While You Sleep

by Peraltiago99

Summary:

Jake and Amy are sent on a stakeout that leads to a dangerous stand-off, leaving Jake gravely wounded. He slips into a coma, leaving the squad unsure of his outcome. Amy takes it the hardest, her feelings for Jake surfacing and controlling every move going forward. She won’t leave his side, come hell or high water, but will he come back to her?

A story about the dangers of the job, dealing with grief, and what happens thereafter.

Chapter 1: Slipping Into Sleep

The rain had started around sunset—a fine mist at first, but by nightfall it had thickened into a steady downpour that blurred streetlights and soaked through Amy’s boots. Thunder rolled low over Brooklyn, and somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.

Amy sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked car parked two blocks from the warehouse on Canal and 40th, fingers tightening around the grip of her flashlight. She could barely sit still.

This case had escalated fast.

Two days ago, it was a lead about a stolen shipment of military-grade explosives. Now, it was a race against time. A major arms trafficking crew—known for violence, evasiveness, and zero hesitation—was rumored to be using an abandoned shipping warehouse as a makeshift distribution point.

Jake had gone around back fifteen minutes ago.

“Let me go in with you,” Amy had said, pulling on her vest.

But Jake had shaken his head. “We don’t know how many are in there, and if they move the crates, we lose the evidence. I’ll sneak in, get eyes, radio you the layout. We go together once we know what we’re up against.”

“You better call it in the second you have something,” she warned.

He gave her a crooked grin. “I’ll even say it in your favorite police code. Ten-four, Detective.”

And then he disappeared into the night, hood up, radio crackling once before fading into static.

Amy now sat drenched in anxiety, watching the rain distort the world outside her window. Her hand hovered over the gearshift.

She had a bad feeling. The kind that crawled under her ribs and refused to sit still.

She finally reached for the radio again. “Peralta, do you copy? Jake, check in.”

Nothing.

She waited. One more beat. Another.

Then she threw open the door and sprinted across the lot, boots slapping wet pavement. Her breath fogged in front of her as she pressed against the side wall of the warehouse, sliding toward the rear entrance.

The back door was ajar.

That was her first sign something was wrong.

Amy pulled her gun free and slipped inside.

The warehouse swallowed sound. Echoes bounced across steel and cement. A faint hanging bulb flickered overhead, barely illuminating the vast interior. Wooden crates were stacked in uneven rows, labeled with false freight names. Broken pallets littered the floor. A scent of oil and rust filled the air.

She crept forward. Her foot nudged a spent shell casing, and she froze. Her flashlight beam swung across the ground.

Blood.

A smear. Faint. Recent.

Her chest clenched.

Then—
A shout. Muffled. Strangled. Somewhere up ahead. Her name.

“AMY—!”

And then a gunshot. Loud. Too loud.

She sprinted.

Down the narrow path between crates. Around a rusted forklift. Toward a collapsed shelving unit.

And then she saw him.

Jake lay sprawled on the floor, half-pinned beneath the corner of a steel rack that had caved in. His leg was caught under a beam. His gun was yards away. His left arm hung limp, coated in blood. His head… his head was bleeding.

Beside him, a man in tactical gear slumped against the wall, motionless—clearly dead from a shot to the chest. Amy didn’t recognize him, but she recognized the empty stare of a kill.

“Jake!”

She dropped to her knees so fast her flashlight clattered to the concrete and rolled away.

He wasn’t moving.

“Jake, can you hear me?” Her voice shook. “Come on, babe, say something. Make fun of me. Tell me I parked crooked. Anything.”

She reached to check his pulse—relief when she found it, but it was weak.

His breathing was shallow. One of his eyes was half-lidded and bruised. There was a gash on his temple. The side of his Kevlar vest had torn open—shrapnel or a close-range hit.

She pressed her hand to his chest, then looked down and whispered, “Still breathing. Still with me.”

But then her voice cracked. “Oh my God, Jake.”

She pulled her radio from her belt and pressed it with shaking fingers. “Officer down—officer down! Inside the warehouse at Canal and 40th! I need EMS, backup, everyone—NOW!”

She dropped the radio, slid closer to him, crouched beside his face.

“You idiot,” she whispered, brushing a strand of damp hair from his forehead. “Why did you go in alone?”

His lips were slightly parted, but no sound came out.

Amy reached down, pressing both hands to his chest now—grounding herself.

