❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ PRESSURE POINTS ❞

「𝜗𝜚 . ❝ the first rule was to never get involved with your T.O. the second rule was to remember the first rule. and yet here she was, memorizing the way he looks at her ❜

𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑅𝐿𝑂𝑇𝑇𝐸𝑆 𝐸𝑌𝐸𝑆 fluttered open, though the world around her was a blur of bright, sterile lights and the distant sounds of voices overlapping. She hadn't even realized she had passed out, and the groggy sensation of waking up hit her like a wave crashing onto a shore.

Her head throbbed with such intensity it felt like her skull was splitting in two. The pounding was loud, relentless, a dull roar reverberating in her ears—far louder than anything outside could have been.

She could feel something—no, someone—holding her. Strong, steady arms were wrapped tightly around her, one beneath her legs, the other around her shoulders, cradling her protectively.

The warmth of the body pressed against her was familiar, comforting in a way she couldn't quite place in her dazed state. She didn't need to look to know who it was.

Tim. It had to be Tim.

His grip on her was secure, almost too tight, as if he were afraid to let her go. His body radiated tension. Charlotte could feel it in the way his muscles twitched against her, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly, betraying the calm demeanor he was struggling to maintain.

Tim Bradford doesn't shake.

That was the mantra she had in her head whenever she thought of him—steady, solid, unmovable. But now...something was different. Even in her hazy state, she noticed.

As her senses slowly returned, so did the noise around her. Tim's voice was the loudest, cutting through the chaos with a sharp, commanding edge. He was shouting—at the hospital staff, at anyone in his way. His words were clipped, his tone controlled, but underneath it, there was something raw. Fear, maybe. It was subtle, but it was there.

"Get someone now! She needs a head CT—she passed out, for God's sake! Move!" His voice boomed, the words edged with urgency that felt out of place for him, a man who usually handled emergencies with a calm, methodical precision.

She blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, trying to focus on Tim's face, but the blinding brightness made her wince, her eyes shutting again instinctively. Her vision swam, the edges still fuzzy as if she were looking through a fog. Her head lolled slightly, and for a moment, she wasn't sure if she was going to pass out again.

Tim's hand shifted under her, tightening his grip as he adjusted his hold, his body pressed closer to hers. She felt the heat of his chest through his shirt, the steady thrum of his heart beneath her cheek. Normally, it was a sound that would've calmed her, like it had before, but now...now it was racing.

He moved with purpose, refusing to put her down, even as the hospital staff rushed around them. "Clear a damn path!" His barked order reverberated through the small corridor, his voice sharp enough to slice through the noise.

Tim finally placed her onto the gurney, his hands still trembling as he did so. Was he...scared? Charlotte had never seen Tim like this—so shaken, so visibly rattled. He hovered beside her, his gaze never leaving her face, even as the hospital staff moved in to take over.

"Let's go!" one of the nurses said, her voice brisk, as they wheeled the gurney toward the CT room. Protocol dictated that officers, especially those injured in the line of duty, were rushed through emergency procedures. But this wasn't about protocol for Tim. This was personal, it seemed.

Laying on the gurney, Charlotte's head spun, her thoughts jumbled, but one thing stood out above the rest: Tim was scared. And that realization stirred something deep within her, something beyond the pain and the confusion.

As they wheeled her down the hall, the sterile scent of antiseptic filled her nostrils, mingling with the faint smell of Tim's cologne, a comforting familiarity amidst the cold hospital environment. The clatter of wheels echoed off the linoleum floors, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

She tried to focus on the faces above her—nurses, doctors, all rushing around with masks of professional calm—but her gaze kept drifting back to Tim. He followed closely beside the gurney, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw set tight, eyes glued to her.

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑌𝑂𝑈𝑁𝐺𝐸𝑅 officer splashed cold water onto her face, feeling the icy sting against her skin as it trickled down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. She braced herself against the porcelain sink, staring into the mirror as the fluorescent lights overhead cast a harsh, clinical glow. Her reflection was a stark contrast to the warm, bustling day outside the hospital walls.

Tim's words echoed in her mind, urging her to calm her nerves before they headed back out on patrol. She took a deep breath, her fingers tightening around the edge of the sink, feeling the coolness of the surface against her skin.

Her heart still pounded in her chest, a steady reminder of the tension she had been carrying all day. She ran her damp fingers through her hair, trying to compose herself, but her eyes were drawn to the soft sound of muffled sobs echoing from one of the stalls behind her.

