🚓🤍

The next day, Lauren wakes with a start, her side throbbing from the night's fitful sleep. She throws on some clothes and heads out, the cool morning air a stark contrast to the heat of the previous day. She's late, and she knows it—the clock in her car confirms it with a cruel digital glow. As she sprints into the command center, she's met with the disapproving gaze of Sgt. Grey.

"Clark. You're late," he says firmly, his voice cutting through the morning banter.

"Sir, I —" she starts, but he raises a hand to stop her.

"My office. Now," he says again, his voice leaving no room for argument. The words hang in the air, a heavy silence following. The other officers cast furtive glances her way, the whispers of their conversations trailing off like the wake of a ship.

With a sigh, Lauren follows him, her boots echoing in the corridor. She knows the drill—the lecture about following protocol, about looking out for each other, about being a team. She's heard it all before, but today, it feels personal. The door to his office closes with a final click, the sound punctuating the end of her night's reprieve.

Sgt. Grey's office is a bastion of order—no cluttered desk, no random things. Just the badge of his rank on the wall, a stern reminder of the hierarchy she's part of. He sits down behind his desk, his eyes never leaving hers. "Take a seat, Clark."

Lauren does, her hand moving to her side reflexively, feeling the bandage through her shirt. She sits up straight, her eyes meeting his, ready to face whatever he throws at her.

"You're taking paid time off, starting today," Sgt. Grey says, his tone firm but not unkind. "The doctor's report came in. That knick is deeper than it looks, and you need to let it heal properly."

Lauren's eyes widen, surprise and frustration warring within her. "But, sir, I can still work. I'm fine."

Sgt. Grey's gaze is unwavering. "You're not fine, Clark," he says, his voice firm but laced with concern. "You were stabbed. You need rest."

Lauren opens her mouth to protest, but the pain in her side flares up, stealing her words. She nods; her eyes downcast. "Yes, sir," she murmurs, her jaw tightening.

"Good," Sgt. Grey says, his expression softening slightly. "I'll call you when you can come back."

Lauren nods, the words sticking in her throat. As she stands, she can feel the weight of his gaze on her back as she exits the office, the glass walls revealing nothing of the conversation within. The hallway is a blur of blue uniforms and murmured greetings, the precinct's morning routine unchanged despite her upheaval.

Back at her desk, she finds a note from Tim—his handwriting sloppy, but the words clear: "Take care of yourself. Call if you need anything." The sight of it brings a small smile to her lips, but she quickly shoves it into her pocket, not wanting to draw attention. She grabs her things and heads out, the world outside the station spinning just a little too fast.

...

Her apartment is quiet, too quiet. She tosses her keys onto the counter and peels off her jacket, the fabric sticking to her sweaty skin. The silence echoes in the empty space, a stark contrast to the chaos of the precinct. She grabs a bag of ice from the freezer, applying it gently to her side. The cold stings, but it's a welcome relief from the constant throb.

Lauren flops onto the couch, the TV playing a reality show she's not really watching. Her mind is racing with the past events—Tim's concern, Seals' recklessness, and the stark reality that she could have lost everything. She takes a deep breath, trying to push the thoughts away, but they linger like a bad taste in her mouth.

The day drags on, the TV show's mindless chatter a white noise to her swirling thoughts. She's torn between the need to rest and the desire to be back out there, to prove herself. Her eyes keep drifting to the bandage peeking out from her shirt, a silent testament to her failure to keep Seals in line.

Her phone buzzes, pulling her from her introspection. It's a text from Tim: "How are you holding up?" She sighs, typing back a quick lie. "Fine. Just following orders." The screen goes dark, but she can feel his eyes on her, even through the digital void. She wonders if he's at the precinct, worried about her, or if he's out on patrol, dealing with his own demons.

The TV's volume fades into the background, the sun dipping below the horizon outside her window. Her eyelids grow heavy, and she fights to keep them open, but the pain in her side and the exhaustion from the day's events win out. She drifts off, the couch cushions molding to her form, the TV's glow casting flickering shadows across the room.

...

Lauren jolts awake to the sound of her front door opening, her hand instinctively reaching for her gun. Her heart hammers in her chest as she sits up, the ice bag slipping to the floor with a wet thud. The living room is bathed in the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains. She's been asleep for almost 8 hours.

Her eyes scan the room, searching for any signs of an intrusion. The TV flickers, the reality show's laugh track echoing in the silence like a taunt. She breathes out slowly, her hand tightening on the cold metal of her weapon. She's been in situations like this before, but it never gets easier.

Her footsteps are silent as she makes her way to the kitchen, her senses heightened. The floorboards don't creak under her weight, a testament to her training. The room is a pool of darkness, the only light spilling in from the hallway. She can make out the shapes of her kitchen counter, the fridge humming gently in the corner.

