent—the one she never answered.
The promise he made not to run.

Chapter Text

The hospital smelled of disinfectant and fear.
Tim crossed the lobby with quick, tense steps, looking for someone—anyone—who could give him answers.
The uniform helped: flashing his badge was enough for a nurse to point him toward a side hallway.

“Dr. Herrera is with her,” she said. “You can wait there.”

The clock read three in the afternoon.
Tim didn’t remember the ride from the patrol car to that plastic chair outside the ER. He only remembered the dull, echoing sound of his own heartbeat.

Lucy.
Emergency.
Stable.

Minutes later, a woman in a white coat emerged from one of the rooms. Her face was calm, professional, but her eyes carried a familiar exhaustion—the kind of tiredness of someone who’s delivered bad news too many times.

“Mr. Bradford?” she asked.
“Yes.” He stood immediately, his voice tight. “I got a call. They said… Lucy Chen is here. Where is she? What happened?”

The doctor nodded gently.

“I’m Dr. Herrera, Lucy’s oncologist. Could we speak privately for a moment?”

The word oncologist hit Tim like a foreign language—something meaningless, empty, until it wasn’t.
He nodded stiffly and followed her into a small office, where she quietly closed the door.

“Before I say anything, I need to confirm that you’re her emergency contact,” she said while checking the file.
“That’s what they told me, but… I thought she’d changed it,” he murmured.
“No, you’re still listed. Lucy hasn’t updated the information.”

Tim swallowed hard. Something inside his chest tightened, a warning of a truth he didn’t want to face.

“What happened?” he asked.

Dr. Herrera looked at him with that mixture of compassion and professionalism only doctors seem to master.

“Lucy fainted during her treatment. Her body was very dehydrated and extremely fatigued. We brought her here right away and she’s now stabilized. She’ll stay overnight for observation, but she’s out of immediate danger.”

Tim tried to breathe.

“Treatment?” he repeated. “What treatment?”

The doctor realized he didn’t know. She paused, choosing her words carefully, the way someone handles a fragile object that’s already cracked.

“Lucy is undergoing cancer treatment. She was diagnosed with breast cancer a little over a month ago.”

The world stopped.
No crash, no scream—just silence.
A silence so total that not even the hum of the hospital could cut through it.

Tim stared blankly.

“No… no, that can’t be.” He shook his head, stepping back. “She—she comes to work every day. She’s fine, I see her. She’s tired, yeah, but…” His voice broke. “That can’t be true.”
“I know it’s hard to process,” said the doctor softly. “But yes, Lucy is fighting breast cancer. The treatment is harsh, and while she’s responding, her body is beginning to wear down.”

Tim rubbed his face, his mind spinning.
Cancer.
Lucy.
It all fell into place at once: the dark circles, the exhaustion, the pallor, the weight loss, the dull look in her eyes.
It had been there all along.
And he—blind—had convinced himself she just needed space.

“Why… why didn’t she tell me?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” the doctor replied gently. “Maybe she wanted to hold on to some normalcy. She’s strong. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t suffering.”

Tim braced his hands on the table, fingers trembling.
He felt the ground opening beneath him.
For months, he’d believed his biggest mistake was walking away.
Now he knew—the real mistake had been not seeing her.

“We’ll keep her overnight,” the doctor continued. “If everything looks good, she can go home tomorrow. You can see her, but she’s very weak.”

He nodded automatically.

“Yes. I want to see her.”

When he left the office, his steps echoed aimlessly down the hall. The sound mocked him.
For the first time in years, Tim Bradford didn’t know what to do.
He wanted to run, to scream, to break something.
But all he did was lean against the wall and let a single tear fall.

Lucy.
His Lucy.
Fighting alone all this time.
And he—he’d run away.

He wiped his face with the back of his hand, took a deep breath, and forced himself upright.
He couldn’t fall apart. Not now.
Because if Lucy was fighting, then so would he—his own way.

He walked toward her room.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
But he’d made a decision: this time, he wouldn’t leave.

He stopped outside the door, heart hammering.
The monitor on the other side of the glass beeped softly—a mechanical rhythm that matched the tempo of his fear.

He opened the door quietly.
The air was cold and smelled of alcohol and disinfectant.
Lucy lay asleep—or at least it looked that way. A line ran into her right arm; her face turned to the side, pale, almost translucent under the sterile light.

Tim approached silently.
Every step was a confession.
He had never seen her like this—so fragile, so different from the woman who used to laugh in the patrol car, argue with him about protocol, or look at him with that mix of defiance and warmth that always disarmed him.

He stopped beside the bed.
Her chest rose and fell slowly—enough to calm him.
He reached out and took her hand in both of his. Her skin was cold—too cold.

A lump formed in his throat.

“God, Lucy…” he whispered, barely a breath.

His eyes filled, but the tears didn’t fall. They burned instead.
He took in her face—the closed eyelids, the shallow breathing, the messy hair against the pillow.

Then he noticed her dry, cracked lips.
He remembered, like a sharp sting, how much she hated that. She always carried a small lip balm—either in her uniform pocket or her jacket.

Without thinking, he looked for her purse on the chair beside the bed.
He opened it carefully, as though afraid to disturb something sacred.
Inside—a folded notebook, a bitten pen, and a small photo of the two of them he hadn’t expected to find. And there it was: the tiny tube of balm, its cap a little worn.

Tim smiled faintly.
A sad smile.
He took a small bit on his finger and gently applied it to her lips.

The gesture was simple, almost automatic—but it hurt.
Such a small act, and yet it filled him with a love so fierce it took his breath away.

He was still holding her hand when footsteps echoed down the corridor.
The door burst open.

Tim froze, the balm still in his hand.
Tamara rushed in, eyes swollen from crying, breathing hard from running.

“Lucy!” she cried, heading straight to the bed.

Her bag hit her leg as she stopped short—just then noticing Tim.

“What…?” The word stuck in her throat. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Silence filled the room so thick even the monitor seemed to fall quiet.
Tim looked up slowly. His hands were still over Lucy’s, his eyes red, hollow with sleeplessness.

“The hospital called me,” he said quietly. “I’m her emergency contact.”

Tamara stared, disbelieving.

“You? No… no way.” She shook her head, as if she could undo the scene. “She changed that after—” she cut herself off, jaw tightening. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“I didn’t know either,” Tim said softly. “I thought she’d removed me long ago.”

The sincerity in his tone only fueled her anger.
She stepped closer, pointing a trembling finger at him.

“Don’t you dare pretend you care now. Not after what you did. You walked away like she was nothing.”

Tim lowered his gaze, taking the hit without resistance.
He didn’t defend himself.
He only whispered:

“You’re right. But I’m not leaving.”

Tamara scoffed.

“Of course not. Now that you know the truth, you feel guilty, right? You want to make it right—be the hero. Well, no.” She crossed her arms. “You won’t confuse her again.”

Tim’s heart thudded painfully.

“I didn’t come out of guilt,” he said. “I came because I didn’t know. And now that I do—I can’t look away.”

