Erin blinked awake. Everything was blurry. The dim light filtering through the curtains was soft. Golden. But it felt wrong. Muted.
Her limbs felt heavy. Her head, thick. Her heart, hollow.
She turned slowly. The nightstand was empty. Her stomach twisted as her fingers fumbled for her Alexa, yanking it up by the cord. The numbers glowed:
11:47 AM.
Her pulse spiked.
Holy shit! Work!
She shoved the blankets off, tangled her legs in them, and lunged for her phone. How the hell did I sleep this long?
Then she saw it—the message she'd sent the night before. Calling in sick.
Right.
Her muscles sagged, her body sinking back into the pillows as the relief washed over her. But it didn't take the confusion away.
She stared at the ceiling. And then, it came back.
Jay.
The ache hit her fast. The weight in her chest. The way missing him felt like drowning.
The night before was a blur—grief and exhaustion twisting everything out of shape.
And then she sensed it—his scent. Faint but familiar.
Her throat tightened.
She turned as if in slow motion. His shirt was still on the pillow beside her.
Her fingers brushed over the fabric before she snuggled closer, clutching it to her chest. She buried her face in it, breathing in deep.
The scent was already fading. Slipping away like everything else.
No, please. Not yet.
She closed her eyes for a second—just long enough to pretend.
That his warmth was real.
That he hadn't left.
That she wasn't alone.
The illusion didn't hold for long, as the reality came crashing back in.
She reached for her phone, swiping at the screen with shaky fingers.
Nothing.
No messages. No missed calls.
The one she sent—still unopened.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
She exhaled sharply with her jaw clenching.
Damn it, Jay.
She heard a noise. Faint. Distant.
Her breath hitched.
For a second—just a second—her pulse froze. Her chest tightened, her heart lurching forward before logic could catch up.
She knew it wasn't him. It couldn't be.
But still—
"Jay?"
She knew it was stupid. Impossible.
But against all reason, she prayed anyway.
Her feet hit the floor before she thought to move. She was at the door in seconds, flinging it open, her pulse hammering. Hoping.
And then—
Not him. Of course not.
Grace.
Her breath left her in a rush, the weight of disappointment crashing down way too fast, too hard.
She looked down—barefoot, wearing one of his old oversized shirts.
How could she be this stupid?
Hadn't she done that before?
Was her heart going to stop every time someone showed up?
It's not going to be him. I gotta stop being so pathetic and accept it.
Grace turned from the sink, a cleaning rag in her hand. "Oh! Morning, Erin. Sorry if I startled you."
"Grace? What—" Her voice was rough as she squinted, disoriented. Everything felt too hazy, too slow. "…Did that pill Dr. Cass gave me knock me out for a whole week?"
Grace chuckled softly. "No, no. It's still Monday. I usually work at Dr. Cass's place, but she asked me to come up and help you a little."
Her eyes flicked over Erin.
Erin suddenly felt exposed.
"Did I wake you? Sorry!"
Erin shook her head, waving a hand. "No, no. Thanks for coming… and, uh—sorry about the—"
Her gaze flicked around the apartment.
The mess was gone. Everything cleaned.
Her throat tightened.
She didn't know if she felt relieved or embarrassed—or both.
"It's okay, Erin. I'm almost done." Grace's voice was careful. "Dr. Cass said you weren't feeling great yesterday, but… you still don't look too good."
Erin hesitated.
Grace wasn't a stranger to her chaos. But knowing she had seen all of it… felt different.
"I'm okay," Erin said—too fast, unconvincing.
"There was a broken frame on the shelf… I put the picture on the coffee table."
Her stomach dropped as her eyes landed on the photo with Hank.
A weight settled in her chest.
Her eyes flicked to the shelves—fast, instinctive.
The picture of her and Jay was still there.
Right at the center.
Right where he had put it.
She wondered if Grace had noticed that it was back up.
"Thanks…" Her voice cracked. "I must've knocked it off."
Grace gave her a small kind smile. "There was some glass, but don't worry—I took care of it."
She added, "Dr. Cass is waiting for your call."
"I'll call her in a bit."
Grace wiped her hands. "I'm heading back down. Let me know if you need anything else."
