Never the First

Part 10

Tim's Pov

The hospital's sterile glare burned into Tim Bradford's eyes, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across the linoleum floor, as cold and unyielding as the fear twisting in his gut. The antiseptic air stung his lungs, mingling with the faint coppery scent of blood-Lucy's blood-that still clung to his hands, smeared across his knuckles from when he'd pulled her from the wreckage. His boots squeaked against the polished floor, a grating sound that echoed in the too-quiet corridor outside the trauma bay. His heart pounded, a relentless drumbeat that drowned out the murmur of nurses and the distant beep of machines. All he could hear was Lucy's voice, raw and broken on the beach: *"I'm used to it."* And now, the image of her-pale, bloodied, her eyes fluttering shut in the ambulance-seared into his mind like a brand.

He stood frozen, hands clenched at his sides, the grit of sand still caught under his nails, a reminder of the moment he'd failed her. The moment she'd walked away, her barefoot steps crunching on gravel, her silhouette fading into the night. He'd let her go, thinking she needed space, not realizing she was driving straight into danger. The call had come too fast-*officer down, car accident, 7th and Alameda*-and his world had tilted, the ground falling out from under him as he raced to the scene, his truck barely holding the road.

The crash was a nightmare etched in jagged metal and shattered glass, Lucy's car crumpled like a discarded toy, the pickup truck's front end a twisted wreck. He'd found her slumped against the steering wheel, blood streaking her arm, her face pale under the streetlights' glow. Her badge glinted on her belt, a cruel reminder of who she was-Officer Chen, his partner, his constant-and how close he'd come to losing her. He'd pulled her out, his hands shaking, her weight limp against him, her breath shallow but there. *"Stay with me, Lucy,"* he'd said, over and over, like a prayer he didn't believe in, until the paramedics took over.

Now, in the hospital, time felt like quicksand, each second dragging as he stood outside the trauma bay, barred from entering. The glass doors reflected his face-haggard, eyes red-rimmed, jaw tight with a fear he couldn't shake. He'd seen her wheeled away, her body strapped to the gurney, her braid tangled with blood and sand, her hand slipping from his as the doctors closed in. *"You're first,"* he'd told her, the words spilling out in the ambulance, desperate and raw, but he didn't know if she'd heard him, if she'd believed him. He didn't know if she'd wake up to let him prove it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, Angela's name flashing, but he ignored it, his eyes fixed on the doors, willing them to open, willing someone to tell him she was okay. He could still feel her hand in his, small but strong, even as her pulse had faltered under his fingers. He'd held on, whispering her name, begging her to stay, and the memory of her eyes-those fierce, warm eyes-fluttering open for just a moment, haunted him. She'd looked at him like she wanted to believe him, like she was reaching for something she couldn't quite grasp.

Tim leaned against the wall, the cold plaster biting through his jacket, and ran a hand over his face, the stubble rough against his palm. He thought of the beach, of her standing there, barefoot and broken, pouring out her pain under the moonlight. *"I'm not anyone's first choice."* The words had gutted him, each one a blow he hadn't seen coming. He'd wanted to tell her then, to make her see that she was wrong, that she was everything-his strength, his light, the one who'd pulled him out of his own darkness without even trying. But he'd fumbled, his words too small, too late, and she'd walked away, carrying a hurt he hadn't known how to fix.

He'd been an idiot, he realized now, letting his past with Isabel linger like a shadow, letting Lucy think she was anything less than the center of his world. Isabel was a ghost, a regret he'd carried too long, but Lucy was real-her laughter, her courage, the way she'd challenge him with a smirk and a spark in her eyes. He'd been too slow, too scared, to admit what she meant, and now she was behind those doors, fighting for her life because he hadn't stopped her from driving away.

The trauma bay doors swung open, and Tim straightened, his heart lurching as a doctor stepped out, her scrubs wrinkled, her face unreadable. "Officer Bradford?" she asked, her voice calm but clipped, and he nodded, his throat too tight to speak. "She's stable for now," the doctor said, and the words hit him like a lifeline, loosening the vice around his chest. "She's got a concussion, a fractured rib, and a deep laceration on her arm, but she's responding. We're moving her to ICU for observation."

Tim exhaled, the breath shaky, his hands unclenching for the first time in hours. "Can I see her?" he asked, his voice rough, almost pleading.

The doctor hesitated, her eyes softening. "Soon. She's not awake yet, but you can sit with her once she's settled."

He nodded, the relief tempered by the image of Lucy, pale and still, tubes and monitors tethering her to life. He sank into a plastic chair, the metal frame creaking under his weight, and buried his face in his hands. The hospital's hum faded, leaving only the echo of her voice, her pain, and his promise. *"You're first."* He'd meant it, more than he'd ever meant anything, and he'd spend every day proving it if she'd give him the chance.

As the hospital clock ticked on, its hands slicing through the early morning hours, Tim sat and waited, the weight of his failures heavy but not crushing. Lucy was still here, still fighting, and so was he. He'd be there when she woke up, and this time, he wouldn't let her walk away without knowing-without believing-that she was his first choice, his only choice, and he'd fight like hell to make her see it.