A/N It's been a really, really long time. Be kind.
Leaving Brentwood, Sharon turned west on Montana Avenue without a thought. She needed the peaceful view of the ocean to settle her frayed nerves. The traffic flow was surprisingly light for a Monday evening; she was settled on her favorite bench in Palisades Park before long. The evening air was warm, and the pale plaid blazer was a memory on the front seat of her car. Her time with Stefanie had been heart-wrenching. Seeing her old friend beaten down and ashamed made Sharon's situation seem irreverent. And Stefanie's hesitation to give Sharon all of the specifics seems justifiable, given her level of guilt. If Stefanie is a cat-fishing victim, Sharon has to admit the predator must be good at his proposed crime. She also knows that access to Stefanie's correspondence and devices is necessary. Sharon had hoped she would open up even more once she offered to drive Stefanie home, but reminiscing about Grant and catching up on Sharon's upcoming wedding to Andy filled their time in the car.
Looking out over the water, Sharon let the betrayal gnaw at her like a dull ache in her chest. The weekend had been turbulent enough, but Gavin's actions had left a sting she hadn't anticipated. At this point in their friendship, she didn't expect to feel this kind of disappointment—not from him, not after everything.
But Gavin wouldn't see it as a betrayal. No, he'd call it protection.
Sharon rolled her eyes, exhaling sharply. Protection was the last thing she needed from the men in her life, yet lately, Andy and Gavin both acted as if she were some delicate flower in need of constant tending. It was infuriating.
A sharp gust of wind sent strands of auburn hair whipping across her face, and she absently tucked them behind one ear. The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting streaks of gold and violet across the sky, painting the water in shimmering hues.
"Captain?"
The voice came from her left, vaguely familiar, pulling her from her thoughts. She turned, her expression shifting from frustration to mild surprise, as she spotted a woman approaching from the running path.
"Mrs. Hickman?"
Dressed head to toe in sleek Lululemon, Sherry Hickman looked more like a South Coast housewife than a former LAPD detective from the Fraud Division.
"Please, call me Sherry," she corrected with an easy shrug. "And I should've said Commander—old habits."
"Sharon," she said, glancing back at the sun, now half-dipped below the horizon. "Here, I'm just Sharon."
Sherry hesitated for a beat before gesturing toward the empty space on the bench. "Mind if I sit?"
Sharon shifted slightly, giving her room. "Of course. What can I do for you?"
Sherry let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. "It's funny running into you here—it's like déjà vu."
Sharon arched a brow. "Because?"
"To be honest?" Sherry exhaled, staring out at the water. "I hated you for years."
Sharon stilled, her grip tightening around her forearm. Before she could react, Sherry continued, her voice almost conversational, as if recounting an old story rather than confessing long-held resentment.
"I blamed you for everything. Mark losing his job, his drinking, his cheating—you name it, I tied it back to you." She scoffed at herself. "And the irony? I never even knew you. Not really. I just knew of you—the version Mark fed me."
Sharon felt her jaw clench but remained silent, letting Sherry talk.
"For years, I listened to his bullshit, to their bullshit—Mark and his buddies—about how you ruined them, how you were the reason their lives fell apart." She shook her head, a bitter smile playing at her lips. "And would you believe it? They still bitch about you. Just last week, Mark was on the deck of his boat, having a beer, running his mouth about you on the phone."
Something in Sharon's chest tightened.
"Last week?" she asked carefully, her green eyes narrowing slightly.
"Yeah, over the weekend." Sherry shrugged. "Apparently, one of Mark's old cronies saw you and Andy somewhere, and let me tell you, that set their little hotline on fire."
The blood in Sharon's veins ran cold.
Last weekend.
Miami.
The only person who had seen them in Miami was—
Bishop.
His name slammed into her mind like a wrecking ball.
The noise around her—the lapping of the water, the distant chatter of passersby, the wind rustling through palm fronds—faded into a dull roar in her ears. Her pulse pounded against her ribcage.
Sharon pinched the bridge of her nose, willing her heartbeat to slow, but the implications were already spiraling.
"Sharon?"
The warmth of Sherry's hand on her thigh jolted her, and she flinched instinctively.
"I—" Sherry pulled her hand back. "I didn't mean to startle you."
Sharon shot to her feet. "I just remembered—I need to be somewhere." Her voice was clipped, controlled, but she didn't meet Sherry's gaze. "It was nice to see you again."
Before Sherry could reply, Sharon turned and strode away, her heels clicking against the pavement, the ocean breeze whipping around her as she fled toward her car.
Sherry watched her go, brow furrowing.