"Thanks, Grace. You didn't have to—"
"You're welcome, Erin."
Before Erin could reach for her phone, a soft knock came at the door. It opened slightly, and Dr. Cass stepped inside, calm as ever, wearing a warm, knowing smile.
"Good morning, Erin."
Her sharp gaze swept over Erin's face, taking in the exhaustion, the paleness.
"Were you able to sleep? Feeling any better?"
She didn't wait for an answer—her eyes had already locked onto the pillbox on the counter.
Erin rubbed her neck, still groggy. "Yeah… just woke up."
Cass flipped the lid and frowned.
"Erin!"
Erin flinched, startled by the scolding tone.
Cass pointed at the untouched pills, her brow raised.
"I just woke up!" Erin said defensively, hands lifting in surrender. "I don't know what you gave me last night, but it was good." she said, grabbing a glass of water and swallowing the pills fast.
Cass exhaled, arms crossing. "You were drained. You needed that rest."
She paused for a bit.
"Did you eat anything?"
Erin gave her a look. What part of 'I just woke up' do you not get?
Cass rolled her eyes, clearly reading her mind.
"When was the last time you ate?"
Erin shrugged. "We had dinner together…"
Cass's head tilted. "We? You and Jay?"
Erin froze.
Cass's brow lifted. "Like… two days ago?"
Another shrug.
Cass sighed, the edge in her voice softening. "I should've made you eat before giving you that pill."
Erin rolled her eyes. "Oh please. Stop babysitting, Cass. You sound like a mom—"
She stopped—mid-thought.
The words caught in her throat.
Cass's expression immediately softened.
Erin swallowed hard. Her mind reached—searched—for a memory. A flicker of her mother taking care of her. But she could find one memory.
Cass knew that look. The one Erin wore whenever Bunny came up. That quiet ache, the pain of never feeling loved.
Cass's hand found her arm. A light squeeze.
"Hey."
Erin blinked, swallowing.
Cass's voice was gentle but steady. "Come back."
"You need to take care of yourself, Erin."
"I know."
"It's not worth it."
Erin exhaled sharply, frustration flickering beneath the exhaustion. "I know, Cass." Her voice tightened. "You're talking like I'm some kind of stupid, lovesick—"
Cass arched a brow, arms crossed, smirking. "You're not stupid, Erin." She paused. "Just—let's be real—tragically lovesick."
Erin sighed loudly, rolling her eyes so hard it could've hurt. "Yeah, thank you."
Cass's smirk softened. "So… how are you feeling now? For real?"
Erin hesitated, fingers tugging at the hem of Jay's shirt.
She had no idea how to answer.
Her throat tightened. Her pulse stuttered.
Finally—after a long beat—
"I don't know."
Her voice cracked just slightly, and she hated how fragile it sounded. She looked down, staring at the shirt she was griping.
"I miss him."
Cass's shoulders dropped, the teasing edge gone.
She stepped closer, her voice lower. Warmer.
"I know, honey. And that's okay."
Erin's chest ached.
Cass continued, gentle but firm.
"Missing someone doesn't mean you're weak or going backward—it means you care. Deeply."
Erin inhaled sharply, her lip trembling. "I just… I don't even know if he's okay."
Her voice was barely a whisper, like saying it might make the fear real.
"I haven't heard from him. What if…"
Her throat clamped shut.
Her breath hitched.
The fear was suffocating.
Cass squeezed Erin's shoulder—gentle, but firm—like she was keeping her from unraveling.
"He's strong, Erin. Just like you. And when he's able, I'm sure you'll hear from him."
Erin nodded slowly, but the ache burrowed deeper.
Her fingers drifted to the dog tag, tightening around it like a lifeline. She pressed it to her palm, to her chest—like it could pull him closer. Like it could anchor her in the storm.
"He's going to camp in a jungle in the middle of nowhere." Her breath hitched. "Can you imagine the danger? What if he can't reach out? How am I supposed to survive not knowing if he's okay?"
Her voice was rising. Panic building.
"Erin!"
Sharp—but not harsh.
Cass's gaze locked with hers. Steady. Grounding.
"Stop with the what-ifs." She took a breath, her voice softening instantly. "He probably spent the whole day traveling yesterday. Just give it some time."