Tamara said nothing, watching him. The only sound was the steady hum of the AC and the beeping of the monitor.
Finally, she sighed, the anger softening into exhaustion.

“Look,” she said quietly. “I don’t have the energy to fight you. Lucy loved you more than she should have—and you broke her.” Her voice cracked. “I was the one picking up the pieces.”

Tim closed his eyes.

“And I’ll be grateful for that. Always.”
“I don’t want your gratitude,” she snapped. “I just don’t want you to hurt her again. If you stay—” she paused, glaring—“it’ll be because she allows it. But if you hurt her, I don’t care if you’re a cop or the damn president—I’ll drag you out myself.”

Tim nodded slowly.

“I know. And that’s fair.”

Silence settled again—heavier this time, but human.
Tamara sat down, brushing Lucy’s hair from her forehead.

“She’s stable,” she murmured. “Dehydration. She hasn’t been eating. I saw her doctor on the way in.”
“Yeah,” Tim replied. “She called me, explained everything.” His voice broke on the last word. “I had no idea she was sick.”

Tamara looked at him—tired, sad.

“She didn’t want anyone to know. Wanted to live like the cancer wasn’t real. I guess it made her feel in control.”

Tim nodded, his gaze fixed on Lucy.

“And I walked away when she needed me most.”
“Yeah,” Tamara said softly. “You did.”

He took a deep breath, rubbing his face before leaning closer to Lucy.
He squeezed her hand gently.

“But not this time,” he whispered. “This time, I’m staying.”

Tamara glanced at him sideways, measuring the promise in his voice. After a long moment, she nodded.

“I’ll allow it—but only for Lucy’s sake. Not yours.”
“For Lucy,” Tim repeated.

And that was it—the fragile truce formed between them.
They sat in silence, each on one side of the bed, bound by the same fear and the same woman.

While Lucy slept, the most unlikely peace began to take shape.

An hour later, the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor broke the silence.
Lucy stirred. The white hospital light burned her eyes as she blinked awake. Everything hurt—her head, her legs, even her eyelids.

She breathed slowly, tasting metal in her mouth, her throat dry.
Two blurred figures stood beside her. It took her a moment to focus.

Tamara.
And… Tim.

Her heart skipped painfully. For a second she thought she was dreaming—or trapped in some cruel memory—but no. Tim was there, standing by her bed, frowning, his eyes full of something between fear and guilt.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, her voice broken.

Tim stepped closer, hesitant.

“The hospital called. Said I was your emergency contact.”

Lucy blinked, confused, then sighed, turning her head away.

“That was months ago,” she muttered. “I should’ve changed it.”
“Well, you didn’t,” he said softly. “So I’m here.”

His tone was gentle, but every word trembled. She heard it—and it made her angry.

“You shouldn’t have come, Tim. I don’t want you to see me like this. I don’t want you here.”

Tamara shifted uneasily in her chair.

“Lucy…” she tried, but Lucy raised a weak hand to stop her.

“This isn’t your place,” Lucy said, tears pooling. “I don’t want your pity, or guilt, or anything. I’ve had enough of that.”

Tim listened in silence, jaw tight.

“I don’t pity you,” he said at last, his voice low and steady. “I’m here because I’m done walking away.”

Lucy gave a bitter laugh.

“You’re a little late for that.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I’m not leaving again. Not this time.”

Their eyes met—and for a second, neither of them breathed.
Lucy turned away toward the window.

“Do what you want,” she murmured.

Tim nodded once and stepped out into the hall.

Tamara watched him leave, then stood quickly and followed.

“You don’t get to push her,” she hissed. “Not after how you left.”
Tim turned, exhausted, eyes glassy.
“I know. I’m not here to claim anything. I’m here because I love her. And I’m going to take care of her.”

Tamara searched his face for a lie—but found only raw, human tiredness.

“If you break her again,” she whispered, trembling, “I’ll never forgive you.”
“I won’t,” he said without hesitation. “Not again.”

When she went back inside, Tim leaned against the wall, the air heavy around him.
He pulled out his phone, his hands shaking.

“Penn, head back to the station,” he said flatly. “Take the car. Finish the reports.”
He hung up before hearing a reply.

Then another call.

“Sergeant Grey, I need the day off.”
“Everything alright, Bradford?”
“Something personal, sir. I’ll explain later.”

He hung up, stood still, staring at nothing.
Dr. Herrera’s words echoed in his skull like a siren: breast cancer.

Lucy. Cancer.
Two words that shouldn’t exist together. Not her. Not Lucy.

The fear anchored in his chest—but he forced it down.
Not now.
First her, then me, he thought, breathing deeply.

He put his phone away, straightened his shoulders, and went back in.

Lucy was awake, staring out the window. Tamara sat beside her, holding her hand. When Tim entered, Tamara moved slightly aside, silent but watchful.
Tim sat in the chair next to the bed. He didn’t speak. He just looked at her, his hands clenched on his knees, fear carving into his chest.

Lucy didn’t look at him—but she didn’t tell him to leave either.
And in that small gesture, in that shared silence, something shifted.
Not forgiveness—not yet.
Just… the beginning of something different.

Tamara watched them from the corner. She knew the battle wasn’t over, but for the first time, she felt Lucy wasn’t entirely alone.

Lucy closed her eyes, exhausted. She wanted to hate him, to scream at him to go.
But when she felt the quiet weight of his presence beside her bed, she realized something even more painful—she needed him there.

The silence thickened, broken only by the steady beeping of the monitor and Lucy’s uneven breaths.
Between staying and leaving, closing off or opening up, the world shrank to that small white room.

And Tim…
Tim decided to stay.

A soft knock broke the silence. Dr. Herrera came in with a folder and a tired smile.

“Well, our sleepyhead is finally back,” she said warmly. “You gave us quite a scare, Lucy.”

Lucy tried to smile, though her face trembled.

“Just wanted a little extra attention,” she joked weakly.

The doctor chuckled.

“You fainted from severe dehydration. Your body is asking for rest, Lucy. You can’t keep pushing yourself like nothing’s wrong.”

Lucy nodded quietly.

“We’ll keep you tonight just to be safe,” Herrera added. “You’re stable now, but I want to make sure your levels hold.”

She turned to Tim.

“As her emergency contact, we’ll call you if there’s any change.”

Then, to Lucy—with a softer tone:

“No worrying about everyone else this time. Focus on yourself. Doctor’s orders.”

When she left, the door opened again—Clara, the nurse, stepped in with a playful smile and glistening eyes.

“Well, young lady, you scared us good!” she said, pointing teasingly. “Sam nearly had a heart attack when he heard. Said if anything happened to you, he’d never eat another salad again.”

Lucy let out a weak laugh, and Clara sighed in relief.

“I’ll let them know you’re awake. Everyone’s been asking. Peter even brought you a bag of gummy bears ‘for emergencies.’”

Tamara smiled faintly from her chair.

“He’ll have a hard time keeping those away from Sam.”
“You’re telling me,” Clara said, laughing. “That man’s worse than a kid.”

Then she leaned closer to Lucy, smiling gently.

