The late morning sun filtered through the grimy windows of Robbery-Homicide, casting jagged lines across rows of aging desks and cracked vinyl chairs. The air was thick with the smell of burned coffee and sweat. Andy leaned against his desk—his desk again, whether he liked it or not—shuffling through the old cold case file they'd tossed his way. His fingers moved without focus. His eyes tracked Russo.

Drake Russo was holding court two rows over, laughing with Smith and a few others. His voice carries just enough to fill the room without seeming deliberate, just like it always had. Confident. Arrogant. Calculated.

Russo leans forward, plastic fork in hand, tapping it against the edge of his container. "So, Flynn… tell us. What was it like waking up next to the Ice Queen every day?"

Andy's jaw tightens for a second. He masks it with a smirk. "You mean Sharon?"

Brian jumps in with a chuckle. "I still can't believe you two were engaged. You used to be one of us."

"Yeah, and then he turned into Mr. Sensitivity," Russo adds. "Defending her every time someone called her out for being the arrogant, ladder-climbing witch she always was."

Andy forces a laugh — dry and bitter. "Yeah, well… people change. She sure as hell did. Got more power, got more cold. Started treating everyone like suspects, including me." The old cronies laugh harder. Andy smiles faintly, but his fingers are clenched tight around his drink.

Smith leans in. "Seriously, what was the worst part?"

Andy shrugs. "It wasn't one thing. It was everything. The lectures. The superiority. The way she'd look at me like I was this… goddamn project. Like she fixed me. Truth is, she just needed someone obedient in her corner while she ran the show."

Russo raises an eyebrow. "She ever pull that IA crap on you? Microanalyze every move? We used to joke she had a bug up her ass and a badge in her bra."

That gets another round of laughs. Andy swallows the bile crawling up his throat. "She didn't need the badge," he says quietly. "She had control. Over everything. Over me. Over the damn squad. I was just too far in to see it."

Russo slaps the desk, grinning. "Now that's the Andy Flynn I remember. Jesus, took you long enough to wake the hell up."

Brian nods. "You dodged a bullet. I mean, can you imagine what it would've been like married to that?"

Andy chuckles, the sound hollow. "I don't have to imagine."

The laughter erupts again, but it's distant in his ears. He's going through the motions, feeding the beast. But inside, he feels like he's tearing pieces off himself just to keep the act alive.

Russo leans back in his chair, grinning at Andy like a wolf who's found a new packmate. "You ever need a reminder of how far you've come, just come back here. We'll keep you honest."

Andy nods, lifts his soda cup like a toast. "Appreciate it."

But as he brings it to his lips, his eyes flicker downward — flashes of his ring safe on the gold chain around her beautiful, elegant neck. He smiles again. Trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. Every inch of him wanted to get out, to walk back to Sharon and forget this whole damn thing.

Andy gave a tight smile, his thoughts running rampant. They missed the version of me who didn't care who he stepped on. Who drank too much and trusted no one. They missed the version I fought like hell to kill. But he stayed in his seat. Took another sip of soda. Kept playing the role.

Later, in the hallway near the vending machines, Russo sidled up beside him. "So, tell me something… You really out? Like out-out?"

Andy didn't blink. "You see a ring on my finger?"

Russo grinned. "I've got something you might be interested in. Not here. Tonight. Bar in Van Nuys. Not exactly Raydor-approved territory."

Andy's blood went cold, but he kept his expression casual. "Sounds like my kind of night."

When he returned to the condo that evening, the silence hit him like a wave. The couch still held the shape of Sharon's body from the night before. Her tea mug was still in the sink. Her book was still open on the coffee table. She was gone, but her absence clung to the air like a bruise.

Andy dropped his keys and sank into the nearest chair. His shoulders slumped forward. His head dropped into his had never hated himself more than he did right now.

Back at Stefanie's house, Sharon stood in front of the guest bathroom mirror, brushing her hair. She had avoided the larger one in the guest suite—too many shadows in that reflection.

As she leaned closer, she thought for a second she heard her own voice. But it wasn't her. It was a memory. Andy's voice in her mind, steady and sure, You're not alone in this. We do this blinked, pushing the thought away. She had to stay focused. Stay ready.

Because Andy was out there, pretending to hate her—and every time he said her name like it meant nothing, it would break something inside him. And she needed to be strong enough to carry the pieces until he could come home again.

The bar was loud, smoky despite the signs, and full of the kind of men Andy had spent the last decade trying not to be. The lights were low, the music too loud for conversation, and the whiskey behind the bar looked like it hadn't moved in years. Andy walked in alone.