Erin exhaled a heavy, shaky breath, her shoulders slumping.
She nodded, not reassured—just defeated.
"I just wish I had some way to know he's safe."
Her eyes flicked to her phone. Still dark. Still silent.
"He doesn't even have my number, Cass."
Her breath shuddered as her fingers curled tighter around the dog tag.
"And now… nothing. No messages. No calls."
Cass's expression softened—but beneath the sympathy, a flicker of frustration. Not at Erin. At Jay.
"He'll find a way to reach you."
She offered a quiet, understanding smile, then pulled out a chair and gestured for Erin to sit.
Erin hesitated, fingers still tracing the engraved letters. Her limbs felt heavy. Everything did.
Finally, she shuffled forward, lowering herself onto the chair.
Cass sat across from her, elbows resting on the table, hands folded.
Her gaze was sharp but warm. Watching Erin carefully.
"I know you want him to be okay, but are you okay, Erin?"
Cass's voice was soft but firm, cutting through the silence like a blade.
"Because that has to come first. Before you can help anyone else."
Erin let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "I've felt empty for years," she whispered. "And then—out of nowhere—he shows up… and suddenly, I could breathe again."
Her breath shuddered as she looked up, hazel eyes shining.
"But now he's gone again. And it's worse this time."
Cass's expression softened. "That makes sense. Seeing him probably reopened a lot of wounds…"
She paused. "…And gave you a little hope, too."
Erin swallowed hard, her fingers twisting the hem of Jay's shirt.
"I don't know what I expected."
She hated how naive it sounded.
"For him to just… stay? For everything to go back to the way it was?"
She shook her head. A tear slipped down her cheek.
"I know that's not realistic."
Her fingers tightened around the fabric in her lap.
"He has his life. I have mine. I thought I moved on. I tried to."
Cass's voice was gentle, knowing. "And yet… here we are."
"I feel so stupid, Cass. For feeling all this. For missing work because I just… spiraled. I'm ashamed of myself for being so—"
"Human?" Cass cut in. "You're ashamed of being human?"
She leaned in. "Erin, you love him. You shared a life with him. You've got so many unresolved feelings. You never processed the breakup. You never talked about it. You just shoved it down and pretended it didn't hurt. And now that he came back, it all came crashing over you."
Her hand found Erin's arm—steady, grounding.
"You don't have to be ashamed of feeling, or breaking down. Or loving too much."
A pause.
"It's okay to feel this way. It doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."
Erin nodded weakly, swiping at her face.
"I know."
But it sounded hollow, even to her.
"And besides—ashamed of who exactly? Yourself? Me? No one saw you spiral. You were here," Cass said gently. "Alone. There's no shame in that. You just need to learn how to deal with your feelings instead of burying them again."
She paused, voice steady but soft. "I'm right here with you, okay? I can help you through it—if you let me."
Erin's fingers curled tight around the dog tag, holding it like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
"Seeing him again, being with him—even for just a day…"
Her voice cracked.
"It was everything I didn't realize I needed."
A shaky breath.
"And now it's like he's everywhere and nowhere all at once."
She let out a soft, half-choked laugh.
"I can't stop thinking about him."
Cass gave her arm a steadying squeeze.
Then, a small frown. "He's still settling in, Erin… probably worrying sick about you too."
Cass didn't know if she truly believed that—or if she was just trying to. But for Erin's sake, she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Even if part of her still wanted to punch him for walking away in the first place.
Erin let out a breathless, tired laugh.
"Yeah. Classic Halstead."
A flicker of a smile.
"Always worrying. Always overprotecting."
Cass tilted her head. "Maybe that's something to focus on."
Her voice was calm, deliberate.
"If he's not ready to reach out, focus on you. Your health. Your strength. You've come too far to let this undo the progress you've made."
Erin sighed, heavier this time, and nodded slowly.
"Yeah. I know…"
Cass glanced at her watch, then stood, patting Erin's shoulder.
"I gotta get to work, honey. Will you be okay?"
A slight nod.
"I'll check in later. Try to eat something. Maybe take a shower. Start small. Those little things we talked about? They help. Stick to your routine."