It was quiet, barely noticeable beneath the hum of the lights, but there it was—a faint sound of someone breaking. Charlotte blinked, turning slightly to glance toward the stalls. She hadn't realized anyone else was there. The restroom had been empty when she entered.

A woman's voice, soft and shaky, cut through the silence. "Sorry, I didn't realize someone else was in here." The door to one of the stalls creaked open, and a woman emerged, her face pale and blotchy from tears.

She looked fragile, like she had been through hell and back. Her hands trembled as she fumbled to turn on the faucet, letting warm water flow over them.

"Rachel," the woman murmured, barely meeting Charlotte's eyes in the reflection of the mirror as she kept her gaze lowered, her wet hands shaking beneath the stream of water.

Charlotte nodded slowly, watching the woman from the corner of her eye, her brow furrowing with concern. "Rachel." She repeated the name softly, as if grounding the woman in the reality of the moment. "I'm Charlotte." Her voice softened, and she hesitated, unsure if she should pry.

"Are you... okay?" Her eyes searched Rachel's reflection for a clue, anything that could explain the sadness etched so deeply into her face.

Rachel sniffled, wiping her face with the back of her hand before finally turning to Charlotte, her eyes swollen and red. "I'd hate to be a bother." Her voice was raw, hoarse from crying. "It's just my brother. He was in a car accident." The words seemed to catch in her throat, her voice breaking as she spoke.

Charlotte felt a pang in her chest, her frown deepening as she took a step closer. "I'm so sorry. Is he going to be okay?" Her voice dropped an octave, gentle, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile woman before her.

Rachel didn't respond with words. Instead, her face crumpled, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed into her hands. She looked like she was unraveling, folding in on herself under the weight of her grief. Before Charlotte could offer any more words of comfort, Rachel pushed open the door and rushed out of the restroom, her cries trailing behind her like an echo.

Charlotte stood frozen for a moment, watching the door swing shut in her wake. Something about the encounter felt off, like an itch she couldn't quite scratch. She turned back toward the mirror, about to splash more water on her face when something caught her eye—a bottle of bleach lying on the floor of the stall Rachel had just come out of.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Charlotte's instincts kicked in, and she crouched down, her fingers gently lifting the bottle. It was heavy, the label peeling slightly from wear, but that wasn't what made her blood run cold.

As she inspected the bottle, she noticed something strange—a tiny, needle-sized hole at the top, almost imperceptible unless you were looking for it.

Her stomach twisted with a sudden rush of adrenaline. She quickly got to her feet, her pulse racing as she pieced it together. The bleach, the needle hole—it was deliberate. And Rachel, that woman who had been sobbing just moments ago...

Charlotte's eyes widened in realization. She shoved the bottle into the nearest trash bin and sprinted out of the bathroom, slowing her pace only slightly as she entered the busy hospital corridor. Her eyes scanned the sea of faces, her heart thundering in her chest as she spotted Rachel, now a few paces ahead, weaving through the crowd.

Charlotte followed, her movements quick but deliberate, not wanting to draw attention. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered as she moved through the bustling hospital hallways, the scent of disinfectant heavy in the air, mixing with the faint scent of Rachel's perfume, a floral scent that lingered just enough for Charlotte to keep track.

She felt her fingers twitch, the urge to call for backup growing stronger with every step. But this wasn't the time for that. Not yet. First, she needed to figure out what Rachel was up to.

As she closed the distance between them, her eyes never left Rachel. The woman was walking with purpose now, no longer the sobbing wreck from the bathroom. There was something dark in her posture, a rigidness that told Charlotte this wasn't just grief driving her. There was intent.

Charlotte's steps were light as she followed Rachel into the hospital room, the sterile smell of antiseptic and the faint hum of machinery filling the air. The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the bed where Rachel's brother lay, his body motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest, mechanical and rhythmic.

Tubes snaked around his still form, and wires connected him to the machines that were keeping him alive, their steady beeping the only indication that life still lingered.

Charlotte's eyes flickered to the man's face. He looked peaceful, almost too peaceful for someone in such a dire state. His injuries were evident, though—bruising along his temples, cuts that had been stitched with care, and the pallor of someone who had been trapped in a limbo between life and death for far too long. Her heart clenched at the sight, but she couldn't allow herself to dwell on it.

Not now.

Rachel stood at the bedside, her back to Charlotte, but her posture was tense, rigid. In her hand, she held a syringe, the liquid inside glinting ominously in the low light. Charlotte's stomach twisted as she realized what was about to happen.