“You saved me,” she realized, voice breaking. “That’s what the shot was. You saw him coming for me. You saved me before I even got here.”

Her tears were hot on her face, lost in the rain leaking through the warehouse roof.

Blue lights flashed beyond the windows a minute later, and EMTs burst in shouting orders. They pried the wreckage off him. Lifted his broken leg with a brace. Stabilized his neck. Hooked him to oxygen.

Amy tried to stay back, tried to let them work, but every time she took a step back, she felt like her world tipped sideways.

When they loaded him onto the gurney, she climbed in after him without asking.

______

The ambulance careened through downtown Brooklyn, red and white lights washing over the wet asphalt in rhythmic pulses. The siren wailed like a scream stuck on loop, drowning out Amy’s own thoughts. She sat hunched on the bench beside Jake’s stretcher, gripping the edge with both hands to keep herself from reaching for him—because he was already hooked up to too many wires, too many tubes, and she didn’t know what she’d do if she touched him and found him cold.

The EMT sitting across from her kept shouting vitals over the roar of the engine. “BP’s dropping. Still breathing. Head trauma, deep laceration, signs of cranial swelling.”

Amy couldn’t stop watching the way Jake’s chest rose and fell under the oxygen mask. Shallow. Inconsistent. Wrong.

Her ears rang with the memory of his name on the radio.
“Officer down.”
She had said it.
She had heard it so many times in her career.
But never like this.
Never about him.

Her vest was soaked through. Her fingers were trembling. Blood stained the edge of her sleeve—his blood. She didn’t remember leaning against him in the warehouse, but she must have. It was everywhere.

The EMT caught her eye. “Detective, are you okay?”

No.

But she nodded anyway. “Keep him breathing.”

That was all that mattered.

⸻

Mount Sinai Emergency Department
11:12 PM

Chaos.

Fluorescent lights. Barked commands. Gurneys flying past in opposite directions. Rubber soles squeaking. The doors flew open as Jake was rolled inside, and a trauma team was already waiting—scrub caps on, latex gloves snapping into place, an OR nurse running beside the cart calling out, “Thirty-two-year-old male, blunt-force trauma to the skull, compound femur fracture, possible internal bleeding.”

Amy followed. “I’m his partner,” she said quickly, eyes darting between faces. “I need to stay with him.”

A nurse with tired eyes blocked her. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. You’ll have to wait outside while we stabilize him.”

“I can’t wait outside,” Amy snapped, louder than she intended. Her voice cracked. “He’s not just my partner—he’s—”

She stopped herself.

The nurse softened. “I know. But if you stay, you’ll be in the way.”

Amy opened her mouth, closed it, then slowly nodded. She backed away. Her hands shook harder now, and she clenched them into fists.

They wheeled Jake through double doors and disappeared down a sterile white corridor.

And then she was alone.

⸻

11:26 PM

The waiting room was an open wound of silence.

There were seven chairs along the wall. One humming soda machine. A pot of coffee burning in its own stale heat.

Amy paced. Her shoes squeaked. She unzipped her tactical vest and dropped it in the corner, then ran both hands through her rain-drenched hair.

She had never felt so helpless in her life.

She was a cop. She knew what to do in crisis situations. She could field-strip a Glock in thirty seconds. She had talked down armed suspects, cleared buildings, negotiated hostage standoffs. She planned for chaos.

But none of that mattered when the person lying behind those doors was the one she loved most.

She sat down and stood up again five seconds later. Her hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting. Her eyes kept drifting to the hallway, as if the door would open and Jake would be standing there, limping, grinning, already making some dumb joke about how he took a shelf to the face and now had “premium warehouse storage trauma.”

But the door didn’t open.

⸻

11:45 PM

Holt arrived first.

She heard his footsteps before she saw him—measured, quick, his trench coat already soaked through.

He scanned the room until he found her, and for a long moment he said nothing. Just looked at her. Amy couldn’t read his expression—somewhere between controlled and broken.

Then he crossed the room and stood beside her. “Report.”

Amy’s voice caught before she could form words. “We split up at the perimeter. He wanted to scout the interior for movement. There were crates—explosives, maybe. He didn’t check in. I followed. Found him unconscious… warehouse shelf had collapsed. Suspect was DOA.”

“Backup?”

“Five minutes late. It was just us.”

Holt didn’t respond for a long time. Then he sat down next to her, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor.

