I will fix this.
The words repeated in his mind like a vow. A decision. Not just a promise.
No more avoiding it. No more pretending. No more running.
He was going to end his marriage. That was the first step. The one thing he knew he had to do.
But as Jay walked away from Erin's apartment, every step felt heavier than the last. Like the weight of her sadness was anchoring him to the ground, pulling at something deep inside him, begging him not to go.
He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions threatening to tear him apart.
He could see it all again as he walked away.
Her eyes haunted him. The way they had brimmed with tears she was trying so hard to hold back.
The way she had looked at him like she was trying to memorize every detail before he disappeared again.
Her pain was his fault.
It had always been.
He had forced himself into autopilot, every step dragging him in the opposite direction of where his heart screamed for him to go.
Don't turn back. Just keep walking.
But every step away from that door felt heavier.
He didn't look back—he couldn't. Because if he did, he wasn't sure he'd have the strength to leave.
Saying goodbye to Hailey had been hard. Watching her cry, seeing the pain on her face—it had made him feel like the worst person in the world.
But Erin?
Watching Erin cry tonight had been something else entirely.
Agony.
Not just in his heart. In his chest, his ribs, his lungs. His entire body.
Like something inside him was breaking, piece by piece, and he couldn't do a damn thing to stop it.
The goddamn corridor felt so long.
He thought about the fucking phone vibrating right after their kiss. Why the hell had he picked it up from his pocket?
He had felt it—before he even looked at the screen. The shift in Erin.
The way her gaze dropped. The way her shoulders sagged. The way she clenched her jaw just to keep from breaking.
It was like a punch to the gut.
She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.
He had seen it in the way her hands fidgeted, the way her breathing hitched—bracing herself.
She was hurting.
And she didn't want to make it harder for him.
But he knew. He always knew.
And that was why he had to fix this. It wasn't fair—to either of them.
He stopped in the empty hallway, leaning heavily against the wall, eyes squeezing shut.
Waiting.
For the elevator.
For the guilt to catch up to him.
For the part of him that had been screaming "stay", to just shut the fuck up. He couldn't. God, he would've if he could.
His fists clenched at his sides. He had spent the entire day with her holding himself back, swallowing the pull toward her like it was something he could control.
But it wasn't.
And he knew—he knew—that even though she had been the one backing off all day, if he had pushed?
If he had leaned in just a little closer?
If he had let his hands wander just a little further?
If he had let himself want her out loud instead of just silently suffering through it?
She would have given in. In a heartbeat.
And that thought? That thought destroyed him.
Because as much as he wanted it, as much as he wanted her, he couldn't push.
It wouldn't be fair.
Not to her.
Not when he had already taken so much.
Not when he was just going to leave her all over again.
But still, every moment they had shared…
The smiles. The way they had slipped so effortlessly back into place, like no time had passed at all.
The laughter. The kind that made his chest ache because he hadn't realized how much he missed it until now.
The quiet conversations. The way she still understood him better than anyone else ever had.
The warmth of her touch. The way he could still feel it—and how he knew he had no right to want it.
Every second had been a temptation he could barely resist.
And then—
Then, she had finally broken.
She had thrown herself into his arms, and for just a moment, just one second, it had felt like everything had been erased.
The years. The pain. The choices.
But they hadn't.
Nothing had been erased.
And now, as he stood there—his body still aching for her, his heart screaming at him to turn back—he realized the cruelest part of all:
He hadn't held himself back just for her.
He had held himself back because he was afraid.
Because if he had given in… He wouldn't have been able to leave.
But now? He wasn't sure if he had done the right thing at all.
Where the hell is the elevator?
His hand clenched into a fist as he thought about his mistakes.
He had left her before to spare her from the chaos of his life, convinced it was the right thing to do. But had it ever been about protecting her? Or had it always been about him—about running from the possibility that he was never enough for her in the first place?
He saw it clearly—he had only caused her more pain. And now he was doing it all over again. More pain.
The kiss. God, the kiss. He kept replaying it—over and over—the way she had kissed him so urgently, as if she couldn't stand another second apart. The way he had kissed her back, pouring every unspoken word, every buried feeling, into that moment.
They had been breathless, neither wanting to let go, terrified of the moment it would end.
It would've been so easy. A few more seconds, a little less control, and he would've pulled her back inside, would've let the years of distance dissolve into nothing. Would've crossed that final line they were both dying to cross.
But he couldn't. Not just because he had to leave. Not just because he was already late. And not even because of Hailey. But because Erin deserved better. So much better.
His mind was spiraling and the elevator was mocking him. Torturing him. Where the hell was it?
He thought again about the phone call—Hailey's name lighting up the screen like a cruel reminder of everything he hadn't fixed yet, everything standing between him and the only thing he truly wanted.
