The first time Jay crashes at Erin's place, it's because they decide to get together for pizza and beer and a movie one night, because that's what partners, friends, do when they're not on the job. When the delivery guy knocks on her door, they both hop up from the couch and Erin puts her hands on Jay's shoulders, insists on paying because it's her place, don't worry about it, she'll be right back. He doesn't protest, just wonders if he's imagining her eyes glistening like that and her touch as soft as it is, and he hopes she can't sense that his heart is trying to pound its way out of his chest.

They get distracted in the middle of choosing a movie, and end up talking their way through the entire pizza and a six pack. She asks him why he choked the other day while they were working a case, says she gets it, says she understands that past demons can fuck you up over and over, no matter how much you think you've got them under control. When he talks for who knows how long about his time overseas on active duty, about the trauma and the horrible memories and losses, she listens and nods and takes his hand when he lets go. You've been there for me before.

Jay wakes up the next morning to Erin still asleep on the opposite side of her couch, their bodies like bookends to new, invisible layers of connection. He gathers up the scattered, abandoned bottles from her coffee table, takes them and the empty pizza box to the kitchen and hopes as he does that she's a heavy sleeper. He finds a blanket, drapes it lazily over her and leaves quietly, locking up using a spare key that she gave him for work emergencies. She has one from him too.

He leans against her door, closes his eyes and takes a couple of measured breaths before walking away. Partners, friends. This is what they do.