Amy looked at him sideways. “He saved me.”

“I know.”

More silence.

“I don’t know how to wait like this,” she admitted. “I don’t know what to do if he—”

Her voice cracked again, and Holt placed a steady hand on her shoulder.

“You’re doing what he would do,” he said. “You’re staying.”

⸻

12:07 AM

The surgeon finally emerged. Pale blue scrubs. Thin lines under his eyes. A clipboard pressed to his chest.

Amy stood so fast the chair nearly tipped backward.

“He made it through surgery,” the doctor began.

Her knees went weak with relief.

“But there’s bleeding in his brain. We’ve relieved the pressure, stabilized his leg, and set the fracture. He’s stable now… but unconscious. In a coma.”

Amy’s world narrowed. “How long?”

The surgeon hesitated. “We don’t know. The next 48 hours are critical.”

She nodded. Too fast. “Can I see him?”

“Yes. One visitor at a time.”

Holt nodded silently, stepping back. “Go.”

⸻

ICU, Room 19
12:19 AM

Jake looked small.

The bed was massive. The beeping of machines filled the sterile air. His face was paler than she’d ever seen it, his lips dry, eyes hidden behind closed lids. A gauze wrap encircled his skull, and his leg was elevated in a monstrous brace.

Amy crossed the room slowly and sat in the vinyl chair beside the bed. She didn’t cry, not yet. She couldn’t. The moment was too fragile, too sacred.

She just watched him breathe.

In. Out. Machine hiss. Machine beep.

She reached out, found his hand. Warm. Thank God.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “You made it. Sort of. You idiot.”

No response, of course.

So she leaned in, resting her forehead gently against his hand.

“I’m going to be right here until you wake up.”

She didn’t leave that night.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just sat, and listened to him breathe.

Chapter 2: Watching, Waiting

Amy woke to the soft, irregular beep of the heart monitor and the steady hum of the IV drip.

Her neck ached. Her back protested with every shift. She’d fallen asleep hunched forward, cheek pressed to Jake’s hospital bed, her hand still wrapped around his. When she lifted her head, a crease from the starched sheet remained etched along her jawline.

The room was still dim, the only light filtering in from a thin strip of sun pushing through the blinds. Jake hadn’t moved. His face was as pale as it had been the night before, lips dry and cracked, eyelids still bruised purple beneath the gauze-wrapped crown of his head.

Amy’s first breath of the day was shaky.

She sat back in the vinyl chair, trying to stretch out the stiffness in her spine, but her hand never left his.

“Morning,” she said softly, her voice still thick with sleep.

She waited.

No response.

Of course.

Her fingers gently smoothed his hair—what wasn’t covered in bandage. “You missed roll call,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “I covered for you. Told Holt you were probably stopping for your third breakfast croissant and couldn’t risk being late to your… fourth.”

The joke didn’t land. Not without him to smirk at her delivery, or throw in something dumb like, “I only eat four if they’re mini.”

She blinked hard, resisting the sting behind her eyes.

“God, Jake,” she whispered. “You were right there. You were talking to me not even an hour before it happened and now I don’t know if you’ll ever…”

She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t finish the thought.

There was a knock on the door.

Amy stiffened, quickly wiping her eyes. “Yeah?”

The door creaked open. Terry’s large frame filled the doorway. His tie was crooked. His eyes were swollen from lack of sleep.

“I brought you coffee,” he said gently, holding it out like an offering.

Amy stood, joints creaking, and took it from him with a nod of thanks. “Thanks, Sarge.”

Terry glanced toward Jake’s motionless form and stepped inside.

“Any change?”

Amy shook her head.

Terry exhaled slowly, then lowered himself into the second visitor chair. “The whole squad’s a mess.”

Amy managed a tight, broken smile. “He has that effect.”

Terry looked over at her, his voice careful. “You okay?”

“No,” Amy said honestly. “But I’m upright.”

“Rosa’s been calling every hour. Boyle tried to sneak in with empanadas and almost got tackled by hospital security. Even Holt said he couldn’t focus on administrative reports and had to sit in the breakroom for twenty minutes just staring at a wall.”

Amy didn’t smile this time. “I don’t know what to do. I know the stats. I know the likelihood of regaining consciousness after blunt-force trauma of this kind. But sitting here and not knowing… it’s like trying to breathe underwater.”

Terry’s voice dropped. “You love him.”