Erin nodded again, silent.
She walked Cass to the door, and the silence swallowed her again as the door clicked shut.
She stood there, arms wrapped tightly around herself, fingers digging into her sleeves like she could physically hold herself together—keep the loneliness from seeping in.
The apartment was too quiet.
Her gaze flicked to the coffee table. The picture sat there. The cracked frame she hadn't even noticed shattering.
Her and Hank. Mid-laugh. One of those rare, unguarded moments. A time when she'd felt solid. Sure of who she was.
But now?
Now, the cracks in the glass felt too fitting. A reflection of the distance between them.
Her thumb brushed over his face—those deep lines from years of carrying everyone else's burdens. She could almost hear his voice. Gruff. Steady. Grounding.
A lump formed in her throat.
"I miss you, Dad." The words slipped out soft. Fragile. Nowhere near big enough for the ache behind them.
She bit down on her lip, trying to hold herself together. "More than you'll ever know."
She wanted to call him. Hear his voice. Let him tell her she'd be okay.
Just for a second. Long enough to borrow some of his strength.
But she couldn't.
Because if she called, he'd know. Hank always knew.
He'd hear it in her voice. The hesitation. The silence.
He'd ask what was wrong. And she wouldn't be able to lie.
He'd see through her. Right into the pain she couldn't bring herself to share.
And then there was the other reason—the one twisting in her gut.
How could she tell him about Jay?
The day they'd spent together. The confessions. The kiss. The goodbye.
How could she explain that? When Hailey was still there—still by Hank's side, still his detective. Loyal to him.
The thought of his disappointment made her chest clench.
He'd have questions. Judgments she wasn't ready for.
What the hell were you thinking, kid?
She could already hear him. Not angry. Just that tone. The one that made her feel like she was fifteen again.
And the truth? She didn't know what she was thinking.
She wasn't ready for that conversation. Not yet.
She placed the frame back down, her voice barely a whisper. "I can't."
But something shifted the moment she turned away.
The sadness became something much heavier.
And then—
It snapped.
He knew.
The thought hit her like a punch.
He had known.
Not recently. Not casually. He had known for years. Almost two years.
Two fucking years.
Her breath stilled. Her pulse pounded.
How could he have kept that from her?
She scrambled through every call, every conversation.
All the times she'd asked about Jay. All the times Hank had stayed quiet.
And the whole time, he had known.
Jay had moved on. He was with Hailey. Married. Put a ring on someone else's hand. Built a life.
And Hank had said nothing.
Her fists clenched. Betrayal burned through her.
She had lost everything when she left Chicago—her job, her home, her people. But the one thing she thought she still had was Hank.
She thought he had her back. That he would never lie to her.
But this? This was a lie by omission. And it cut deeper than any truth ever could.
Because knowing would've changed everything. Wouldn't it?
She would've stopped waiting.
Stopped hoping.
Moved on for real.
Maybe.
Her breath came faster, uneven.
"Why, Hank?" Her voice cracked. "Why did you let me believe there was still a chance?"
"Why did you let me hold onto something that was already gone?"
"Why did you let me suffer in silence while he was—"
She laughed. Bitter. Broken.
"While Hailey was standing in my place. Living my life. Wearing my ring. Sleeping in our bed. Damn it, Hank."
Hank had seen it all. He could've told her. But he didn't.
He let her drown in silence. Let her sit in New York, aching, while Hailey stood beside him like she belonged there.
She didn't just own Jay. She took Hank, too.
The weight of it hit her so hard she had to grip the couch. She was so fucking angry. Bitter.
Like she had been erased from the story completely.
She had never questioned Hank before. Not like this. He was her father. Maybe not by blood, but in every way that mattered.
But now?
Now she didn't know what the hell he was.
Her vision blurred, and this time she didn't blink the tears away.
She let them fall.
Not just for Jay.
For Hank.
Because for the first time in her life… she wasn't sure she could forgive him.
That hurt like hell.
And it wasn't just the silence. Or the betrayal.
The thought of Hailey being the one close to her dad now hurt more than she wanted to admit.
Erin picked up her phone, thumb hovering. With a slow breath, she opened her photo app.