As she reaches for the light switch, the room floods with a sudden, harsh glow. She freezes, her hand hovering in the air. Tim stands by the fridge, his eyes wide, a water in one hand and a sandwich in the other. The surprise on his face morphs into concern as he takes in her bandaged side, the gun in her hand.

"Tim, what the hell?" Lauren says, her voice a mix of relief and irritation as she lowers the gun. She leans against the counter, her heart racing.

Tim's eyes widen even further, taking in the scene. "What, I didn't think you ate," he stammers, holding up the sandwich like a peace offering.

Lauren's hand relaxes, the tension draining from her body. She walks over and grabs the sandwich from him, taking a bite. The bread is soft, the turkey cold, but it's the best thing she's tasted in hours. She chews slowly, her eyes never leaving his.

"You scared the shit out of me," she says, her voice a mix of annoyance and amusement. Tim chuckles, his shoulders relaxing.

He looks at her, really looks at her. In the stark kitchen light, she's a picture of strength and vulnerability. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Her eyes are tired, but they sparkle with the same determination that's carried her through the worst of days. And her smile, even now, is like a warm embrace that chases the shadows away.

"I saw Isabel today," Tim finally says, his voice low. The words hang in the air like a confession, heavy and loaded with meaning. Lauren's eyes widen, the sandwich forgotten in her hand. She sets it down, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"How was she?" she asks, her voice gentle.

Tim's face tightens, his eyes faraway. "She overdosed," he says, his words heavy with unspoken guilt. "I got a call from the hospital."

Lauren's stomach drops, the reality of Tim's personal turmoil crashing into the quiet of her apartment. She moves closer to him, her hand reaching out tentatively to touch his arm. "Tim, I'm so sorry."

Tim's eyes meet hers, and she sees the raw pain, the doubt, the fear. "I just... I don't know what to do," he whispers, his voice cracking. The words hang in the air, a poignant confession that echoes her own feelings about the precinct incident.

"You're doing all you can," Lauren says, her voice firm. She knows the feeling of helplessness, of watching someone you care about spiral out of control. "You can't save everyone."

Tim looks down at his feet, his shoulders slumped. "But I'm supposed to," he murmurs. "It's my job."

Lauren's heart aches for him, but she knows she has to be firm. She steps closer, placing both hands on his arms. "Tim, you can't carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. You're a cop, not a superhero." She pauses, searching for the right words. "Isabel's choices are her own. You've done everything you can, but you can't save her from herself."

He nods, his eyes filling with unshed tears. "I know," he says, his voice thick. "But it doesn't make it any easier."

Lauren reaches up and puts her arms around Tim's neck, pulling him into a hug. He's stiff at first, surprised by the sudden contact, but then he relaxes into her embrace, his arms wrapping around her waist. She can feel the tension in his muscles, the weight of the world pressing down on him. They stand there, in the harsh kitchen light, holding each other like it's the only thing keeping them upright.

"You're trying," she whispers into his ear, her voice a soft mantra. "That's all that matters."

Tim's grip tightens around her, his breathing shallow and ragged. For a moment, they just stand there, two people clinging to each other in the face of their own personal hurricanes. The kitchen clock ticks away the seconds, the only sound in the otherwise silent apartment. "Thank you," he murmurs into her hair, his voice gruff with emotion.

They pull apart, and Tim's eyes trace a path down to Lauren's lips. They hover there for a fraction of a second, the air between them thick with unspoken words. Lauren's breath catches, her eyes locked onto his, a silent question hanging in the space between them. Her heart thuds in her chest, the beat echoing in her ears like a drumline.

Tim clears his throat, breaking the spell. "I should go," he says, his voice gruff. He takes a step back, the kitchen suddenly feeling too small.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Lauren says, her voice a whisper. The words hang in the air, a promise, a question, a declaration. Tomorrow looms, a new day filled with the potential for both pain and healing. Tim nods, his eyes never leaving hers.

He turns to leave, his hand lingering on the doorknob. "Clark," he says, his voice filled with something she can't quite put her finger on. She waits, her heart racing. "Thank you for...everything."

The door clicks shut behind him, and the apartment plunges back into silence. Lauren leans against the counter, her hand on her side. The pain is gone, the bleeding has stopped. It's as if the knife never pierced her flesh, as if the fear never took root in her heart. But she knows better. She's seen the aftermath of a thousand moments like this—the scars that linger long after the wounds have healed.

🚓...🤍

KATE SPEAKS!

my cuties!!!
ugh i love them
i'm trying to show her relationships with everyone but it's hard to fit her into episodes

but i'm trying i promise!