some things can be challenging

Chapter 13

Lucy

It's been roughly three and a half months since I discovered I was pregnant, and now I'm nearing the 28-week mark, firmly planted in my third trimester. Every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, the reality of carrying a baby still feels surreal. Tim and I have made significant strides in our relationship; we've resumed dating, and he's been staying over at my place frequently. The relief is immense because the thought of facing this journey alone was daunting and still scares me to my core.

Today, I had a discussion with Grey about maternity leave. He advised me to consider taking time off for around 30 weeks. Grey recounted his struggles with Nyla and Angela, urging me not to overstay my welcome at the station past 37 weeks, emphasizing that at that stage, my due date would be imminent. Honestly, the prospect of staying home doesn't excite me much either; there's so much to prepare for that I might end up in a situation similar to Angela and Nyla's, where Grey had to practically kick them out temporarily.

Aaron took a personal day, so I ended up riding with Sergeant Bradford, who also happens to be my boyfriend. I can't help but feel nervous that he might restrict us to low-risk calls or keep me confined to the shop simply because he's riding with his pregnant girlfriend.

"Okay, Chen, ready to go?" he asks as we exit roll call.

"Yeah, let me just grab the war bags real quick," I reply, turning to head for the equipment.

"Stop, I'll get them. Just get in the shop," he asserts firmly. Knowing there's no use in arguing, I comply, though it solidifies my expectations for the day ahead.

As I settle into the shop, I watch him head towards the door to open it. Frustration bubbles up, and I can't help but voice my feelings.

"Look, I appreciate your concern, but being pregnant doesn't diminish my capability," I assert.

"I know you're capable, but I just want to help," he replies gently.

I sigh, glancing out the window. It's clear now; today is shaping up to be a very long day.

It was approaching lunchtime, and as expected, Tim Bradford assigned us only the straightforward calls. Just one more task remained before our break, and predictably, it was another noise complaint. As we pulled up to the house, it struck me as odd because the music inside, while audible, wasn't particularly loud—hardly something to call the police about.

"LAPD!" Tim's voice rang out as he knocked on the door. A teenager, perhaps seventeen years old, opened it reluctantly. "We got a noise complaint," Tim stated firmly.

The young man glanced across the street and suddenly charged towards the neighboring house. Tim and I exchanged a quick look and followed swiftly, knowing these situations could escalate fast.

"You bitch, you did this!" the boy shouted as he confronted a frail old lady who had just opened her door. Without warning, he produced a small handgun from his pocket and aimed it at her.

"Chen, stay back," Tim warned, positioning himself protectively. Irritated, I stepped forward, taking the lead.

"Hi, I'm Officer Chen. I understand you're upset, but I need you to gently lower the gun and put your hands in the air," I said calmly, my own weapon trained on him. Tim's voice behind me urged caution, but I pressed on.

"I'm Marcus!" the boy yelled, turning the gun towards me. Tim moved to intervene, but I stood my ground.

"I know you're angry, Marcus, but this isn't the answer," I continued firmly, aware of the risk, especially being pregnant. "Shooting a cop, especially one who's carrying a child, won't solve anything. It'll only make things worse for you in the long run."

Marcus hesitated, visibly conflicted. After a tense moment, he slowly lowered the gun. Seizing the opportunity, I holstered my weapon and swiftly moved to restrain him.

As I cuffed Marcus, relief washed over me. The situation could have turned tragic, but fortunately, calm prevailed. Tim approached his expression a mix of concern and approval.

"Nice work, Chen," he said quietly. "You took a risk, but it paid off."

I nodded, acknowledging his praise but also pondering the fragility of such encounters. In policing, every moment demanded split-second decisions, each with profound consequences.

As we finished processing the guy, relief washed over me—it was finally lunchtime. Tim and I exited the station slowly, savoring the brief respite from the day's intensity. But as we walked, a sudden tight, uncomfortable sensation gripped my abdomen.

"Ow," I murmured, involuntarily clenching my belly.

"Lucy, are you okay? What's happening? Do we need to go to the hospital?" Tim's voice was laced with worry as he gently touched my shoulder.

"No, it's okay, it's just Braxton Hicks contractions. It's normal," I reassured him, relaxing my face after wincing from the pain.

"Oh, okay." His concern didn't wane as he reached to hold my hand. We headed to a nearby food truck, finding a quiet spot to sit down. It seemed like the right moment to address something that had been on my mind—Tim's protectiveness.

"Hey, listen. I appreciate you looking out for me, but I feel like you're being overly protective. I mean, I understand why, but I don't want you worrying so much," I started gently, looking directly at him.

Tim paused, his expression softening. "I just... I can't help it. After what happened with Isabel... I'm terrified of something happening to you or the baby," he confessed, his voice trembling slightly.

My heart sank at the mention of Isabel. I knew about their history, but hearing him speak of it so openly brought a wave of empathy. I reached out and took his hand.

"Tim, what happened with Isabel?" I began, what happened?

"It's just that when Isabel was pregnant, we were still on patrol together," he continued, looking down briefly. "And the worst happened..."

"Oh, Tim," I murmured, squeezing his hand gently.

"She survived, but the baby..." Tim's voice trailed off, and tears welled in his eyes. "We never got the chance to try again because she went undercover. You know the rest."

I listened in silence, feeling the weight of his words. "You blame yourself?" I said softly, pulling him into a hug.

"If only I could have protected her more..." he whispered, his voice heavy with regret.

I pulled back slightly, holding his gaze firmly. "Tim, it's not your fault. You can't blame yourself for what happened. You did everything you could."

We held each other quietly for a moment longer, the gravity of his past experiences settling between us. Understanding dawned on me—his protectiveness wasn't just about me; it stemmed from a deep-seated fear rooted in loss and trauma.

"No wonder you've been so protective," I said softly, my heart aching for him. "I don't blame you, Tim. It must have been incredibly traumatic for you, wondering if your wife and baby would make it."

Tim nodded silently, his expression a mix of sorrow and gratitude for my understanding.

"We'll get through this," I reassured him, squeezing his hand gently. "Together."

He managed a small nod, a hint of a smile breaking through the sadness. In that moment, our bond felt stronger than ever, fortified by shared vulnerability and mutual support.