Her heart sank as she scrolled—flicking past memories she couldn't afford to feel.
Then she stopped.
The picture.
Almost two years old. Frozen in time—her, OA, Hailey.
OA stood off to the side, arms crossed, unreadable. Always steady. Always watching.
But she and Hailey?
Smiling. Big, carefree grins. Like nothing in the world could touch them.
How the hell had she not seen it? How could she have been so stupid?
A dry, bitter chuckle escaped her. She shook her head.
She remembered that day. She'd been happy to see Hailey. Genuinely happy. Someone from Chicago. Someone who felt like home.
It had been the first time anyone from her old life crossed her path—besides Hank. And for a second, she'd felt it again.
That spark of belonging. That illusion of family.
Not once had it crossed her mind that Hailey and Jay could be a thing.
But now, staring at the photo, her stomach twisted.
Had Hailey known all along? Had she planned it—going after Jay? Taking him?
Her grip on the phone tightened.
No. That wasn't fair.
Hailey hadn't betrayed her. Maybe she had really loved him. Maybe she still did.
Erin exhaled, eyes stinging.
It wasn't Hailey's fault. Not really.
How could it be?
I'm the one who left. I'm the one who walked away. I abandoned him.
It had been over three years since she left Chicago. Since she ran from everything.
And Hailey? Hailey had stayed.
The realization hit hard.
She thought back to that day at the restaurant. How good it had felt—reconnecting, laughing, feeling like she mattered again. That photo had captured it.
The lie.
But even then, the thoughts had crept in. The ones she'd spent years trying to bury.
Is he okay? Has he moved on? Does he still think about me?
She'd wanted to ask Hailey. God, she had wanted to know.
But she didn't. She had no right. No claim over him. And to be honest, she was too proud to show she still cared. That it still hurt.
So she'd swallowed the questions and let them rot in her throat.
And now, she couldn't help but wonder.
What if she had asked?
What if she had let Hailey know—somehow—that she still loved him?
Would it have mattered? Would it have changed anything? Would Hailey have backed off?
Or had it already been too late?
It didn't matter. She hadn't said anything.
And now, Hailey was his wife.
Her chest ached.
She could still feel it—that moment at the table.
The way her happiness had started slipping through her fingers.
The way her heart had pounded harder. Her nails biting into her palms.
Waiting. Hoping. Wanting Hailey to say something.
Anything.
But she hadn't.
And Erin?
She'd held it together.
She'd smiled. Laughed. Played her part. Because she was good at that.
Too good.
And no one—not OA, not Hailey—had noticed the way her heart was breaking all over again.
After she left Hailey with OA and went undercover, she told herself it would be fine. That the separation was good. Necessary. That the mission would keep her too busy to think.
That was a lie.
Three months.
Three months of living in a filthy motel room, trapped in a life that wasn't hers, becoming someone she wasn't. Losing herself.
Alone.
No backup. No friends. No one to ground her.
Just memories. Just him.
Her mind drifted back to Jay constantly. At first, she fought it, shoved it down. But as the days dragged on, she clung to him—to the thought of him—because it was all she had to stay sane.
She could still hear his voice. Still see the disappointment in his eyes, standing in that nightclub, looking at her like she was a stranger.
"I don't know who you are. But tell Lindsay she made me a better cop."
That look. That crushing, soul-wrenching disappointment.
She held onto it. Because she couldn't bear it. Because it was the only thing keeping her from falling completely into the abyss.
She had almost given in.
To the darkness.
To the emptiness.
To the drugs.
She thought about it. More than she'd ever admit. More than she wanted to remember.
It would've been easy. One hit. One pill. One step away from herself.
But Jay—Jay—kept her from doing it.
Not because he was there. Not because he called or wrote or even knew she existed anymore. But because she couldn't let him see her like that again. Not even in her dreams.
No.
She wouldn't survive it.
So she finished the mission.
Barely.
It had almost ended in tragedy.
It should have ended in tragedy.
She still had the scar. A thin, jagged line on her right breast—a permanent reminder of that night. A blade, sharp and cold, sinking into her skin as she fought like hell against a man twice her size.
She had won. She had survived.
But fuck—it had been close.
And that wasn't even the worst part.
No.