Russo was already there, leaned back in a corner booth like he owned the place, beer in hand, a self-satisfied smirk stretching across his face. Two other guys from RHD sat with him — Smith and another detective Andy didn't recognize. New blood, but the same old game.

"Flynn!" Russo called over the music, lifting his bottle. "Didn't think you had the balls to show."

Andy forced a grin and slid into the booth. "You forget who taught you how to play dirty, Russo."

"Touché," Russo said, tipping his bottle.

The drinks flowed quickly — for them. Andy nursed a soda, making sure it looked like something stronger. His fingers curled around the glass like it was a lifeline. Every drop tasted like talked cases. War stories. Politics. Andy let them talk. Let them think he agreed. Smirked in all the right places.

Then, finally, Russo leaned in, lowering his voice. "You ever think the department's worse off now? I mean… all the red tape, the IA babysitting, the moral grandstanding."

Andy's eyes didn't flicker. "Every damn day."

Russo's smirk deepened. "You and Raydor used to be on opposite ends of all that. I never understood how you got past it."

Andy shrugged. "She liked to believe in things. I liked to believe in her." His voice darkened just enough. "Turns out, believing in either gets you nothing but fucked over the end."

Russo leaned back, watching him. Testing. Measuring. "You're wasted on cold cases, Flynn. I got something brewing. Something better. Might be room for a guy who knows when to keep his mouth shut."

Andy played dumb, casual. "Something like what?"

Russo smiled thinly. "You'll know if I think you're worth it." Andy nodded, let the silence stretch. Let the lie settle in the air between them. You don't have to lie, Sharon, he thought, because I'm doing it for both of us.

The squad room is dark except for the gentle glow of the city lights filtering in through the back windows. The bullpen is empty, quiet, save for the occasional creak of the air vents and the rhythmic tick of the old wall clock. Sharon sits at her desk, back straight, glasses perched on her nose as she stares at the glowing screen of her laptop. But she's not really reading the file open in front of her. Her eyes flick again to her phone, sitting silent on the edge of her desk. No new messages. No missed calls.

She tries not to look at it again. Fails.

The silence feels louder now.

She shifts in her chair, rubs the back of her neck with one hand, her other still lingering near the phone. Andy always checked in by now. Even when undercover. Even when things were tight. A simple, encrypted phrase. A timestamp. Something.

But tonight, there's nothing.

Her jaw tightens. She tells herself not to spiral. He's fine. He has to be fine.

Still, she opens the secure app again. Checks the last message.

DELIVERED. 2:08 PM.

Read? No.

She exhales. Long. Controlled. Then closes the laptop with a soft click and leans forward, elbows on her desk, cradling her head in her hands. The weight of it all presses in — the façade, the silence, the fear that something has gone wrong and she won't know until it's too late.

A soft knock sounds on the glass of her office door. Sharon quickly straightens, wipes at the corner of her eye, and turns. Buzz peeks in, his voice gentle. "You need anything before I head out?"

She forces a smile, one that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "No, Buzz. Thank you."

He lingers a second, then nods and disappears into the quiet. The building settles into stillness again.

Sharon exhales. Looks down at her phone once more. Still nothing.

Her fingers wrap around it anyway. She doesn't send a message. She just holds it. Close. And waits.

The ache in her right hand throbs softly — a dull reminder of broken glass and everything she hasn't said out loud. It pulses in time with the ache in her chest, the one that won't go away.

She's at a standstill — caught between the silence on her screen and the storm in her heart. She doesn't know what to do next. So she waits. And tells herself she still has time.

The air in Robbery-Homicide smelled the same as it had every other day this week. Andy had forgotten how much louder it was here — the banter, the ego, the walls that echoed every smartass comment like gospel. He kept his head down, flipping through old case files, letting the sharp scent of dust and paper cling to his fingertips. It was all part of the cover: work, blend, pretend he belonged here again. Pretend he wanted to be here.

"Flynn."

Andy looked up to see Russo leaning against the edge of his desk, arms folded, a lazy grin playing on his face. "Sam North says you closed out that cold case in two days. That true?"

Andy shrugged, "Maybe your standards are just that low."

Russo barked a laugh, clapping a hand against Andy's shoulder — just hard enough to test. "Still a cocky son of a bitch."

"Only when I'm right," Andy said evenly.

Russo leaned in a little, voice lowering. "Look. I was skeptical when Mason dropped you back in our laps. Thought maybe you were too cozy up there in your tower with the Queen Witch."