It wasn’t a question.

Amy’s stomach flipped. She looked down at her coffee, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

She hadn’t said it out loud. Not to anyone. Not even to herself, not fully. Not until last night when he was covered in blood and barely breathing.

“I don’t know how to do this if he doesn’t come back,” she whispered. “We’ve been partners for six years. He’s my best friend. My person. And it’s always been this… line. Between us. I never said anything because I didn’t want to screw it up. I thought maybe one day he’d say something, or I’d get over it, or it wouldn’t matter. But now…”

She looked at Jake again, took in the blank stillness of his face.

“It matters,” she said. “More than anything.”

Terry was silent for a long moment.

Then he reached out and gently squeezed her shoulder. “You’re not alone, Santiago. No matter what happens.”

⸻

9:14 AM

The hospital hallway was busier now—residents moving in packs, nurses rolling charts from one room to another, the smell of disinfectant sharp and sterile.

Amy stepped into the hallway for the first time since the night before, stretching her legs and trying to catch her breath. The world felt too loud. Too normal.

Rosa was waiting outside, arms crossed, eyes rimmed with red behind her smudged eyeliner. She didn’t say anything—just pulled Amy into a silent hug that lasted longer than expected.

“I left three voicemails,” Rosa said.

“I know. I just…”

“You don’t have to explain.” Rosa looked toward the door. “Any change?”

Amy shook her head. “Still unconscious. They don’t know if he’ll wake up today. Or tomorrow. Or ever.”

Rosa’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t ask anything else. “Want me to bring you some real food?”

Amy considered it. “Maybe later. I just want to sit with him for a while.”

Rosa nodded, then paused before she left. “Tell him to get his ass up. He listens to you.”

Amy almost smiled. “If that worked, he wouldn’t have used my office chair as a racetrack three days ago.”

But Rosa had already turned away.

⸻

10:02 AM

Back inside, the morning sun had begun to spill more fully through the blinds. It turned Jake’s skin warm and soft, not so ghostly anymore.

Amy sat again, coffee now cold and forgotten on the windowsill.

She took his hand.

“You know,” she said softly, “you missed trivia night last week. Boyle tried to fill in for you, but it turns out knowing 200 sausage facts does not equate to general knowledge.”

No response. Not even a flicker.

Amy sighed. “I was going to tell you. Before the case. I was going to say something stupid like, ‘Hey, you ever wonder if maybe we’re wasting time pretending we don’t feel something?’ But I chickened out. Because it’s you. And you’ve always been you. Funny, annoying, brilliant, maddening, ridiculous Jake. And I wasn’t sure what I’d do if saying it out loud broke what we have.”

Her thumb brushed his knuckles.

“But now I’d give anything just to hear you call me a nerd one more time.”

The monitor beeped steadily. The room was still.

Amy closed her eyes and rested her head gently beside his arm.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “So whenever you’re ready… come back to me.”

______

The hospital lights dimmed to a low, bluish glow in the late evening hours, meant to mimic restfulness, though Amy found no rest in it.

She had changed into sweatpants and one of the spare shirts Rosa had dropped off, something soft and too big. She had washed her face in the fourth-floor bathroom and combed her hair back into a tight ponytail in an attempt to feel remotely human. The result was passable. But her eyes still burned. Her chest still ached.

She hadn’t left the room all day.

Jake still hadn’t moved.

At 9:42 PM, a nurse quietly entered to check his vitals, scribbled on a chart, adjusted a drip, and nodded silently to Amy before leaving again. Amy remained in the corner chair, legs pulled up under her, watching his face like she might memorize it.

The silence in the room was deafening.

The only sounds were the rhythm of machines and the occasional hallway footsteps beyond the closed door. Sometimes she found herself trying to match her breathing to his—the rise and fall of his chest under the scratchy white blanket, the most grounding sign she had that he was still here.

She hadn’t spoken to him much tonight. Words were starting to feel empty. Like promises whispered into a void. So instead, she just sat there, wrapped in the quiet weight of waiting.

At 10:03 PM, she stepped into the hallway, needing to stretch, needing to move.

Her legs were leaden as she paced down the corridor, past the soft buzz of vending machines and the worn linoleum tiles. She paused at a corner, halfway between Jake’s door and the end of the wing, when she heard voices—low, intimate, murmured.

It was Rosa.