The worst part was what came after.
Everything that followed in the months after she came back.
Everything that led her to rock bottom.
To breaking.
To Cass.
Her breath hitched. Her chest tightened.
STOP.
She clenched her jaw. Squeezed her eyes shut. Forced the memories out.
Not now.
Not ever.
She couldn't go there.
She wouldn't.
But for the first time, a horrible realization settled in:
The last time she had really smiled—really laughed—before Cass?
Had been at that restaurant.
With Hailey.
And it had been based on a lie.
A lie she told herself.
That Hailey made her feel connected to home.
That seeing her was a good thing.
That it didn't hurt.
That she wasn't waiting.
Because that's what it was, wasn't it?
She had been waiting.
Waiting for Hailey to say something.
To mention him.
To give her an opening.
An excuse.
To tell her something—anything—that made it okay to ask about Jay.
But Hailey didn't.
She had smiled. Had laughed. Had let Erin sit across from her, oblivious.
And maybe she hadn't known. Maybe she didn't mean to stab her in the back. Maybe she hadn't even realized that Erin had still loved Jay.
But in the end?
None of that mattered.
Because Hailey was the one who stayed.
Hailey was the one with the black ring.
Hailey was the one with the title, the vows, the piece of paper tying her to Erin's person.
Hailey had been there.
And Erin hadn't.
Her pulse pounded. Her breath hitched.
Please stop. Just stop.
She leaned back into the cushions, the phone slipping onto her lap as she stared blankly at the ceiling.
The smile on Hailey's face in that photo mocked her.
Like she had won.
Erin closed her eyes, willing the tears to stay put, but her voice betrayed her.
A whisper. A plea.
"What was I supposed to do?"
Her throat tightened.
She should have said something.
She should have screamed.
Should have told Hailey to stay away.
Should have fought.
And maybe—maybe—
Maybe that would have changed everything.
But she didn't.
And now?
Now it was too late. She couldn't change the past. Couldn't undo what was done. Couldn't rewrite the silence.
But as the minutes dragged on, her eyes flicked to the empty spot where Cass had stood earlier.
"Start small. Those little things we talked about—they help. Stick to your routine."
Cass's voice echoed in her head. Soft. Steady. Unyielding.
They'd talked about that. More than once. Baby steps. Moving forward.
And somehow, that was enough.
A breath. A step. A start.
Erin knew she couldn't stay locked in her apartment, drowning in the quicksand of self-pity.
But the second she moved, she felt it.
The weight.
Heavy. Relentless. Clinging to her ribs, her chest, her skin—like a ghost she couldn't shake.
She forced herself through the motions.
One. Step. At. A. Time.
She ate a sandwich—dry, flavorless, like cardboard. But she didn't care. She swallowed it down, her throat tight, forcing her body to accept the fuel it desperately needed.
The shower was next. Steam curled around her, thick and suffocating, as the hot water pounded against her skin. She scrubbed harder than necessary, trying to erase the tension coiled in her muscles.
Her hands trembled slightly as she ran them over her arms.
Her mind wouldn't stop.
Wouldn't let go.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Him walking away.
The way his hands shook as he gave her the dog tag.
The way his eyes burned into hers in those final seconds—please don't say goodbye.
The way the door closed, stealing all the air from the room.
Her breath hitched, and her fingers curled into fists.
Stop. Just stop.
She inhaled sharply, bracing her hands against the cool tile.
She wanted to scream. Just let me breathe.
But she couldn't.
Because the air still smelled like him.
She clenched her jaw, blinking hard against the sting behind her eyes. No. She wouldn't cry. Not now. Not anymore.
She shut the water off and stepped out, wrapping a towel around herself as she moved on autopilot.
Hair tied back.
Clothes thrown on.
Shoelaces yanked too tight.
Everything too fast. Too forceful. Like she could outrun the ache clawing at her ribs.
Her reflection caught her off guard in the mirror by the door.
Jay's shirt. Another one. Old. Beaten up.
Again on her body.
Still clinging to her skin like she couldn't bear to take it off. Like she needed it hugging her.
Her pulse stuttered.
She should put on something else.
But she didn't.
She couldn't.