“It’s good to see you awake, sweetheart. We missed you. It’s not the same without your sarcastic comments about my bad jokes.”
“They’re not that bad,” Lucy murmured. “Well… some are.”

Tamara chuckled.

“She laughs at them sometimes—then pretends it was just to be polite.”

The three women laughed softly, and amid that small moment of normalcy, Tim stayed quiet—watching.
The laughter, the care, the easy affection in every gesture—
That world of small things, of connection and kindness—
It was the life he’d walked away from without realizing it.

He looked at Lucy—pale, tired, but smiling—and thought she was the strongest person he’d ever known.

Clara squeezed Lucy’s hand.

“You rest now. And no work talk, okay? Doctor’s orders.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lucy said with mock seriousness.

When Clara left, the room fell quiet again.
Lucy stared at her hands for a long moment before whispering:

“You don’t have to stay, Tim. Really.”
“I know,” he said softly. “But I want to.”

And this time, she didn’t argue.

Outside, the sky began to darken. The city hummed beyond the hospital walls.
And in that sterile room, between exhaustion and quiet hope, two people found themselves on the fragile edge of something new— not quite forgiveness, not yet healing, but maybe, just maybe, the start of both.

Chapter Text

Dawn crept timidly through the hospital window, tinting the walls a pale, almost mournful white.
Lucy had been awake for a while, staring at the ceiling, her body still heavy with exhaustion.
She hadn’t slept well — the constant hum of machines and the distant voices of nurses filling the night.
Beside her, Tamara dozed awkwardly in a chair, her head resting against the backrest.
Tim, however, stood by the window with his arms crossed, having not moved for hours.

When the nurse entered with a bright smile to announce that Lucy’s discharge was ready, she took a deep breath.
She still felt weak, but the thought of staying there any longer was unbearable.
She wanted to go home — back to the daily noise, to the plants that needed watering, to the routine that made her believe she still had control over something.

“Ready to go home, sweetheart?” the nurse asked, approaching with a clipboard in hand.
Lucy nodded, forcing a small smile.
“More than ready.”
The nurse patted her arm. “Then let’s get the paperwork done so you can finally rest properly at home.”

Tim stirred slightly, as if about to say something, but Lucy avoided his gaze.
His presence in that room stirred everything inside her.
She couldn’t erase from her mind the conversation with Dr. Herrera the night before — or the way Tim had absorbed every word in silence as her world collapsed in front of him.
And now… there he was, motionless, watching her with that determined expression that always disarmed her.

He must pity me, Lucy thought, feeling a knot tighten in her chest.
That’s it — pity. That’s why he hasn’t left.

When the nurse finally removed her IV and handed her belongings over, Tamara was the first to react.
“I’ll go get the car,” she said, stretching. “That way we won’t have to wait.”
Tim immediately offered, “I’ll come with you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Lucy cut in before Tamara could answer. “She can manage.”

Tim said nothing, but his eyes — those eyes that always said more than he ever would — stayed fixed on her.
Just seeing them made Lucy’s blood boil.
It was all too much — his compassion, his patience, the way he treated her like fragile glass.

While Tamara went to get the car, the nurse gave Lucy one last affectionate warning.
“Don’t try to play strong, okay? Rest, and eat even if you’re not hungry.”
“I’ll try,” Lucy replied, her voice hollow.

As soon as they stepped out of the room, Tim moved to take her bag.
Lucy stopped him with a cold look.
“I don’t need you to carry anything for me.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” he replied evenly. “I’m doing it because it’s heavy.”
That simple gesture was enough to ignite her anger.

Every step down the hallway, every curious glance from patients or nurses, weighed on her — as if she carried an invisible sign that read sick.
And having Tim beside her only made it worse.
The man who knew every one of her strengths now walked beside her in her weakest moment.

“You could’ve left,” she said without looking at him as they headed toward the exit. “No one’s forcing you to be here.”
“I know,” he answered without hesitation. “I’m here because I want to be.”

Lucy pressed her lips together.
“I don’t need your pity, Tim.”
He turned, surprised.
“Is that what you think this is?”
“What else could it be? You left when things got hard, and now you show up just when I’m falling apart. Convenient timing, don’t you think?”

Tim stopped walking, forcing her to stop too.
Their eyes met — and what passed between them went far beyond anger or pain.
“I’m not here out of guilt or pity,” he said firmly. “I’m here because I care about you. And because I’m done running away.”

Lucy held his gaze for a few seconds but didn’t respond.
The intensity in his voice twisted something deep inside her — part tenderness, part fear.
In the end, she was the one to look away first.

When Tamara pulled up with the car, Lucy rushed to get in, slamming the door before Tim could open it for her.
He simply went around and got into the passenger seat without asking.

“What are you doing?” Lucy snapped.
“Making sure you get home.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I don’t care.”

The drive back was silent.
Tamara kept her focus on the road, tense between them.
Lucy stared out the window, lost in thought, while Tim sat perfectly still, his eyes flicking toward her every so often.
No music. No small talk.
Only the hum of traffic — and the weight of everything left unsaid.

By the time they reached her apartment, Lucy’s hands were trembling.
Tamara said nothing as she parked, but her glances in the rearview mirror made sure Lucy was still alert.
Tim’s breathing was slow and quiet — almost held in.

When Tamara got out to open the door to the building, Lucy moved faster, refusing to let Tim help.
Every movement was an act of defiance.
Everything hurt — but what hurt most was the thought of him seeing her like this.

“I can manage,” she said at the elevator, before anyone could speak.
Tim nodded silently.
He knew arguing would only make things worse.

Inside, the apartment felt like a faded version of home — the plants, the books, the mugs on the counter.
Everything the same, yet completely different.
It was her space, yes, but now it was also where she’d learn to live with fear.

Tamara tossed the keys on the table. “You — couch. Now.”
Lucy sighed and sank into the cushions.
Tim stood by the door, unsure what to do, until Tamara nodded.
“Help me with the blanket.”

Their hands brushed briefly — a spark of tension in the air.
Tim knelt beside her, careful not to cross her boundaries.
“You need to rest.”
“Don’t give me orders, Bradford,” she said with a tired half-smile, her voice fragile.

Tamara backed away a few steps, giving them space. She knew Lucy’s walls wouldn’t stay down for long.

“We need to talk about how this is going to work,” Tim began, his practical tone kicking in.
“You can’t stay alone, and Tamara can’t handle both school and taking care of you. You need steady support.”
“I have it,” Lucy interrupted. “Tamara’s here.”
“Tamara can’t do it all,” he said, glancing toward the younger woman.

Lucy noticed and clenched her jaw.
“Don’t you dare make decisions for me,” she whispered.
“I’m not deciding for you,” he said calmly. “I’m deciding to stay.”
“No,” she snapped. “You can’t stay. I don’t want you to.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want you here out of obligation.”
“I’m not here out of obligation.”
“Then why?” she burst out, her voice cracking. “Out of guilt? Because you can’t stand being the guy who left his girlfriend right before she was diagnosed with cancer?”

