Tim Bradford

The hospital was quiet that Friday, but the emergency room remained busy. Dr. Angel Flores—small, sweet, with angelic beauty and a rare innocence—was reviewing a chart when the doors opened, revealing LAPD officers. Among them was Sergeant Tim Bradford, pressing a cloth against his bloodied forearm and with his typical grim expression.
"Patient file 4, please," Angel asked in her soft voice.
Tim looked up, his frown wavering. Accustomed to the aggression of the streets, seeing that doctor so serene always disarmed him and made his heart beat faster.
"It's just a scratch, doctor. I just need a few stitches to get back to my shift," he said, softening his tone.
Angel smiled compassionately and indicated the stretcher.
— Please sit down, Sergeant. "Just a scratch" doesn't require eight stitches, which is what you'll get here.
Tim obeyed, grumbling under his breath. As she gently cleaned the wound, he watched her, fascinated by the contrast between her delicacy and her professional firmness.
"You should be more careful," Angel murmured, concentrating on the needle. "Someone could end up dying of worry."
Tim raised an eyebrow, with a half-smile.
Really? And who would that person be?
Angel blushed, enhancing her innocent aura. She tied the final knot and applied the bandage.
"The officers on your shift, of course..." she bluffed shyly. "And... maybe your doctor."
Tim got off the stretcher and approached her, looking like a protective giant beside her. The chemistry between the two was evident.
Well... if my doctor is so worried, I think I should make it up to her. My shift ends in an hour. How about dinner away from the hospital?
Angel looked at him, her eyes shining.
— I'd love to, Tim. My shift ends at the same time.
"Great." Tim smiled broadly, something rare for him, and gave her a light tap on the shoulder. "See you at the exit, Angel. Try not to save the whole world until then."
She chuckled softly, watching him walk away.

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