She turned away, shoving her phone in her pocket as she stepped out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her like it might shut out the pain.
It didn't.
The hallway felt too quiet.
The air felt too thick.
She told herself she was fine. That she was in control. That she could move forward.
But then she stepped into the elevator.
And her body betrayed her.
The memory—him standing beside her, eyes heavy with things left unsaid.
Then the reflection—the way he had looked at her, like he wanted to reach out but couldn't.
Her breath caught, sharp and painful.
She gripped the railing, her knees locking to keep from swaying.
For a split second, she expected to see him beside her.
Expected his voice, low and rough. You okay, babe?
Expected his touch, warm and steady. I got you.
But there was nothing.
No voice.
No warmth.
No Jay.
Only silence.
And her own fucking reflection. Alone.
Her throat tightened, her chest heaving as she fought the wave of emotion clawing up her ribs.
Get it together. Move. Just move.
She squeezed her eyes shut as the elevator descended, willing herself to breathe.
When the doors slid open, she bolted.
Don't think. Don't stop. Forward.
By the time she reached the subway, the world was a blur of sound and movement.
The hum of conversations. The screech of train brakes. The sharp blast of a distant horn.
All of it blurred together—one long, senseless hum.
She was surrounded by people, yet she felt untethered. Unnoticed. Unreal.
Her feet carried her forward on autopilot, weaving through the crowd, her mind spiraling, spinning—
Because no matter where she looked, no matter how far she walked—
He was everywhere.
She saw him in the crowd.
She saw him in the way someone brushed their fingers through their hair. In the way a man held his coffee, fingers curled just like his.
And suddenly—suffocatingly—she felt him.
The ghost of his hands. The whisper of his touch.
The way he had held her—his warmth still imprinted on her skin, in her bones, like a permanent fucking mark.
Her steps faltered.
Her breath hitched.
The ache was unbearable.
No matter how far she ran—
No matter how hard she fought—
She couldn't escape him.
She couldn't escape the hollow, aching void he left behind.
And for the first time since he was gone—
She let herself admit it.
I can't do this. Not alone.
Her lips parted, a shaky exhale slipping free.
Her fingers curled into fists.
And suddenly, the city didn't feel big enough to outrun the wreckage he had left behind or the part of her that still wanted to chase him anyway.
After nearly an hour of brisk walking, she finally arrived at her favorite spot.
A small, quiet clearing tucked away in Central Park—her sanctuary. Her little piece of heaven.
The place she always ran to when she couldn't breathe, when the world felt too loud, when she needed to remember who she was.
She sank down against the familiar tree, the bark rough against her back. The cool breeze brushed against her cheeks, but it did little to soothe the storm raging inside her.
She reached for the grass, fingers sinking into the cool blades, grounding herself—forcing herself to stay present.
She glanced around.
No one.
Good.
She exhaled shakily, tilting her head back against the tree.
And then—barely above a whisper—
"Hi."
Her throat tightened instantly.
She started, "I'm sorry I haven't been here," she murmured, her fingers absently tearing at the grass, unraveling it like it might somehow unravel her. "Things have been…crazy. But I miss you. God, I miss you so much."
She swallowed hard, her voice cracking.
"I wish you were here so we could talk like we used to—those long nights, remember? Just you and me, talking for hours, with wine or beer. I could really use one of those nights right now."
She smiled. Or tried to. But it didn't reach her eyes.
She glanced up at the sky. Cloudless. Blue. Too peaceful for how she felt.
She exhaled, the words catching before they could leave her lips.
Then—soft, bitter—"Did you see what happened?"
Her grip tightened on the grass, the blades bending and breaking beneath her fingers.
"After five years… he showed back up."
The laugh that slipped from her lips was shattered.
A single breath of disbelief.
"And—damn it—he turned my whole world upside down."
She shook her head, biting her lip hard enough to hurt.
"I know, I know. You'd say, 'Why the hell did you wait so long? Why didn't you go after him? Why did you leave in the first place?'"
Her breath hitched.
Her next words came smaller.
"And honestly? I don't know."
Her fingers curled into the dirt, grounding herself.
"I don't have a good answer. But being with him again…"
Her voice faltered.
"It felt so good."