Rachel's hand trembled slightly as she brought the syringe closer to her brother's IV line, her face set in grim determination. But before she could make her move, Charlotte's voice cut through the quiet.

"Hey! What are you doing?" Charlotte's voice was sharp, laced with urgency. She didn't shout, but the tension in her words was enough to make Rachel freeze in place.

Rachel glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wide and frantic, like a cornered animal. "This is what he wants," she whispered, her voice trembling but filled with conviction. Her grip on the syringe tightened, knuckles white as she turned slightly, shielding it from Charlotte's reach.

Charlotte took a step closer, her eyes locked on the syringe, her pulse quickening. She could feel the weight of the room pressing down on her, the suffocating reality of the situation settling in.

"I get it," she said softly, her tone gentle but firm.

"You're grieving. You're in pain. But this—" she gestured toward the syringe, her voice steady, "this isn't your decision to make."

Rachel's face crumpled for a moment, but her resolve quickly hardened again. She turned away from Charlotte, her body angled protectively over her brother, shielding him like a mother guarding her child.

"You don't understand!" she snapped, her voice cracking with desperation. "He would hate this. Being stuck in this bed, hooked up to machines, unable to move, to speak. He ran triathlons, for God's sake! This... this is hell for him."

Charlotte could hear the pain in Rachel's voice, the rawness of it cutting through the air like a blade. She knew this kind of grief, this kind of desperate need to take control when everything felt lost. But she also knew the consequences of acting on that desperation.

"Okay, look." Charlotte's voice softened, and she took another step forward, her hands held out in a calming gesture. "I know you're hurting. I can't imagine what you're going through right now. But your brother wouldn't want this—for you or for him. He wouldn't want you to go to jail because of him."

Rachel's shoulders shook, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she clung to the syringe, her fingers trembling. "Please..." she whispered, barely able to get the words out. "He never got to sign a DNR. His wife—she won't let him go. She doesn't understand that she's keeping him here, keeping him trapped."

Charlotte's heart ached for her, but she shook her head, her voice firm. "I understand you want to help him. But injecting him with bleach isn't the answer, Rachel. This isn't how you let go. What you're talking about—it's murder."

Rachel's breath hitched at the word, her lips thinning into a tight line. Her eyes flickered with something close to despair, and for a moment, Charlotte thought she might listen. But then Rachel's face twisted in defiance, her grief transforming into something darker, something more dangerous.

"He's already dead," Rachel spat, her voice rising as she turned toward her brother, the syringe poised in her shaking hand.

Charlotte's heart dropped. She reached out, her fingers brushing Rachel's shoulder in a last-ditch effort to stop her. "Rachel, please. Just put the needle down. Look at me."

But before she could pull her back, Rachel shoved her away with surprising strength. Charlotte stumbled, but her reflexes kicked in just as Rachel's hand darted toward her brother's neck, the needle glinting as it pierced his skin.

Charlotte's body moved on instinct, her finger squeezing the trigger. The sound of the taser firing cut through the room, and the electric current shot into Rachel's body, her muscles seizing. Rachel collapsed, her body convulsing for a brief moment before going limp.

Bradford stormed into the room, his eyes immediately scanning the scene with sharp precision. His gaze landed on Charlotte first, noting her disheveled state—the tension in her body, the way her hand shook slightly as she held the syringe, still hovering above Rachel's brother.

"Did she pull the plunger?" Bradford asked, his voice gruff but with a hint of urgency. His eyes flicked to the man lying in the bed, tubes and machines keeping him tethered to life.

Charlotte exhaled slowly, her breath catching as she gingerly pulled the syringe free from the man's neck. Her hand was steady now, but her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she inspected the needle.

"No," she panted, her chest rising and falling with exertion. Relief flooded her features, though the adrenaline still buzzed beneath her skin like static.

Bradford huffed, a mixture of irritation and concern in his voice. "Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" His eyes softened slightly as he took in the situation, but the tension in his posture remained.

He was scanning the room, taking in every detail—the unconscious Rachel on the floor, the syringe in Charlotte's hand, and the still, lifeless body on the bed.

The room felt like it was closing in on itself. The antiseptic smell of the hospital mixed with the sharp tang of bleach from the punctured bottle Charlotte had found earlier. It was suffocating, as if the very air was thick with the weight of everything that had just transpired.

Suddenly, Charlotte's breathing grew ragged, her chest heaving in short, shallow gasps. Her vision blurred as her head swam with the aftereffects of the fight, the stress, and the sudden drop in adrenaline. She swayed on her feet, trying to steady herself, but the room spun around her in dizzying circles.