“I’ve never seen her like this,” Rosa said, voice quiet but fierce. “She didn’t even cry when her shoulder got dislocated during that warehouse bust. But this? She’s unraveling in real time.”

There was a pause. Then Holt’s calm, measured tone: “She’s operating in a state of anticipatory grief.”

Amy stiffened, heart crawling into her throat.

“She won’t let herself believe he might die,” Holt went on. “So instead, she’s suspended herself in a cycle of hope and dread. It’s common in trauma-adjacent cases involving loved ones.”

“She’s not sleeping. She’s not eating,” Rosa said. “She’s just… there. With him. Every second.”

“She’s not just his partner,” Holt said. “She’s his person.”

Another silence.

“You think he knows?”

“I think he knows enough.”

Amy turned before she heard anything else. She moved quickly, quietly back to Jake’s room, chest tight, pulse thudding in her ears. She shut the door gently behind her and leaned against it, breathing shallow.

He’s my person.

She looked at him again. Pale, still, unreachable.

⸻

Later that night

The light from the hallway crept in under the door. Amy curled again into the hospital chair, blanket draped over her legs, her head on the armrest beside Jake’s bed. She kept her hand in his, thumb absently stroking the back of his fingers.

Her eyes drifted closed, not fully asleep—never quite able to surrender—but drifting in and out of memory.

⸻

Flashback: Three Years Ago

The bullpen buzzed with noise—phones ringing, Boyle talking too loudly about lasagna science, someone’s printer jamming for the fifth time that week.

Amy had just returned from a grueling twelve-hour stakeout and had precisely five minutes to finish a report. Her shirt was stained with coffee. Her back hurt.

Jake appeared beside her desk with a ridiculous grin and a bag of gummy bears.

“You look like you just lost a fight with a fax machine.”

“I did,” she muttered.

“Well then, I brought sugar. The first step to emotional recovery.”

He tossed the bag onto her desk and grinned again. She arched an eyebrow but smiled, despite herself.

“I don’t need your pity bears.”

“You do. Accept the bear love, Santiago.”

⸻

Flashback: Two Years Ago

Amy had a panic attack after her gun jammed during a training exercise. No one knew. She’d hidden in the stairwell behind the precinct gym, hands shaking, trying to breathe.

Jake found her fifteen minutes later. He didn’t say anything. Just sat beside her, quiet.

Eventually, he pulled out a baseball card from his wallet—a bizarre habit she’d teased him about endlessly—and offered it to her.

“This is Nolan Ryan. He once pitched 235 pitches in a single game.”

She looked at him through watery eyes.

“What’s the point of that?”

“No point. Just thought you should know something impressive. Distract your brain.”

It had worked.

⸻

Flashback: Seven Months Ago

They’d gone undercover at a couple’s retreat. She had shared a bed with him for four nights. Nothing had happened. But one night, she’d woken up in the dark to find his hand resting near hers.

He was asleep. His pinky barely touched her thumb. And instead of pulling away, she had let it stay there.

In the morning, neither of them had mentioned it.

But something between them had shifted.

⸻

Present

Amy stirred awake again, blinking at the monitor. Still beeping. Still stable. Still him.

She reached up to touch his cheek. “Jake…”

Her voice caught. “You were always there for me. Every moment. Even when I was impossible. Even when I didn’t ask.”

Her throat tightened. “Please… just don’t make me learn how to live without you.”

The machines kept beeping. The oxygen line hissed gently.

No movement.

But her hand remained in his, anchored.

And she stayed there—watching, waiting, remembering—until morning returned again.

Chapter 3: Come Back To Me

The hospital room had started to smell like too much Lysol and not enough life.

Amy had stayed three nights.

She didn’t know what day it was. Not really. Her phone said Thursday, but her body didn’t believe it. Her body believed in the rhythm of the monitors, the stiff pullout chair cushion, and the ache in her spine from sitting up too straight for too long.

When Rosa came by that morning, she didn’t ask permission. She just walked in, set a bag of food on the table, and said quietly, “Go home. Shower. Sleep. I’ll stay with him.”

Amy opened her mouth to argue, but Rosa didn’t budge.

“You’ll be better for him if you take a second to breathe,” she said. “He’d make you leave, you know.”

Amy knew. Jake would’ve made a whole production of it. Dramatic fainting into the hospital pillow, probably. He would’ve said something like, “Go, Santiago. Save yourself. Shower before your eyebrows start rebelling.”