Too good. Like she was home. Like she had finally found the piece of herself that had been missing all along.
"Even though he's married," she whispered, like saying it softer would make it hurt less.
"Even though we didn't… we didn't do anything."
The ache in her chest sharpened.
"I know what you'd say. You'd tell me I should've just thrown myself at him. Forget his wife, his marriage."
She let out a shaky, choked laugh.
"I should've kissed him in the elevator. On the couch. Against the kitchen island… On my bed… I should've—"
Her voice broke.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing a hand to her forehead.
"I wanted to."
God, she had wanted to.
"I felt so stupid with those red laces. I wish he'd seen them."
Her laugh was softer this time. Wistful.
Almost… dreamy.
She could picture it.
His expression if he had seen.
His reaction if she had let him.
Would he have pulled her closer? Would he have whispered her name, breath hot against her skin, hands shaking but unable to stop?
Would he have remembered—really remembered—what it felt like to be hers?
She wiped a tear away before it could fall.
"Did you see him in the shower that morning?" she added, her voice rising slightly, filled with disbelief. "That perfect body, that stupidly cocky smile? No, wait—of course you didn't. You're not allowed to see that. You are NOT! Don't you dare!"
But then—quieter—
"But… damn, he looked so…"
She trailed off, shaking her head.
Nope. Not going there.
Not when it hurt this much.
"And then later, making pancakes?" she scoffed. "Did you see how flirty he was? How hard it was to hold myself off? Seriously. I don't even know…"
She sucked in a breath.
Then—hollow—
"Well, I do."
Her fingers curled into fists.
"He's married."
"And he seemed so lost…"
"Damn it."
Her shoulders slumped, exhaustion seeping into her bones.
She was so tired of feeling like this.
She rubbed at her temple, her voice softening.
"I wish you were here."
The confession slipped free before she could stop it.
Her lips trembled.
"I hope you're taking care of Bailey for me. Tell him I miss how his paws would knead my lap before he snuggled in… how his little snout used to sniff away my tears."
She exhaled shakily, her chest tightening, her fingers twisting the grass like a lifeline.
"I don't know if you can help from up there, but if you can… please."
Her voice broke.
Just slightly.
"Make him find a way to reach out."
Another breath.
Shallow. Trembling.
"I miss him so much."
She squeezed her eyes shut.
God, she missed him.
She needed to know if he was okay.
Her throat constricted.
Her lips pressed together, but they couldn't stop the final whisper.
"And I miss you."
The words hung in the air—fragile, desperate, slipping away on the wind.
She tilted her head back, letting her eyes drift shut, listening.
Waiting.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to pretend there was an answer.
Just long enough to feel like she wasn't completely alone.
And then—
The breeze shifted.
A cool gust, sudden and fleeting, brushing against her cheek like a whisper.
Her breath caught.
Her eyes fluttered open.
The clearing was the same. The sky was still.
But for a moment—just a moment—she swore she could feel something.
A presence. A warmth. A lingering, ghostly touch.
Like someone was listening.
Like someone had heard her.
Her fingers curled into the grass, her pulse still hammering but she could feel a flicker of peace in her heart. Small. Quiet. But real.
And then?
Then, she let herself believe it.
Just for a second.
Because if she didn't have hope—what else was left?
A/N: Hey all linstead hearts—just a quick heads-up! Still Us is a long, slow, emotional ride. I know… I know… sometimes it sounds too painfully slow… we all want them happily snuggling into each other's arms… but…
It's not just about reunion—it's about rebuilding, soul-searching, and figuring out if (how) love can survive all the damage.
There are chapters where Erin is alone. Where Jay is spiraling. Where they both ache in silence. But I promise, every moment has a purpose.
It's a really deep dive into their minds, their past, their trauma—it all matters.
Some chapters will feel like therapy sessions. Some will just be them remembering who they used to be. Some will have the fluff we all love. I have a lot written and so much more in my mind still.
So if you're here for instant reunion… you might be yelling at me for a bit. But hang in there. It's worthy.
(Ssshh… don't tell anyone… but they will talk soon and we will have this whole new long distance dynamics)
Thanks for being on this ride with me. It really means a lot. And please please please comment! Let me know what you're thinking! :-)