Andy's stomach twisted. But he didn't flinch.

"But then I started thinking — maybe you finally got tired of babysitting that squad of misfit Girl Scouts. Or maybe," Russo tilted his head, "you got tired of being her trained monkey."

Andy smiled — slow, calculated. "You think Sharon Raydor ever trained me? You don't know the first thing about what went on between us."

"Oh, come on," Russo said. "The whole department knows how she kept you on a leash. 'Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am.' Following her around like a puppy looking for scraps."

Andy let out a low chuckle, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, well. Dogs have good instincts. They know when something smells off."

Russo's grin faltered — just slightly. Andy pressed.

"I stuck around Major Crimes because it kept me out of bullshit like this," he gestured broadly to the squad room. "Politics. Cronies. Covering each other's asses for garbage cases and dirtbag favors."

"Easy," Russo said, lifting both hands. "Nobody's asking you to do anything dirty."

"Not yet," Andy said, eyes steady. "But you will."

Russo's expression shifted again — less amusement now, more intrigue. "You looking for something, Flynn?"

Andy stood, grabbing the file from his desk. "I'm looking for real work. Cases that matter. I'm not here to stroke Raydor's ego anymore. That ship sailed."

Russo studied him — long enough that Andy felt the skin between his shoulder blades start to tighten.

Then, Russo nodded, slowly. "Alright. Maybe you're not full of shit after all." He slapped Andy's desk twice before walking away, voice floating behind him, "We've got drinks Friday. Real cops, no politics. You in?"

Andy didn't hesitate. "Wouldn't miss it."

But as Russo disappeared down the hallway, Andy's jaw clenched — hard. His fingers curled into a fist at his side, nails biting his palm. He sat back down slowly, chest tight. Sharon's voice echoed in his memory, from a quieter time. "Don't let that place bring back the worst parts of you."

He didn't want to. But if he had to wade through every bitter word, every insult tossed at her, every piece of his past self he'd worked so hard to leave behind…He'd do it. For her.

The blinds in her office were half-closed, casting long slats of shadow across Sharon's desk. The glow of her desk lamp painted everything in amber and regret. Her hand throbbed — not just from the lingering ache of the cut, but from the sharp pulse of tension that had taken up permanent residence in her chest. She shifted in her chair, flexing her fingers carefully. The bandage was tight. She hadn't changed it yet today.

Tomorrow, she thought, even though she knew that was a lie.

Outside the glass, the bullpen was humming along — Provenza muttering at a crossword, Julio on the phone, Buzz organizing footage. Everything appeared normal.

Except her.

She sat motionless in front of her computer, a case file open on the screen, though she hadn't read a word in nearly fifteen minutes. No message from Andy. No call. No check-in. Nothing.

She stared at the blinking cursor in the notes field, trying to will herself to type something — anything — just to push back the rising tide of unease.

But her focus fractured again, splintering into worst-case scenarios.

He's too deep in already. They're testing him. What if they're watching him the way Bishop watched me? What if…

She exhaled shakily and reached for the mug beside her — lukewarm tea, untouched. She cradled it for a moment, letting the heat soothe the pulse in her fingers. It helped, a little. Not enough.

Her hand throbbed again, sharper now. A reminder. Punishing her every time she moved.

With her uninjured hand, she clicked open a secure message thread — the one with Mike Tao. His last update sat unread, blinking at her like a warning light: Still tracing the Dalton alias. Data trail is dirty. Whoever scrubbed it knew what they were doing. Will send more when I can.

Bishop's name wasn't in the message. It didn't need to be.

A new wave of helplessness washed over her. Not because she didn't know how to fight — but because she didn't know where the next blow would come from. Or who would be left standing when it landed. She reached for her phone again, almost called Andy. Almost. But she stopped herself. Again.

He needed her to stay quiet. Stay strong. She was his cover, whether he could see her or not. Still, the silence was starting to claw at her like a slow bleed.

A soft knock on the office door jolted her.

She blinked and looked up to find Amy standing there, a file in hand and a concerned look in her eyes. "Ma'am? You okay?"

Sharon summoned a faint smile. "Yes. Thank you. Just… going over surveillance."

Amy hesitated. "Anything new from Stefanie's end?"

"Nothing I didn't expect." Sharon reached for the file, nodded once, and said, "If anything changes, I'll let you know." Amy left, but Sharon's mask didn't drop right away.

Not until the door was fully shut. Then — just for a second — she slumped forward, her head in her hands, elbows braced on the desk. Her hand throbbed again. Her heart throbbed more. And the silence stretched on and on.