The silence was brutal.
Tamara looked down.
Tim didn’t move or argue. He just breathed, as if her words had pierced him — but hadn’t surprised him.

“I’m here,” he said finally, “because I love you, Lucy. And because this time, I’m not going anywhere.”

Lucy closed her eyes, trembling.
“Don’t say that… not now.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true.”
“You can’t just walk back into my life whenever you feel like it.”
“I’m not walking in,” he replied quietly. “I’m knocking. But if you don’t open, I’ll be here — on the other side — knocking again tomorrow.”

Tamara cleared her throat. “I’m going to make something to eat,” she muttered, escaping to the kitchen.

Lucy shifted on the couch, still shaking.
“You don’t have to stay. Really. I’ll manage.”
“I know you will,” Tim said softly. “But I won’t let you do it alone.”
“You have no right to decide that.”
“Then consider it an order,” he said in his calm, commanding tone.
“You’re not my TO, Tim.”
“I know. But I’m still someone who won’t leave you.”

The silence that followed filled the room like static.
Lucy sank back, exhausted, out of arguments.
Tim stood, grabbed his car keys.

“I’m going home to grab a bag. I’ll be right back.”
“I won’t open the door,” she warned.
He paused by the doorway, without turning around.
“Then I’ll stay in the hallway. But face it, Lucy — I’m not leaving.”

When the door clicked shut, Lucy covered her face with her hands, letting out the breath she’d been holding for hours.
Tamara appeared again with a cup of tea.
“You won’t be able to keep him out,” she said gently. “I know him. He won’t give up.”

Lucy didn’t answer.
She just stared at the closed door — her heart caught somewhere between fear… and the faintest spark of hope.

The door closed behind him with a click that sounded far too loud in the silence.
For a second, Tim stood still, his back against the wood, breathing slowly.
The adrenaline from the day was starting to fade, leaving behind a strange emptiness—a mix of disbelief, exhaustion, and fear that wrapped around him completely.

The sound of claws on the floor broke the stillness.
Kojo came trotting in from the living room, tail high, a toy in his mouth.
Tim crouched to pat his head, but the dog looked up at him with eyes that seemed to understand more than anyone would think.

“Hey, buddy…” he murmured with a weak smile.

Kojo dropped the toy and rested his muzzle on Tim’s knee, unmoving.

Tim sighed and sank down onto the couch. He stroked the dog’s neck absently, noticing how he stayed alert, still, watchful. As if he knew something in his owner wasn’t right.

“She’s sick, Kojo,” Tim said finally, his voice low, as if saying the words could make them less real. “Lucy’s sick.”

The dog tilted his head, and Tim let out a broken laugh.
“Yeah, I know. You don’t get the words, but you feel it, don’t you?”

He stayed that way for a few seconds, in silence, his hand running over the animal’s back, until exhaustion forced him to get up. He dropped his keys on the counter and went straight to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the hall lights.

Everything was automatic, almost mechanical: turn on the faucet, let the water run, undress slowly.
When he finally stepped under the shower, the first touch of hot water made him shiver.

Steam filled the small space, fogging the mirror and blurring every outline.
It was as if the world was dissolving around him.

And then, without warning, the control broke.
Air caught painfully in his chest, and the first tear mixed with the water running down his face.

There was no one to see him.
No one expecting strength, composure, or calm.
Only him, the water, and the unbearable weight of everything he hadn’t yet had time to process.

He pressed his hands against the cold tile and bowed his head.
Flashes crossed his mind — Lucy fainting, the doctor’s voice pronouncing that cursed word, her tired eyes in the hospital bed.
And the brutal certainty that there was nothing he could do to save her.

“Damn it…” he whispered between clenched teeth, eyes shut tight.

His voice broke.
The water kept falling, constant, as if trying to wash away something deeper than skin.

Minutes passed—maybe more than he realized.

When he finally turned off the tap, the silence hit him as hard as the water had before.
He dried himself without thinking and walked out of the bathroom, heavy-footed.

Kojo was still there, lying by the door, tail giving the smallest wag.
Tim knelt, pressing his forehead against the dog’s.

“I’m gonna have to leave for a few days,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t leave her alone.”

Kojo gave a soft whine, almost like a protest.
Tim smiled sadly. “I know. I don’t like it either.”

He stood and grabbed his phone.
Dialed his sister’s number — Genny.
She answered on the third ring, her voice as bright as ever.

“Tim? Wow, this is a surprise!”
“Hey…” he replied, trying to sound normal. “Listen, could you and the boys look after Kojo for a few days?”
“Of course! The boys will love it. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just… got to deal with some work stuff.”

Half a lie, but the only way to avoid questions.

Genny hesitated for a second.
“Sure. We’ll pick him up after practice.”
“Thanks,” he said — and hung up before his voice could betray him.

For a long moment, he just stared at the phone in his hand.
Then he took a deep breath, pulled on a clean T-shirt, and started packing a bag: clothes, charger, toothbrush, some snacks.
The essentials.

Kojo followed him everywhere, eyes never leaving him.

When the zipper finally closed, Tim crouched down and scratched his head.
“Be good, okay? And don’t take too long to forgive me.”

The dog licked his hand, and for an instant, that small gesture of affection held him together more than he cared to admit.

He grabbed his keys, turned off the lights, and before leaving, looked one last time at the place that had been his refuge for so long.
He knew that when he came back, nothing would be the same.

Because, though he couldn’t quite say it aloud yet, something inside him had changed forever.

The keys trembled faintly in his hand as Tim stopped in front of Lucy’s loft door.
He had driven there without thinking, focused only on one purpose: coming back.

The cool air clung to his clothes, and the backpack over his shoulder seemed to weigh more than it should.

He stood there for a few seconds, hesitating — not because he didn’t know what he wanted to do, but because, for the first time in a long time, he was afraid of what he might find on the other side.

Before he could decide whether to knock, the door opened from inside.

Tamara stood there, hair tied in a messy bun, half-finished coffee in hand.
She looked at him for a moment, assessing his resolve.

“I knew you’d come back,” she said finally, without surprise.
“I told you,” Tim replied, steady. “I’m not leaving her alone.”

Tamara sighed and stepped aside to let him in.
“She’s asleep. Or trying to be. It’s been hard for her to rest, she’s still weak.” She gave him a look — half warning, half weariness. “Don’t hurt her again, Tim.”

He nodded.
He didn’t promise anything — promises meant little at this point.

He dropped his bag by the wall and headed to the kitchen, looking for something to do.
The fridge greeted him with a cold draft and the hollow sight of almost nothing: yogurt, some soup, half a lemon, and a container of oatmeal Tamara must have made days ago.

“What can she eat?” he asked, turning to her.

Tamara shrugged. “Not much… her stomach’s upset most of the time. Soft soups are good. Oatmeal shakes, though she barely finishes them.”

Tim nodded, committing every word to memory.
“I’ll make soup,” he said simply.

Tamara watched him move through the kitchen with quiet precision. It was almost absurd — a police officer, used to facing danger, now chopping vegetables with careful focus. But something in him had changed. His determination was quieter now, deeper.