So she went.

Reluctantly.

⸻

Her apartment was too quiet.

It hit her the second the door clicked shut behind her. The quiet was a living thing—dense, heavy, stretching out through every corner of the space.

She stood just inside the threshold, unmoving, her keys still in her hand.

The last time she’d been home, it had been just another night. She’d gotten home late from a shift. Jake had texted her something stupid about the vending machine at the precinct being haunted. She’d laughed. She’d read his message twice. She hadn’t said anything back because she’d wanted to stretch it out. Keep the thread going.

And then the next morning had come. The case. The warehouse.

The blood.

Her stomach turned.

She finally moved, toes dragging across the floor, stepping into the living room like a stranger in her own life.

She collapsed onto the couch. Her face found the pillow. She didn’t cry, not right away. She just lay there, face buried, gripping the fabric until her knuckles were white.

Jake’s laugh echoed in her head like a memory. His dumb jokes. The way he always acted like a kid when he solved something before her. The way he always waited an extra second at crosswalks so she never had to walk behind him.

She sat up slowly, pulling the pillow into her lap. She should shower. Eat. Change.

Instead, she walked toward the bookshelf.

A soft, clumsy shuffle.

There, tucked between her precinct yearbooks and her old college Criminal Law texts, was something wildly out of place.

A novelty mug.

It was blue, chipped on the handle, and said “Cool Story, Bro. Tell It Again” in bold sarcastic letters.

Jake had given it to her six months ago after she caught him napping in interrogation and lectured him for twenty minutes. He’d said it was the perfect response tool for her long-winded monologues.

She’d threatened to break it. Secretly, she’d kept it right there where she could see it every day.

She picked it up, her fingers tracing the rim. She sat down on the floor with it in her lap like it was something sacred.

And that’s when the tears came.

Slow, deep, silent tears.

She didn’t sob. She didn’t move.

She just let it happen.

“I’m not okay,” she whispered aloud, to the empty room, to the mug in her lap, to Jake somewhere in a hospital bed with tubes in his chest and tape on his skin. “I don’t know how to be okay without you.”

Her thumb brushed over the words on the mug.

“I didn’t say it,” she murmured. “I was waiting. Waiting for the right time. For the perfect moment. Like a moron.”

Her voice cracked. “Jake… I’m in love with you. And you don’t even know. Or maybe you do. God, I hope you do.”

She leaned her forehead against her knees, still clutching the mug.

“I just want you back. I’d take anything. Just—wake up. Please.”

⸻

Two hours later, she was in the shower, water scalding hot, hands braced on the tile wall, when her phone buzzed from the counter.

She didn’t rush to it. Part of her was afraid.

When she finally looked, it was a message from Rosa:

No change yet. Still steady. Holt brought soup. You’re not missing much. Get some real rest. Love you.

Amy stared at the words. Love you.

She didn’t say it back. She didn’t know how to say anything right now.

But when she got out of the shower, wrapped in a towel and shaking from exhaustion, she knew exactly where she needed to be.

Back at the hospital.

Back beside Jake.

⸻

Late Afternoon

By the time she returned, the nurses had adjusted his head slightly, angled toward the window. His skin looked a little less pale. Or maybe she just imagined that.

She didn’t ask questions.

She just slid into the chair again, pulled her knees up, and took his hand.

“I’m home,” she whispered, voice soft. “Not home home. That doesn’t feel like home right now. But… here. With you.”

His fingers didn’t move.

But the monitors kept singing their quiet, steady rhythm.

She reached into her bag and placed the chipped blue mug on the window ledge. It caught the late sun and glinted a little. A small piece of their real world in the sterile calm.

She leaned in, her voice close to his ear.

“I told it again, Peralta. Your cool story. You better come back and make fun of me for it.”

She didn’t cry this time.

But she stayed.

Until the stars came out.

And even then—she stayed.

______

The night nurse dimmed the lights at 2:00 a.m. Amy didn’t notice.

She’d pulled the blanket tighter over her legs, curled sideways in the chair, and angled herself just enough to rest her head close to Jake’s arm on the bed. One hand clutched his—still warm, still unmoving—and the other lay on her chest, fingers curled into the soft knit of her sweater like she could keep herself from falling apart if she just held on tight enough.

The chair had stopped being uncomfortable days ago.

The pain was somewhere else now. Deeper. Quieter. Heavier.