"Well," she muttered under her breath. "That was strange.
Sharon all but ran to the safety of her car, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The moment she yanked the door shut behind her, the noise of the world outside was muffled, but the pounding of her heart only grew louder.
A cold sweat trickled down her spine, soaking into the vibrant blue silk of her blouse. Her fingers trembled as she gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. Breathe. Just breathe.
Her phone rang, the sharp chime blaring over the car's speakers.
The unique ringtone told her who it was before she even glanced at the screen.
Andy.
Not now.
She squeezed her eyes shut, forehead pressing against the cool leather of the steering wheel as she willed the panic to subside. The call rang out, and the car fell silent—just for a second.
Then—
Her phone blared again.
Sharon flinched, her breath hitching. Andy again!
Tears burned hot down her cheeks, her damp blouse clinging to her back, sending an involuntary shiver through her body. He knows. He always knows. If she answered, he'd hear it in her voice, in the way she hesitated, in the way she couldn't quite catch her breath. And she couldn't—wouldn't—do this right now.
The call went to voicemail.
Her chest tightened. Her vision blurred. She could feel herself spiraling.
One.
She sucked in a breath, but it was too shallow.
Two.
The edges of her vision darkened.
Three.
Her pulse hammered against her ribs.
Four. Three. Two.
Her body fought her, but she forced the breath in deeper this time. The rhythm of counting tethered her, pulling her back from the edge of a full-blown panic attack.
Minutes passed before she dared open her eyes. The woman staring back at her from the rearview mirror looked shaken, her green eyes glassy, her normally pristine makeup a smudged mess.
Digging through her bag with unsteady hands, she found a tissue and carefully dabbed at her cheeks, blotting away the evidence of her unraveling.
She had to pull it together.
Another slow breath.
Then another.
Finally, her fingers wrapped around the gear shift, and she eased the car into drive, the road ahead nothing more than a blur of headlights and taillights as she forced herself to head home.
The Major Crimes office was nearly silent at this hour, the usual hum of voices and ringing phones replaced by the steady ticking of the wall clock. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a cool glow over Sharon's desk as she sifted through old case files, her fingers moving with mechanical precision.
She told herself she wasn't running.
She was working.
Working meant control. It meant focus. It meant not thinking about the way her hands had trembled on the steering wheel, about the way Bishop's name still echoed in her head.
Her laptop screen illuminated her face as she scrolled through an internal database, searching for any mention of Bishop. His dismissal from LAPD was well-documented, his reputation among his old colleagues nothing short of toxic. But he hadn't just faded into obscurity.
People like him never do.
Sharon's jaw clenched as she skimmed over recent fraud complaints—one from just two weeks ago, filed by a woman in Los Angeles. A woman who claimed she had been targeted in an online scam by someone posing as a former cop.
Her pulse kicked up.
She opened the report, her breath catching as she read through the details. The woman had been lured into an online relationship, swindled out of thousands of dollars, and threatened when she tried to pull away. The perpetrator had used multiple aliases, but one stood out—a name Bishop had used in the past as an undercover officer.
It wasn't just a coincidence.
Sharon's stomach twisted.
She barely registered the sound of the elevator doors opening down the hall.
"Sharon?"
Andy.
She closed her eyes briefly, steeling herself before looking up. He stood just inside the doorway, still in his suit from earlier, his tie loosened, concern etched into every line of his face.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice softer now that he was close enough to take in the tension in her shoulders, the exhaustion in her eyes.
"Working," she replied simply, fingers poised over her keyboard.
"Sharon." His tone was gentle but firm. "It's almost midnight."
She glanced at the clock on her screen. 11:47 PM. She hadn't realized.
"I needed to check something."
Andy sighed, stepping closer. "And you couldn't check it in the morning? Or, I don't know, call me back instead of letting it go to voicemail twice?"
Her fingers curled into fists. "Andy, please."
"Please what?" He leaned a hand on the desk, lowering his voice. "Talk to me, sweetheart."
His concern, his patience—it nearly broke her.
Sharon swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as she turned the laptop screen toward him. "This is why I'm here."
Andy scanned the fraud report, his expression darkening. "Son of a bitch."
Sharon crossed her arms tightly, as if bracing herself against the weight of it. "It's Bishop. Or at least, it's someone using his old alias. But if I had to bet—"
"It's him," Andy finished for her, his voice edged with anger. He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head. "Jesus. He's still at it."
She nodded, exhaling shakily. "And if he's still involved in these scams… this could connect to Stefanie."