“I’m leaving soon,” she said, checking her bag. “I’ve got a paper to turn in, but I’ll be back this afternoon.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be here,” he replied, not looking up from the pot.

She hesitated, watching him.
Arguing was useless — he wasn’t going anywhere.
And as much as it hurt to admit, maybe Lucy needed exactly that: someone stubborn enough to stay.

Before leaving, she gave one last warning.
“If she tries to kick you out, don’t take it personally. That’s just how she protects herself.”

Tim met her gaze.
“I’m not giving up, Tamara.”

For a second, she thought she saw the man who used to make her friend laugh until she cried.
Then she turned and left.

The silence filled the loft again, broken only by the soft bubbling of soup.

Tim used the time to tidy up — washed the mugs piled in the sink, wiped down the counter, folded the blanket on the couch.
It wasn’t just about helping. It was how he regained control, how he kept the fear from paralyzing him.

When the kitchen finally smelled like home again, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
It was Max.

“Where the hell were you last night?” his friend said immediately. “The guys waited for you.”
“I know,” Tim answered, running a hand through his damp hair. “Something… came up.”
“Something like a ‘tough arrest’ or ‘personal problem’?”
Tim hesitated. He glanced toward Lucy’s bedroom door, slightly ajar.
“The second kind,” he admitted.

Max was silent for a beat.
“You wanna talk about it?”
“Not now. But I will. Promise.”
“…Alright, man. Just—don’t shut yourself off again. You know where that leads.”
“I know.” Tim exhaled softly. “This time I can’t. It’s not about me.”

Max didn’t press.
“Then do what you gotta do. Eat something. And if you need a beer, you know where to find me.”

When the call ended, Tim set the phone down and took a deep breath.
The soup was ready. Serving it into a bowl felt almost like an act of faith — something simple, tangible, grounding.

Then he heard a faint noise.

The bedroom door opened slowly, and Lucy appeared, leaning against the frame — pale, hair tousled, her expression caught between surprise and annoyance.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

Tim turned calmly. “Cooking.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“No. But someone had to.”

Lucy pressed her lips together. Her eyes flicked toward the pot, then back to him.
Every gesture carried exhaustion — and an invisible wall built out of fear and pride.

“Tim… you don’t have to stay,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

He set down the spoon, wiped his hands, and stepped closer.
“I’m not here out of obligation, Lucy. I’m here because I want to be. And I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”

She took a step back. “I don’t want your pity.”
“It’s not pity,” he said, voice firm. “It’s loyalty. And care. And…” — he lowered his voice, searching for the words — “…because I’m not letting you go through this alone. Now please, come eat something.”

Lucy stared at him for a long second. She looked ready to argue, but the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her. Her body was exhausted, and anger was the only thing holding her upright.

“Do whatever you want,” she muttered at last, defeated, before sitting down on a stool and taking the spoon.

It was only a few bites — but when she finished, a bit of color had returned to her cheeks.

Tim watched her quietly while he cleaned up. When it was done, he let out a slow, controlled breath.

He knew this wasn’t a victory.
It was just the first step in a silent war between her fear and his guilt.

As he dried the dishes, he made himself a quiet promise:
He could take her anger, her distance — even her hate, if it came to that.
But he would not leave. Not this time.

By evening, the loft was almost dark.
Only a small lamp in the kitchen cast a soft glow on the floor — enough for Tim to move around without tripping.

Outside, the city murmured with faraway sirens and engines, but inside, everything was still.

Lucy had been tossing and turning for over an hour.
Every time she closed her eyes, her mind betrayed her — hospital corridors, needles, Dr. Herrera’s voice, the fear.
And through it all, the image of Tim sitting beside her bed, red-eyed, his determination scarier than the illness itself.

She turned over again, trying to find comfort, and then she heard it:
The faint sound of dishes, water running in the kitchen.

She didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Tim was still awake.

She pressed her forehead against the pillow and sighed.

Part of her wanted to be angry again, to raise her voice, to remind him she didn’t need anyone.
But another part — the one too tired to keep her walls up — felt something different.
A strange kind of peace.

The sounds stopped.
Seconds passed, and she heard quiet footsteps approaching.

Her heart skipped.

Tim didn’t come in, but set something down on the floor just outside her door. A cup.

The faint smell of chamomile reached her, warm and comforting.
“For when you can’t sleep,” he said from the other side, voice low, almost a whisper.

Lucy closed her eyes. She didn’t answer, but the gesture disarmed her more than she wanted to admit.

She listened as he walked away, settling onto the couch. The old cushion springs creaked, and then — silence again.

A different silence now. Softer. Human.

For a few minutes, Lucy lay still, staring at the half-open door.
She could see him in her mind perfectly — broad shoulders, tired expression, that way he held everything in without asking for anything back.

The lump in her throat burned, and the cup trembled slightly in her hands when she finally lifted it.

The warm liquid went down slowly, soothing.

Maybe it wasn’t time to forgive him yet.
Or to open the door completely.

But for the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel alone.

Tim, on the couch, stared at the ceiling without really seeing it.
His jacket was folded over the backrest, his phone off on the table.
Kojo was already with his sister, and the quiet of Lucy’s loft was so unlike his own that it almost disoriented him.

He heard faint movement from the bedroom — the clink of a cup.
That alone was enough to ease something inside him.

He didn’t know if Lucy hated him or if she was simply too tired to fight.
But she was alive, and that was all that mattered.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he could breathe.
Not completely — but enough.

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the cushion, and allowed a thought he’d been avoiding for years:

Maybe caring for someone wasn’t weakness.
Maybe, this time, staying was the right way to fight.

And as sleep finally overtook him, Lucy, on the other side of the wall, listened to his breathing — steady, calm.

A quiet promise.

For the first time in weeks, they both slept without fear.

Chapter Text

The following days passed amid silences that began to soften.
Tim had taken on his role without asking permission, moving around the loft with the care of someone afraid of breaking something fragile. He didn’t talk much, didn’t ask questions. He simply was: he cooked, tidied the house, made sure Lucy had water nearby and her medication within reach.

At first, Lucy watched him warily, waiting for an explanation that never came. But as the days went by, fatigue and routine gradually wore down her resistance. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t send him away either. She let him be, resigned, in a silent balance both seemed to understand without words.

Sometimes, when she was alone on the couch and the silence of the apartment grew too heavy, she unlocked her phone and opened her chat with Tim.
The message was still there, fixed on the screen, waiting for her:

“I don’t know if you’re ready to talk, and it’s okay if you’re not. I just want you to know I’m not afraid anymore. I want to do this right this time — no rush, no pressure. Whenever you want… to really talk.”

Lucy read it over and over, without replying. She didn’t know what to say — or if she was ready — but she didn’t delete it either. It was a silent reminder of something that wasn’t completely broken yet.
Sometimes that single text did what even painkillers couldn’t: it gave her a bit of peace.