Fuck.
He wanted to throw the phone against the goddamn wall.
Damn it, Hailey! Why now? He knew he couldn't blame her—but for God's sake, did it have to be that exact moment? Really?
It was easier, wasn't it? To blame Hailey… the universe… or anything else. But he knew. He was the only one at fault there.
He should have walked away. Should have let the moment end right there, before it broke them both even more.
But then he saw it—the way she was barely holding herself together, the way her tears slipped silently down her face.
And fuck—he couldn't. Not like that.
He couldn't let their last moment together end with sadness.
So he had cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears, and kissed her again. This time, it wasn't urgent or desperate. It was tender, deliberate. A kiss that said everything he couldn't bring himself to say aloud.
I love you. I love you, Erin.
I never stopped. I never will.
You. Only you. Always you.
The words had been there, unspoken but palpable, in the way his lips moved against hers.
He didn't say them—he didn't think it was fair, didn't think he had the right to ask for her to wait.
But he hoped—he prayed—that she understood. That somehow, she could see it in his eyes when he finally pulled back.
His heart clenched as he remembered the way she looked at him, her own silent plea for him to stay.
It was there, in her eyes. That silent, desperate plea. Stay.
And God, he wanted to.
But he couldn't. Not yet.
He had to go.
But fuck—why did it feel like he was leaving his entire soul behind?
He had made her a promise—to fix this. For her. For them. For the future he hadn't been brave enough to fight for before. And no matter how impossible it seemed, he knew one thing for sure: he couldn't let her down again.
His back hit the wall. His eyes shut tight. He needed to walk away. Now. Otherwise he wouldn't be able to. He pressed the button again and again. As if pressing it multiple times could make the elevator arrive faster.
His breathing was shallow, his pulse pounding loudly in his ears. His fingers twitched at his sides, his weight shifting forward—one step. Just one. Just go back, man.
If this elevator doesn't arrive in ten seconds, I'm going back. I don't care. I'll knock on her door, I'll tell her I was wrong, I'll—
Ding.
His breath hitched.
Fuck!
The elevator was here.
This is it.
The doors slid open.
He hesitated but stepped inside.
Yet all he wanted to do was turn around.
The doors slid shut, trapping him inside.
For 27 floors, his mind clawed at itself, tearing into every mistake, every regret, every wrong turn that had led him here.
His throat tightened. His pulse hammered in his ears. He forced his gaze anywhere but at the mirror in front of him. He refused to look himself in the eye.
He already knew what he'd see.
A coward.
A single tear slipped down his cheek. Then another. And another. He didn't wipe them away. He just stood there, fists clenched, breath shallow, feeling them fall.
He didn't need the mirror to tell him—he was a goddamn failure.
His hands twitched at his sides. He needed to do something, needed to move, needed to stop himself from thinking. His fingers curled into fists. Uncurled. Pressed against his thighs.
He hated himself for leaving her. For walking away again. For watching her break and choosing to do nothing.
He let his head fall forward, pressing his forehead to the cool metal wall, trying to ground himself.
Desertion. Dishonorable discharge. Jail.
Would it be really that bad? Would it be worse than leaving her?
But that would just be running again, wouldn't it?
Fuck. No escape.
He swallowed hard, bringing his hand to his chest—to where his tag used to be. But it wasn't there anymore.
It was where it belonged.
With her.
With the only person who had ever felt like home.
He closed his eyes, his fingers curling into his shirt, gripping at nothing.
The last time he'd been in this elevator… Just hours ago. Going up. With her. The tension had been thick, a live wire between them. The silence had been charged, electric, suffocating.
He had been afraid. Afraid of the pull toward her. Afraid of what might happen if he gave in.
And now?
Now, he'd give anything to be going back up to her.
Not leaving.
Not running.
Not breaking her all over again.
His resolve—the one he had clung to so desperately—was unraveling fast.
Had he done the right thing? Was this really what would fix everything? The doubts clawed at him, pulling him under.
What if he had just stayed?
What if he had just walked back in, kissed her, and never left?
Wouldn't that have been the right thing? Wouldn't that have been better than this?
His chest tightened. He had no choice. He had made his decision. He had to see it through. No second-guessing. No hesitation.
He had signed that fucking paper. There was no backing out now.
He had to fix this. Had to fight to come back to her.
The ding of the elevator made him flinch. Like a gunshot through his ribs.
His legs felt like lead as he stepped forward.
One step out. One step away from her.
Autopilot. Survival mode. Do not think. Just move.
By the time he stepped out onto the street, the crisp night air slammed into him.
Good. He needed it. Needed something to keep him grounded. Needed something to keep him moving.
One foot in front of the other.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Don't stop.