Bradford noticed immediately. "Von Liljah, hey—" he started, stepping toward her, but it was too late. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she crumpled forward. Her forehead smacked against the side of the bed with a dull thud before her body slumped to the floor.

"Damn it, Charlotte!" Bradford cursed, dropping to his knees beside her in an instant. His large hands hovered over her for a second, unsure whether to grab her by the shoulders or check her pulse first. His usual confidence faltered for a moment as he reached down, gently lifting her head to inspect the damage.

Her breathing was uneven, and her forehead had a small, angry red mark where she'd hit the edge of the bed. Bradford's heart pounded in his chest, the cool facade he usually wore slipping as concern washed over his features.

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐹𝐼𝑅𝑆𝑇 thing Charlotte noticed when she slowly blinked awake was the blinding white light above her head. It made her eyes water, and for a moment, she could only squint against the sharp brightness.

Her head throbbed, a dull, pounding ache that seemed to pulse with every beat of her heart. She shifted slightly on the hospital bed, feeling the stiff sheets rustle beneath her.

Her eyes drifted to the man beside her, and it took her a moment to recognize him through the haze of lingering grogginess. Tim sat hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees, his head buried in his hands.

His fingers combed slowly through his short hair, tugging slightly as if he could pull out the frustration and guilt lodged deep in his chest. His back was taut with tension, the muscles in his shoulders stiff as if they carried the weight of the day's events.

She could hear his breathing, slow and deliberate, a sign of the controlled anger simmering just below the surface. Tim wasn't the type to lose his cool easily, but something about the way his fingers trembled as they ran through his hair told her that this had gotten under his skin.

Charlotte swallowed, her throat dry, and the movement felt like sandpaper scraping against her insides. She tried to sit up a little, but her body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and something else she couldn't quite place.

Her heart was racing, though she didn't understand why. The sterile scent of the hospital—a mix of disinfectant and something metallic—filled her nose, making her feel even more nauseous.

"Hey," she whispered, her voice cracking from disuse. It was a soft, tired sound, but she forced a small smile onto her face.

It didn't quite reach her eyes, but she needed to show him she was awake, that she was okay—or at least trying to be.

Tim's head snapped up at the sound of her voice, his eyes wide with surprise. He'd been expecting something else when he looked at her—maybe a restless, unconscious body or even the steady beeping of machines keeping her alive—but instead, he met her open, red-rimmed eyes.

Relief flooded his face for a split second before the tension returned, the storm still brewing beneath his calm facade.

"You overdosed, Charlotte," he said, his voice low but biting, laced with frustration that wasn't quite aimed at her but still cut deep.

"It was damn fentanyl in that hypodermic needle." His jaw clenched as he hissed out the words, his anger palpable, though it was clear it wasn't really directed at her. He was mad at the situation, mad at himself for not catching it sooner, for not protecting her.

Charlotte blinked, confusion clouding her features. Her smile faltered, replaced by a look of shock and disbelief. "What?" Her voice cracked again, barely a whisper, as if the word had been ripped from her throat. The pounding in her head seemed to intensify, the weight of what he said slowly sinking in.

"It was a delayed overdose," Tim explained, his voice softer now but still tight with barely controlled emotion. He looked down at the floor for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before meeting her gaze again. "The sudden strain with Rachel... it triggered it. Your body just couldn't handle it."

Charlotte's mind raced to catch up with what he was saying, but it was like trying to wade through thick mud. Fentanyl. Overdose. The words felt foreign, like they didn't belong to her, like this couldn't possibly be happening.

She remembered the struggle with Rachel, the syringe, but she hadn't realized how close she had come to... what?

Dying?

Her breath hitched in her throat, panic starting to creep in as her chest tightened. She could feel the sting of tears forming at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to let them fall.

Instead, she looked up at Tim, searching his face for any sign of reassurance, of something that would tell her this wasn't as bad as it seemed. But all she saw was guilt and exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

Tim licked his lips, the silence stretching between them, heavy and suffocating. He reached out, his large hand covering hers where it rested weakly on the blanket. His touch was warm, grounding her in the moment, pulling her back from the edge of panic.

He didn't say anything for a moment, just held her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gesture that was more soothing than he probably realized.

"I should've seen the needle earlier," he finally muttered, his voice gruff. "Then you wouldn't have ended up here. This damn hospital."

Charlotte's tired smile returned, this time a little more genuine, though still weak. "It's not your fault, Tim," she murmured, her words soft but firm. She knew him well enough to know he was beating himself up over this, blaming himself for something that was out of his control. But that didn't change the fact that he'd saved her—again.

