A/N; AU one-shot set in the beginning of S4. I just wanted to speculate what it might be like if Marlo and Sam broke up right after Andy and Nick returned to 15. (Also, can you tell that I adore lowriseflare and threeguesses? They definitely influenced my writing.)

Sam visibly flinches when she comes into the kitchen. Considers making a mad dash for it. Only because he knows that she knows. Of course she does. Not only did she just spend the entirety of her shift on patrol with Cruz, but he knows how quickly information passes through 15's grapevine.

He's too late.

(Plus, she's a good runner.

First day on the job and all. Radio turned off.)

Andy's right up next to him now, he moves over so that her holster doesn't catch on his belt loops.

Suddenly, he's forgotten what he was doing. Was he making coffee for the fifth time that day? He couldn't remember why he had left his desk in the first place. Needed to stop staring at paperwork like they were blank pages screaming his name. SamSAMsam in bold red like he messed up. Made another incredibly stupid mistake.

He didn't really know what he felt. Guilt mostly.

If he had to pick one.

Because he didn't really feel all that bad. Certainly not heartbroken. Barely numb.

He should feel more. Shouldn't he?

Sam wipes at a spot of spilled creamer on the counter with a paper towel. Decides it would feel weird to walk away from her. She just got here.

So.

"Didn't take?" she asks.

"Didn't take," he says after a bit. Damp paper towel crumpled and discard in the waste basket. Sam looks at the stray hairs that have escaped from her tight ponytail. His fingertips itch and he stills them at his side.

"Oh."

And he appreciates that she doesn't look pleased or smug. Doesn't even have to pretend and put on a fake expression. He could tell.

If she was.

He looks down at the cup of coffee she just prepared, closes his fingers around it when she hands it to him. Hadn't even noticed that she was making it for him. Half a spoon of sugar, no creamer.

"I'm not going to say sorry or anything. But. You get that, right?" Her forehead is wrinkled, looking at him. Big doe eyes, Bambi all grown up.

He can't make his face do anything. The styrofoam cup is warm against his palm. Sam nods.

She nods back and their eyes do this thing. Their thing.

(A thing he totally wouldn't be noticing right now if Nash hadn't pointed it out last week. What had she called it...? "Eye-sex" or some other incredibly stupid term. Whatever. Something the rooks talked about, "epic fails" and "bromance." Like they were practically twelve sometimes. Middle school and locker gossip, too loud whispers and double-dog dares.

Anyway.)

It's how he knows he can talk to her. When he wants to. If he ever wants to. And that somehow makes everything just a little bit okay. It eases something in his chest, makes everything a little less tightly constricted.

Sam breathes.