His fingers twitched at his side before they moved on instinct—reaching for the ring on his finger, twisting it, like he could somehow wring the guilt out of it.
But it wasn't the ring.
It wasn't Hailey.
It wasn't Erin.
It was him.
He was the one who had made these choices.
He was the one who had hurt Erin, again and again and again.
And Hailey.
God. Hailey.
It wasn't like he didn't care. He did. He cared that he had hurt her too. He cared that he was leaving destruction in every direction, no matter where he turned.
And it only added to the weight pressing down on his chest.
But don't think about it.
Don't stop.
He flagged down a taxi, barely registering the movement, the blur of city lights passing by. Barely registering anything.
The cab ride was silent except for the pounding of his own heartbeat.
Too loud. So fucking loud.
Then—the hotel.
One moment, he was outside.
The next? Inside.
Barely remembered how he'd gotten there.
Four walls. A bed. His bag in the corner. Everything exactly the same as when he had left.
But he was different.
Something inside him had been cracked wide open.
When he left this hotel room the day before, he had no idea. No fucking idea of how much everything would change. But he couldn't stop. Couldn't think about it. Couldn't think at all.
His movements were frantic. He yanked off the shirt he had been wearing—her shirt.
His breath hitched.
Fuck.
He stared at it for a second—just a second—before his fingers clenched around the fabric.
It still smelled like her. So good. Sweet vanilla.
Like home.
His grip tightened.
He pressed it to his face. Taking one long, deep breath. Just one second.
Oh, babe.
Then he shoved it into his bag.
He threw the rest of his things into the bag, his breathing uneven, his hands moving too fast, too hard, too rushed.
Just tossing everything inside.
No time to be organized. No time to be a neat freak.
No time to think.
Because if he let himself think?
He'd break.
There wasn't time to stop.
There wasn't time to breathe.
There wasn't time to let the agony settle in his bones.
So he didn't.
He kept moving.
Kept packing.
Kept running.
Because if he stopped now?
He wasn't sure he'd be able to leave.
By the time he reached the airport, he was sprinting through the terminal, lungs burning, mind racing. He hated being late—like he was losing control.
But as he rushed to make his flight, his thoughts weren't on the plane. They were on her.
Another minute. Another hug. Another kiss. Just a few more seconds. He would have given anything.
But it was too late. Too fucking late.
The next time he took a breath, he was already in the plane.
As the plane roared down the runway, his stomach clenched. This was it. No turning back. He dug his fingers into the armrest, fighting the instinct to jump up, to run, to stop this from happening.
His head rested against the cold window, eyes locked on the city lights—shrinking, fading, disappearing.
Each flickering light felt like a piece of her, slipping further and further away.
His chest tightened, the weight of the distance between them growing with every mile.
He pressed his forehead against the window, willing himself to hold it together.
Even as every part of him screamed to turn back.
He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
His heart was still hammering, his body still bracing for a chase that wasn't happening.
Slow down.
His fingers dug into his thighs, grounding himself.
There's nowhere left to run.
He exhaled slowly, his breath fogging the window.
"Okay…" he whispered, barely loud enough to hear over the hum of the plane.
"This is not going to be forever."
He clenched his fists, gripping onto the words like a lifeline. He needed to believe it.
He needed this.
He needed the space.
He needed time to clear his head, to find a way back to the man he used to be—or at least, to become someone she deserved.
"I'll come back," he vowed silently, swallowing the lump in his throat.
The plane was empty. A small mercy.
He was glad no one was by his side. He didn't have to fake it. He didn't have to pretend he was okay.
Not that he would even care at this point.
He leaned back, sinking into the seat. His muscles ached, exhaustion finally catching up.
His mind tried to wander—tried to slip back into the past, into her arms—but he forced it forward.
He imagined it.
A new job. A new city. NYPD. FBI. Maybe, just maybe, they could even work together again.
Partners.
Just like before.
The thought made his lips twitch, a faint, aching smile forming.
The two of them, side by side, facing whatever came their way, like they always had.
Her quick wit.
Her determination.
That unspoken trust between them—one that had never really broken, no matter how much time had passed.
God, he missed her. More than anything. More than he could say.
His mind drifted back—way back. Before all of this. Back when they were just partners.
They had been working late. Too late. Late enough to find themselves alone in the bullpen. He had looked around, searching for her. His eyes were always searching for her.
She was in Hank's office. On the couch. He frowned, stepping inside quietly. "You okay?"
A pause. Then—her voice, too quiet. "Yeah. Just needed a minute."
He understood. Cases with kids were the worst. They always got under your skin, latched onto your chest, made it hard to breathe. So he sat beside her. Didn't say anything. Just… sat.
A few minutes later, she shifted. Then, without a second thought, she laid her head on his shoulder and soon she fell asleep.