Tim's eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he shook his head slightly, as if disagreeing with her but not wanting to argue. His hand tightened around hers, a silent promise that he wouldn't let something like this happen again.

Maybe it was the fentanyl still working through her system, making her head light and her inhibitions blur at the edges.

Or maybe it was the closeness of death, how it had brushed so close to her, making every second feel more fragile, more precious.

Whatever it was, it pulled her toward him, her body moving on instinct, closing the distance between them.

Her lips met his in a gentle, tentative kiss, as soft as a whisper. It was the kind of kiss that held more questions than answers, filled with hesitation and unspoken feelings.

For a moment, Tim froze, his eyes widening slightly in surprise, but then he kissed her back, just as softly, as if he was afraid she might break beneath his touch. His lips moved cautiously against hers, testing the waters, unsure but not unwilling.

But then Charlotte leaned in further, her kiss growing hungrier, more insistent. Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer as if she needed him to steady her.

She could feel the change in him, feel the way he responded to her need, the hesitation melting away as his hand came up to cup the side of her face, his thumb brushing against her cheek in a tender, grounding motion.

Tim deepened the kiss, his lips pressing more firmly against hers now, no longer holding back. It was like the floodgates had opened, and all the tension, all the unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings that had been building between them, came pouring out.

His hand slipped from her face to the back of her neck, pulling her closer still, his breath mingling with hers in the small space between them.

The kiss was intoxicating, a whirlwind of emotions that neither of them could quite control. It was desperate and raw, fueled by everything they had been through that day, everything they hadn't said but had always felt.

Charlotte's heart pounded in her chest, and her head spun, but this time it wasn't from the drugs or the exhaustion—it was from him.

Tim was the first to pull away, both of them panting, their breaths mingling in the space between them. His forehead rested against hers, their lips just inches apart, still close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. His eyes were dark, clouded with desire, but there was something else there too—a flicker of restraint, of hesitation.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his voice rough and uneven, the words barely audible as he caught his breath. "Tell me to stop, princess."

But Charlotte didn't say a word. Instead, she leaned in and kissed him again, her lips finding his with a renewed urgency, a silent answer to his question.

There was no hesitation in her kiss this time, no second-guessing,

just a need to feel him,

to be close to him.

Tim's hand tightened on the back of her neck, pulling her even closer, his kiss deepening with each passing second. The heat between them was palpable, the air thick with tension, the world outside that hospital room fading into nothing. It was just them, locked in that moment, their bodies pressed together, their hearts racing in sync.

But then, just as suddenly, the sharp sound of a phone ringing cut through the intensity of the moment. The spell between them broke, and Tim pulled back, his eyes fluttering open as the harsh reality of the situation settled back over them.

His phone buzzed insistently in his pocket, and he sighed, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he glanced down at her.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath, still catching his breath from the kiss. He pressed his forehead to hers for just a second longer, as if reluctant to let the moment go, before finally standing up.

Charlotte watched as he pulled his phone from his pocket, glancing at the screen with a frown. "I'll be right back," he promised, his voice low and reassuring as he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. Then, with one last glance over his shoulder, he stepped outside to take the call.

The room suddenly felt too quiet without him, the warmth of his presence leaving an empty space that the hum of the hospital machines couldn't fill.

Charlotte's heart was still racing, her lips tingling from the kiss, her body aching in ways she hadn't even realized until now. She let out a shaky breath, sinking back into the hospital bed, her thoughts swirling in a tangled mess of confusion and desire.

What Charlotte didn't know, was that Grey was on the other line as Bradford answered.

Tim's brow furrowed. Grey didn't call for casual check-ins, especially not like this. Steeling himself, he pressed the phone to his ear.

"Grey," he answered, his voice sharper than intended. The adrenaline from the kiss still hadn't fully ebbed, and it tangled with the usual edge he carried when on duty.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, just long enough to make Tim's stomach drop slightly. Something was wrong. He knew that silence.

His breath hitched, body tensing, preparing for the worst. The kind of worst that years on the force made him all too familiar with.

Grey's voice finally came through, low and grave.
"We found her, Bradford. We found Isabel."

WHAT IS HAPPENING!!!!! the plot twists are twisting

im so excited to see everyones reactions

also if this storyline is ass its because I'm making it up as I go.... I will be rewriting it in the future I just need to actually try to finish the book first!!!

please feel free to engage with the story !!
– comment, like, & interact. your participation keeps me motivated! thank you!!

❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ 23.10.24 ❞