When she went back to work, still somewhat weak, Tim returned to his own duties too — but he never stopped watching her.
In the hallways, the briefing room, even during meetings, his eyes followed her with the discretion of someone who knows he doesn’t belong but can’t help caring. Lucy noticed, of course. And though she pretended indifference, that constant presence — that I’ve got you — felt like an invisible net holding her up.

At the precinct, little by little, the atmosphere began to change.
Angela kept up her morning ritual: showing up with a steaming cup of tea on Lucy’s desk. But this time, instead of the usual curt “thanks,” Lucy looked up with a tired smile.
“How are Jack and Emmy?” she asked, in a soft tone that caught Angela off guard.

Angela stopped, looked at her, and smiled naturally.
“Jack’s in his ‘I want to be a cop like Mom’ phase, which basically means he interrogates all the neighbors. And Emmy…” — she sighed tenderly — “Emmy won’t sleep unless she’s biting my finger.”

For the first time in weeks, they laughed together. It was brief, but real. And that little laugh seemed to open a small crack in Lucy’s armor.

She also started showing up more among the others.
One day, while Nolan was complaining to Celina and her about the new home renovation project Bailey had started, Lucy glanced up from her computer with a faint smile.
“Take her on a weekend trip,” she said without much emphasis. “You’ll get a break from blueprints, and she’ll get a break from hammers.”

Nolan blinked, then laughed.
“You know, that’s probably the best idea I’ve heard all week.”

With Nyla, the connection came differently.
Lucy was reviewing files when she noticed a pattern in a case Nyla had been stuck on for days. She walked over to her desk without preamble.
“I think you should check the witness statements from the robbery — there’s a contradiction with the security footage,” she said, handing her a page of notes.

Nyla raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
“Got time to look at this with me?”
“Too much,” Lucy replied, shrugging.

Hours later, the two were in a briefing room comparing notes and moving pieces across the whiteboard. Nyla praised her sharpness, and though Lucy only smiled, something in her chest loosened.

Meanwhile, Tim stayed present in his own quiet way.
Every morning, Lucy found a coffee and a Nevin’s pastry on her desk. No note — but she didn’t need one. She knew exactly where they came from.
The reports she was supposed to review appeared neatly organized. The files she needed to archive were already in her folder. Small, invisible gestures that asked for no recognition but held her days together.

And though Lucy pretended not to notice, every detail left a silent trace.
Sometimes, when she thought no one was watching, her lips curved into a fleeting smile.
A spark of the Lucy she used to be.
The one Tim hadn’t forgotten.
The one who, little by little, was resurfacing.

And deep down, every time she saw that message on her screen, she felt that maybe — just maybe — there was still something worth saving.

The day before Lucy’s next treatment, the clock in Grey’s office read almost seven.
The shift had ended long ago, but Tim was still wandering around the upper floor, pretending to review reports he had turned in hours earlier.
He held a folder in his hand, but he hadn’t read a single line.

Finally, he took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Grey replied, without looking up from his computer.

Tim stepped inside. The air smelled of reheated coffee and old paper.
The sergeant was typing something, focused, until he noticed the shadow at the door.
“Bradford. What’s going on?”

Tim swallowed hard. He hadn’t really thought about how to start.
“I need… to ask you for something, sir.”

Grey leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced.
“I’m listening.”

Tim inhaled slowly, eyes fixed on some invisible point over the desk.
“I’d like to request the day off tomorrow.”

Grey studied him for a few seconds, as if waiting for him to continue.
“Reason?”

“Personal matters,” Tim answered without hesitation. But the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

Grey narrowed his eyes.
“Lucy?”

The name landed like a sharp blow.
Tim looked up, startled.
“How…?”

“I’m her superior, Tim,” Grey said calmly, though his voice carried a certain gravity. “She informed me when she requested medical leave. And before you start trying to cover for her, let me say this: I trust your discretion.”

Tim remained silent.
The revelation stirred something in him — he wasn’t sure if it was relief or panic.
He wasn’t ready to talk about it. Not even with Grey.

“I… didn’t want to expose her,” he finally murmured. “I didn’t know you knew.”

Grey nodded, his tone softening.
“And you don’t have to tell me anything she hasn’t authorized. But I’m glad you’re there.”

Tim blinked, confused.
“Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen many people fall apart, Bradford,” Grey said, resting his arms on the desk. “And I’ve also seen those who stay. The ones who hold things together.
Lucy is strong, but not invincible. And you…” —he looked at him with intent— “you’ve always known how to stay steady when everything else collapses.”

The silence stretched. Tim clenched his fists, wrestling with the weight of what he knew and what he still didn’t fully understand.
“I don’t know if she wants me to stay,” he confessed. It was almost a whisper, but heavy with truth.

“Then stay anyway,” Grey said without hesitation.
The conviction in his voice left no room for excuses.

Tim looked up.
“And if she doesn’t want to see me?”

“Then you sit,” Grey replied firmly. “And you wait until she does.”

Tim let out a short, humorless laugh.
“That sounds… very much like her.”

“And staying is very much like you,” Grey added, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

There was a moment of shared silence — a deep understanding between two men who knew what it meant to carry someone else’s world on their shoulders.

Grey leaned forward, his voice lowering another notch.
“Tim, I’m not giving you the day off as your superior. I’m giving it to you as someone who knows what it means to miss the chance to be there when it matters most.”

Tim swallowed, nodding slowly.
He didn’t trust his voice.
He only managed a barely audible, “Thank you.”

When he left the office, the folder was still in his hand — but it no longer felt as heavy.
The hallway was empty; the cold ceiling lights flickered.
Tim walked slowly, processing every word.
For the first time in a long while, he knew that what he was going to do the next day had nothing to do with duty.

It was something else.
Something deeper.
Something he couldn’t name — but that was finally beginning to stand on its own.

The next morning, dawn filtered through the loft curtains, painting the air in a lazy golden hue. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen, mingling with the soft sizzle of oil in the pan. Tim moved the spatula with almost military focus, as if preparing breakfast were a high-risk mission.

Tamara appeared in the hallway, a folder of notes tucked under her arm and headphones dangling around her neck. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, and her expression carried the look of someone already a step behind the day before it had even begun.

“Another rough night?” Tim asked, without stopping stirring the batter.

“A bit,” she replied, pouring herself a coffee. “I can’t sleep — I’m always on alert in case Lucy needs something. I haven’t slept deeply since all this started.”

She watched him in silence for a moment before adding, “She has treatment today, right?”

Tim nodded.
“Yes.”

Tamara sighed.
“I’ll drop her off at the door. I have an exam I can’t postpone, but as soon as it’s over, I’ll pick her up from the hospital.”

Tim turned to her.
“No need,” he said calmly but firmly. “I took the day off. I’ll go with her.”

Tamara raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms.
“You? Lucy won’t want that. You know how she is, and what she thinks about you staying here.”

Tim set the spatula aside and leaned on the counter.
“I know. But I’m staying anyway. You need help, and you can’t do it all, Tam.”

Tamara studied him with a mix of skepticism and respect. There was something different about him — calmer, more determined.
“Good luck, Bradford. You’re going to need it,” she said at last, letting a faint smile appear. “And… thank you.”