He had been caught off guard. He'd gone completely still—afraid to move, afraid to even breathe too deeply.
He had never been this close to her before. Not like this. He could feel the warmth of her breath, the steady rhythm of her breathing.
It had been their first truly intimate moment—quiet, simple, unforgettable. And in Hank's office, of all places. He smiled faintly at the thought.
When she finally stirred, blinking herself awake, he couldn't help himself.
"I wonder what your dad would say if he knew you just slept with me. On his couch."
She scoffed, sitting up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "You wish, Halstead. You wish."
She had slapped his shoulder, but from then on?
Her head had always found his shoulder. Late nights in the bullpen. Quiet moments between cases. Those rare seconds where the world felt too heavy, and he was the only place she could rest.
Just like last night. Just like she had done a few hours ago.
Now, all he had was an empty seat beside him—a quiet, aching reminder she wasn't there.
His mind wandered again. Another late night. Back in the bullpen.
But this time? They weren't just partners anymore. They'd been dating a few weeks—secretly, stealing moments when no one was looking.
And somehow, they had found themselves alone in the bullpen again.
She'd leaned against his desk, arms crossed, giving him that look.
"Remember how you used to fantasize about me in Hank's office?" she teased, raising an eyebrow.
He had considered it for a second—just a second.
He scoffed, shaking his head. "Are you trying to get me killed?"
She had just laughed, shaking her head, pushing off the desk.
He never knew if she'd actually meant it—if she would've really gone through with it.
But he never looked at that couch the same way again.
Jay shifted in his seat, leaning back against the headrest.
His body felt so damn heavy.
Like he'd been carrying five years of mistakes on his back—and only now was the weight settling in.
Three hours. That was all the sleep he'd gotten. Three hours on her couch.
Three hours since he had woken up with hope. With the thought that maybe—just maybe—he would see her one last time before he left.
It felt like both a lifetime ago… and just a fleeting moment.
Jay let his head fall back against the seat, his eyes slipping shut as the memories washed over him.
Two of those hours were spent with his head in her lap, her fingers running through his hair, her touch so gentle, so familiar, so grounding that it had quieted everything.
The noise in his head.
The war in his chest.
The weight of everything he wasn't ready to face.
For two hours, there had been nothing but her.
Her touch. Her warmth. The steady rhythm of her breath.
And for the first time in years, he had felt—peace.
She had let him rest. Let him breathe.
And then, while he had slept for another hour, she had cooked for him.
Cooked for him—and the realization still knocked the air from his lungs.
He had never expected that. Never even imagined it.
The Erin he had known—his Erin—used to burn water.
And yet, she had stood in that kitchen, carefully making something just for him. Not because she had to. Not because he had asked.
But because she had wanted to.
And it wasn't just anything—it was his favorite dish. She still remembered.
Because she still knew him—knew how much it would mean, knew exactly what would bring him comfort.
He had barely been able to speak when he tasted it.
Not just because it had been the best meal he'd ever had, but because it had come from her.
She had poured herself into every detail. Every bite.
And he hadn't deserved a second of it.
He had replayed that moment over and over in his mind, wishing he'd been awake to see her in the kitchen. To watch her cook.
To see how she moved, how she focused, how she had taken something so simple and made it feel like the most intimate act of love.
His fingers curled around the armrest, his chest aching all over again.
What else had changed about her?
What little habits had she picked up?
What had time taken from her?
And what had stayed the same?
He wanted to know everything.
Every detail.
He wanted to be part of her life again.
His eyes burned, and he exhaled shakily, his head turning toward the window, watching the city lights shrink into nothing.
The hum of the plane engines filled his ears—a low, steady noise.
It felt like white noise. Like static. Like the sound of something slipping away.
His hand drifted to his chest.
Right where her hand had rested while she had let herself sleep in his arms.
Right over his heart.
Now? Nothing.
His throat tightened, and he let out a slow, broken whisper.
"Goodnight, my angel."
And then, finally—finally—the exhaustion dragged him under.
He clung to the faint scent of her still lingering on his skin, his body curling slightly toward it.
As if that alone could keep her close.
As if that alone could make up for leaving her behind.
For a few hours, the steady drone of the plane lulled him into a restless, haunted sleep.
And the last thought before darkness took him was the same promise he had made at her door.
A vow.
A decision.
"I'll fix this. I'll come back."
A/N:
Thank you so much to the Linstead hearts still out there. Your messages mean more than you know. This chapter was a hard one—and I know you've been waiting for Jay's POV. So I'd love to hear your thoughts.
I mean… holy crap, poor Jay! He really signed that paper thinking he was doing the right thing, huh? But is it just mistake after mistake?
We'll stick with him a little longer. And hopefully, Cass will start to warm up to him.