Andy looked at her then, really looked at her, and Sharon could see the shift in his expression. The worry. The realization that this wasn't just about a case—this was about her.
"How long have you known?" he asked carefully.
"I didn't. Not until tonight." She hesitated, then admitted, "But I had a feeling. When Sherry Hickman mentioned Bishop's name, I—" Her voice faltered. "I knew I couldn't ignore it."
Andy straightened, his expression hardening. "Wait. Sherry Hickman?"
Sharon sighed, rubbing her forehead. "I ran into her earlier tonight. She was out jogging and we talked for a bit. She...she said Bishop's name came up over the weekend, Apparently, he's still in touch with some of his old buddies. She overheard Mark on the phone with someone, talking about me."
Andy's whole demeanor shifted- his jaw tightening, his arms crossing. "Hold on. Let me get this straight. You ran into Sherry Hickman, who, last I checked, wasn't exactly on our Christmas Card list, and she just happened to mention that Bishop and his pals are still sitting around bitching about you?"
Sharon's lips pressed together, she slipped her glasses off. "Yes."
"And this didn't seem a little too convenient to you?"
She exhaled sharply, "Andy, I was already on edge. I wasn't thinking about whether it was some grand setup. I... was just trying to hold it together."
Andy scrubbed a hand over his face, clearly trying to rein in his frustration. "Look, I don't like this, Sharon. Hickman showing up out of nowhere, Bishop's name getting tossed around again- it feels like someone's trying to get under your skin."
"Well, if that was the goal, they succeeded." She let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "Because here I am, digging through case files at midnight instead of sleeping."
Andy exhaled, stepping closer, "And yet, you still didn't tell me."
Sharon looked away.
Andy sighed, "Sharon..." His voice softened, losing the edge of frustration. "You cannot handle this alone."
"I know."
She hated admitting it, but she did. She knew.
Andy studied her for moment before nodding, the tension in his posture easing slightly. "Then let's figure this out. Together."
She met his gaze, a flicker of something like gratitude in her tired eyes. "Together."
By the time Sharon and Andy stepped inside their home, exhaustion weighed heavily on them both. The house was dim, quiet, an island of calm after the storm of the night. Sharon barely had the energy to kick off her heels before sighing, rubbing her hands over her face.
Andy tossed his keys onto the entryway table and turned to face her. His eyes, sharp with concern, never left her. "You need to rest."
"I need just a few minutes," she countered, moving toward the balcony door.
"Sharon."
Something in his voice made her pause, her fingers curling around the back of a chair. She didn't turn right away, but she could feel him behind her—close, radiating warmth.
Andy reached out, his hands settling lightly on her arms before gliding up to her shoulders, kneading gently. "I hate seeing you wound this tight." His breath ghosted against the curve of her neck. "Let me help."
A shiver ran down her spine, but she didn't pull away. She leaned back—just slightly, just enough.
Andy's hands slid down her arms, slow and deliberate, fingers trailing over her wrists before turning her gently to face him. Sharon let him. She let herself sink into his presence, into the steady strength of him.
"You always do," she admitted softly.
Andy's thumb brushed against her jaw as his eyes searched hers, darkened with something deeper than concern. "Come to bed."
A small, teasing smile curved her lips. "That's the second time you've said that."
"And I'll keep saying it until you listen." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "You need to let go, sweetheart."
Her breath hitched.
She should be too tired for this. For the way his touch sent heat curling through her, for the way her pulse skipped when he leaned in, brushing his lips just barely over hers.
But exhaustion made her defenses weaker, her need for him stronger.
Sharon's hands slid up his chest, fingers tangling in his striped purple tie as she pulled him in, closing the sliver of space between them. Their lips met in a slow, unhurried kiss—a promise, a grounding, a reminder that she wasn't in this alone.
Andy hummed against her mouth, deepening the kiss, his hands framing her face like she was something delicate and precious. He tilted his head, coaxing a soft sigh from her lips, and the sound sent a rush of heat straight through him.
"Andy," she murmured against his lips, her voice softer now, but still teasing, "I thought you wanted me to sleep."
"I do," he whispered, pressing another slow, lingering kiss to her lips before pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. His fingers traced the curve of her cheek, his eyes dark with something she knew could keep them up all night. "But I never said I wouldn't make it hard for you."
A soft, breathless giggle escaped her, and God, he loved that sound.
Sharon shook her head fondly, her hands still resting against his chest. "You're impossible."
"I'm yours," he murmured, kissing her again—slower this time, deeper, like he had all the time in the world to prove it.
And maybe, just maybe, they weren't quite as exhausted as they thought.