Tim nodded without responding. He watched her leave through the door, a pancake in hand she’d grabbed from the plate, leaving behind the scent of coffee and the silent promise of a long day.

A few minutes later, the soft sound of a door announced slow footsteps and a yawn. Lucy appeared, hair tousled, wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt.

“What time is it?” she murmured, rubbing her eyes.

“Almost seven,” Tim replied, turning to face her.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” she asked, half-drowsy, half-suspicious.

“I have the day off,” he said calmly.

Lucy frowned, now more awake.
“Why do I have the feeling this has something to do with me?”

Tim set the plate on the table.
“Because it does.”

“Tim…” she began, her voice cautionary.

“Lucy,” he interrupted, remaining calm, “don’t start. You’ll need the energy you’re using to argue with me to get through your treatment today.”

Lucy fell silent, glaring at him for a few seconds that felt endless. Then she huffed and raised her hands in surrender.
“Fine. You win. But only because I don’t have the energy to fight before eight in the morning.”

Tim gave a small, satisfied smile at the truce.
“Deal.”

Lucy disappeared down the hall, and when she returned already dressed, she found a surprise waiting on the table: a plate of steaming pancakes, perfectly golden, topped with a little honey, strawberries, and blueberries — her favorite breakfast.

“Pancakes?” she asked, and for the first time in days, a genuine smile appeared on her face.

“I promised to feed you well,” Tim said, shrugging. “But you’ll have to wait until after your bloodwork.”

Lucy crossed her arms, feigning indignation.
“Cruel. Very cruel.”

“Motivation,” he replied, and that single word was enough to make her laugh softly.

For a few seconds, the silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was… warm. Familiar.

They finished getting ready without saying much else. Tim slung Lucy’s bag over his shoulder and held the door as she stepped out toward the car, resigned but in good spirits.

The drive to the hospital was almost silent. Outside the window, the world seemed to move slower than usual. Lucy rested her head against the glass, letting the sun warm her face. Tim kept his eyes on the road, alert to every traffic light, every breath.

They didn’t speak, but something had changed.
It was no longer the heavy silence of blame or fear from days past.
It was another kind of silence — one that seemed to say: I’m still here.

When they arrived at the hospital, Tim parked without a word. Lucy glanced at him for a moment before stepping out of the car.
“Thanks,” she whispered, almost inaudibly.

Tim watched her walk toward the entrance, bag on her shoulder, her steps slow but steady.
“You’re welcome,” he murmured to himself before following her and picking up her backpack.

The hospital carried that unmistakable smell of disinfectant and reheated coffee. Lucy walked slowly down the hallway, holding her patient folder and avoiding staring too much at the white walls. Tim followed a few steps behind, carrying the jacket she had insisted on leaving off and the backpack with everything she would need for the day.

After the necessary bloodwork and the breakfast Tim had skillfully packed —which Lucy devoured with delight—, they entered the oncology area, where the atmosphere was different: less noise, more murmurs, a kind of calm forged through routine and resignation. Clara, the nurse, saw them approaching from the counter and raised an amused eyebrow.

“Well, Lucy, you brought reinforcements today,” she said, glancing at Tim with a conspiratorial smirk.

“It’s not reinforcement,” Lucy replied, turning to him. “It’s… an unwanted guest.”

Clara let out a quiet laugh.
“Well, at least he’s handsome. We don’t get companions like this every day.”

Tim gave a half-smile, a bit uncomfortable. Lucy rolled her eyes and muttered something unintelligible before heading into the treatment room.

The group was almost complete. Margaret waved from her usual chair; Peter was scrolling through his phone, probably sending another absurd meme, and Sam was arguing with a nurse about the new regimen they had imposed on him.

“This is torture, Clara!” protested the older man as she approached. “First the sugar, now the salt… what’s next? The air?”

Laughter erupted among those present, and even Clara had to cover her mouth to avoid a full-out laugh. Lucy smiled reflexively — the kind of smile born more from affection than amusement.

“I warned you, Sam,” Margaret interjected, amused. “You had to give up the bacon.”

“And live on broccoli? I’d rather die happy!” he replied theatrically, provoking another round of laughter.

Tim watched silently from the doorway, not wanting to interfere. He appreciated seeing that sparkle in Lucy, even if it was fleeting. He saw her surrounded by people who understood what he was only just beginning to process, and something inside him tightened.

On one hand, he felt relief.
On the other, a pang of silent jealousy, a knot in his throat he didn’t know how to name.

When Lucy settled into her chair and Clara began setting up the IV, Peter looked up from his phone.
“And who’s that?” he asked mischievously, pointing at Tim.

“My bodyguard,” Lucy replied with such dry irony that everyone laughed.

“Wow!” said Sam, raising his eyebrows. “And why does a woman like you need a bodyguard?”

“To protect the rest of me,” she replied, and even Clara chuckled as she adjusted the IV drip.

Tim shook his head, disguising a smile.
“They could have warned me this was a comedy session,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Margaret glanced at him with understanding.
“Here, humor is part of the treatment, honey. If you don’t laugh, you don’t survive.”

Tim nodded, and the phrase lodged somewhere deep inside him, in that place where simple, painful truths are stored.

Over the next few hours, the room filled with absurd conversations, bad jokes, and the constant hum of machines. Sam tried to hide some cookies for later, Peter showed a ridiculous cat video, and Margaret recounted in great detail her battle with a microwave that “had a mind of its own.”

Lucy participated little, but occasionally let out a quiet laugh or a playful grimace. Tim remained silent, observing from his chair in the corner, trying to memorize that sound, that soft laughter he had missed so much.

At one point, Clara came over to check Lucy’s vitals and lowered her voice, almost to a whisper.
“You’re doing well today, see?” she said, smiling. “Not every day is bad.”

Lucy looked at her, then at Tim.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Not today.”

Tim averted his gaze, pretending to check his watch, but really he was trying to hide the emotion starting to break through.

When the treatment ended, the others gradually disconnected, saying goodbye with hugs, promises to message, and jokes about what they would bring next time. Tim helped Lucy to her feet without a word, supporting her by the arm with a delicacy that unbalanced her more than she would have liked to admit.

For the first time, she didn’t push him away.
She simply let him be.

And as they left the hospital together, Lucy thought —with a mix of fear and relief— that maybe it no longer made sense to keep running from someone who, in one way or another, had decided to stay.

The afternoon fell slowly as they got home, tinted in a soft gray that filtered through the loft curtains. Lucy had spent the rest of the day exhausted. The treatment had left her drained, with a persistent metallic taste in her mouth and a constant throb in her temples. Still, she had insisted on not sleeping too much, trying to maintain an appearance of normalcy that only deceived anyone willing to believe it.

Tim didn’t move from her side. He made tea, changed the sheets so they would be fresh when she decided to lie down, held her hair back when the nausea returned, and from time to time murmured something without expecting a response, just so the silence wouldn’t feel so empty.

He had learned to anticipate what she needed even before she asked. But he also knew when to step back, to give her space. It was a delicate balance, like walking on thin ice.

Lucy, between moments of lucidity and fatigue, watched him from the corner of her eye. There was something different about him, something that confused her. The firmness was still there, but now it was wrapped in a tenderness that disarmed her. He was not Sergeant Tim, nor Stubborn Tim. He was simply… Tim. And somehow, that scared her more than any diagnosis.

After eight o’clock, Tamara arrived at the loft, carrying a bag full of books and the tired smile of someone trying to keep life normal.

“Smells like soup,” she commented as she entered. “I didn’t know you cooked, Tim.”

“I live alone, Tamara,” he replied without taking his eyes off the pot. “Had to learn if I wanted to survive.”

Tamara smiled, though tension hung in the air. Lucy dozed on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket.

Tim lowered his voice when he approached Tamara.
“Could you stay a while?” he asked. “Just a couple of hours. I need to step out, take care of some things.”

Tamara looked at him with curiosity.
“Work-related?”

“No,” he said after a brief pause. “Personal.”

Tamara nodded without pressing.
“Of course. Don’t worry. I’ll stay.”

Tim thanked her with a slight nod, but before leaving, he stopped in front of Lucy. She opened her eyes at that moment, confused.

“Where are you going?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

Tim hesitated.
“Just… some things. Won’t be long. Call me if you need anything.”

Lucy stared at him for a few seconds, saying nothing. That response sounded too familiar. Too much like the ones he used to give when he was hiding something.

“Sure,” she murmured, turning her face to the back of the sofa. “Do what you have to do.”

Tim felt the strike to his chest, but he didn’t insist. He knew that if he did, she would raise the walls she had so painstakingly started to lower. He simply left the keys on the table and stepped out, closing the door gently.

The silence left behind weighed heavily.

Tamara sat by the sofa and pretended to check something on her phone, but she could feel Lucy’s tension even without looking.

“You okay?” she asked cautiously.

“Yes,” Lucy lied, eyes still closed.

Tamara didn’t believe her, but she didn’t push. She turned on the TV quietly, a true crime show, to fill the room with some sound. Lucy remained still, motionless, while her thoughts swirled.

Where would he go? Why couldn’t he just tell her?

She didn’t want to admit it, but the feeling was familiar, too close to another time — the days when Tim hid things under the excuse of “protecting her.”

And it hurt that, despite everything they had lived through, that space between them still existed.

Meanwhile, Tim walked through the nearly empty streets, hands in his pockets and mind in turmoil. He had spent days being Lucy’s support, but today he needed to support himself.

He wasn’t heading to a bar or a friend; he was going to the community center where the veterans’ group met. He had skipped the last session, but after talking with Max the other day, he knew he also had to prioritize his mental health.

In the room, he was greeted with handshakes and a few jokes about his absence. Max gave him a look mixing understanding and curiosity, whispering that he owed him a beer and an explanation.

“Good to see you, Tim,” said the coordinator, and that was all he needed to start listening and participating.

For an hour, he allowed himself to do so.
Without reservations, without uniforms, without the weight of control.

When the meeting ended, he stayed seated for a moment, silent. He felt the faint relief of having released part of the burden, even knowing there was still much to heal.

As he stepped out of the center, he breathed in the cold night air and thought of Lucy. Of how she might feel if she knew where he was. How, ironically, he had sought comfort outside while she, at home, was probably wondering if she could still trust him.

For the first time in a long while, he feared the answer.

When Tim returned to the loft, it was already night. The silence of the hallway greeted him with a familiar weight, that kind of silence that clings to your chest and refuses to let go.

He didn’t know what he would find on the other side of the door. Part of him feared seeing Lucy asleep, exhausted, or still angry. Another part, more irrational, feared she simply didn’t want to see him anymore.

But when he turned the knob and stepped in, the scene before him disarmed him.

Lucy was sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, hair messily tied back, holding a bowl of soup. The same soup he had left prepared before leaving. The spoon moved slowly, almost clumsily, but her face held something different: serenity. Tired, yes, but calm.

She lifted her eyes when she heard the door, and her gaze met his.

For the first time in days, there was no reproach, no tension. Just a fragile calm, like a barely whispered truce.

“You left my kitchen a mess,” she said, without much conviction, just to break the silence.

“I was in a hurry,” he replied, in a neutral tone. “But I plan to clean it right now. I brought you something as an offering of peace.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow, a faint spark of curiosity in her eyes.
“What is it?”
Tim took a chocolate croissant out of a bag he had left on the counter, still warm.

“Your favorite,” he said simply.

For a moment, the air seemed to fill with something soft, warm, like a shared memory they both pretended to have forgotten. Lucy looked at him without saying anything, and then, almost unwillingly, she smiled.

“You’re incorrigible,” she murmured.

“And you’re hard to please,” he replied, but there was tenderness in his voice.

Tim moved closer slowly, not forcing anything, and sat at the end of the sofa, leaving space between them. Lucy watched him for a moment, as if deciding something important. The spoon clinked against the bowl as she set it aside.

“Can I ask you something?” she finally said.

Tim nodded.

“Of course.”

She took a deep breath. Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn’t look away.

“Why do you do it?” she asked softly. “All this… staying here, taking care of me, cooking, waiting for me. You don’t have to. I didn’t ask you to.”

Tim didn’t answer immediately. He had rehearsed many versions of that response in his head, but none seemed enough now that she was in front of him.

“Because I want to,” he said at last. “Because I’m not going to leave you alone, Lucy. Not this time.”

Lucy looked away. The light in her eyes was a mixture of fatigue and contained emotion.

“That sounds nice,” she murmured. “But it also sounds like you’re going to break me again when you decide to leave.”

Tim looked at her, hurt.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She gave a bitter smile.

“That’s what you said last time.”

The silence returned, heavy, uncomfortable, but full of things both wanted to say. Tim didn’t push. Instead, he opened the small box with the croissant and placed it on the coffee table, in front of her.

“In case you’re still hungry,” he said simply.

Lucy watched him. And then, almost imperceptibly, something shifted. A crack opened in the walls she had built.

“Tim…” she began, her voice trembling. “I think we need to talk. About what happened between us.”

He looked at her, surprised. He hadn’t expected to hear that tonight.

“Now?” he asked cautiously.

Lucy nodded.

“Yes. If we don’t, we’ll never be able to move forward.”

Tim took a deep breath, as if preparing to walk over unstable ground.

“All right,” he said at last.

But just at that moment, Lucy’s phone vibrated on the table. They both looked at the name on the screen: Dr. Herrera.

Lucy hesitated for a second before answering. Tim stayed silent while the doctor spoke about the next checkup, some results from the day, the progress. Dr. Herrera’s voice sounded calm, reassuring. When she hung up, Lucy set the phone aside and looked at him again.

There were so many things to say, but no words seemed enough.

The croissant remained untouched on the table, between them, like a silent truce.

Tim watched her in silence, and she lowered her gaze.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “Tomorrow we’ll talk.”

And Tim nodded, knowing that sometimes waiting was also a way of loving.