What if he never wakes up?
What if he’s here and I missed my chance?
What if this is it?

She didn’t sleep much that night. When she did, it came in fits—her dreams all tangled up in warehouse rafters and red-stained concrete and Jake’s badge lying still in her hands.

At 5:46 a.m., she woke with a sharp inhale, not sure why.

A sound?

A feeling?

Her back ached. Her knees were stiff. She sat up slowly, adjusting her stiff neck, and looked over at Jake.

Same machines.

Same lines in and out of him.

Same everything.

She exhaled and rubbed her eyes. The mug still sat in the window, catching the first thin light of morning. For a second, she just watched the dust motes float around it.

And then—

He twitched.

It was small. So small she might have imagined it.

But she didn’t move. She didn’t blink. She stared, frozen.

Jake’s fingers. His left hand. It jerked again.

“Jake?” she breathed, her heart stumbling in her chest.

She reached for the call button with trembling hands, pressing it hard, twice. Her voice rose as she turned back to him. “Jake, hey. It’s me. Amy. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

His eyelids fluttered—just a flicker. No more.

But her hand was gripping his now, full of desperate heat and love and fear, her body shaking as she leaned closer.

“Come on, Peralta,” she whispered, forehead brushing his temple. “Come back. You have to come back.”

A nurse burst in, followed closely by a resident doctor. They were calm, but Amy couldn’t hear their words. All she could see was the faint motion under his lashes, the slight turn of his head toward her.

“Was it a seizure?” she asked, panic clawing up her spine.

“No,” the nurse said quickly. “No, it looked voluntary. Maybe a reflex, but… it’s promising. Stay right here, Detective. Let us run a quick neuro check.”

Amy backed up but stayed close, arms folded across her chest like she was holding herself together by sheer compression. The nurse lifted Jake’s eyelid, shone a penlight. The doctor asked his name twice, quietly, like speaking into a veil.

Jake didn’t answer.

But he grimaced.

The doctor turned to her with a tired, cautious smile.

“It’s not a guarantee,” she said gently. “But that was movement. And it looked purposeful. That’s a good sign, Detective Santiago.”

Amy’s knees nearly gave out. She caught herself on the chair, her knuckles white on the metal armrest.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

She sat again as the team left the room to update his chart.

She took his hand again, the one that had moved, and brought it to her cheek.

“You’re still in there,” she whispered. “I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t leave me.”

The tears came again, sudden and hot—but this time, they weren’t only grief. They were relief. Hope. Something more like light than shadow.

“I need you to wake up, Jake,” she said through a cracked voice. “Because when you do… I have things to say. Things I should’ve said a long time ago.”

She reached for her bag, pulling out her notebook. It was something she always carried—half case notes, half life notes. In clean block letters at the top of a blank page, she wrote:

For When You Wake Up

And she began writing him a letter.

⸻

Two hours later, Rosa and Boyle arrived.

Amy didn’t get up right away. She looked tired, paler than usual, but something had changed in her posture—like a weight had shifted ever so slightly off her chest.

“He moved,” she said simply, before they could ask.

Rosa’s arms crossed slowly, her brow lifting in that rare expression of hope.

“Are you sure?”

“I saw it. The nurse saw it. The doctor thinks it’s purposeful. He’s… closer than before.”

Boyle let out a long, shaky breath. “That’s… oh, that’s so good.”

They didn’t try to hug her. Rosa just leaned on the edge of the windowsill, eyeing the mug but not asking.

“He’s gonna want pizza when he wakes up,” Boyle said gently. “And the gross vending machine nachos.”

Amy gave a tired smile. “I’ll allow it. Once he’s up and fully conscious, I’ll let him ruin his gastrointestinal tract however he wants.”

Silence lapsed for a moment.

Rosa said, “You should go home again. Sleep. I mean real sleep. He might need you when he wakes up for real.”

Amy shook her head. “No. I need to be here. He doesn’t know where he is. I don’t want him to be alone when he opens his eyes.”

She looked down at Jake again.

Then, almost without thinking, she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it softly, eyes closed.

Rosa and Boyle exchanged a glance.

They didn’t say a word.

Because now they knew.

______

The room was quiet again. The kind of stillness that hums in the walls after adrenaline fades, after visiting voices recede down sterile hallways and machines settle into their rhythms.

Amy sat curled up in the hospital chair, a fleece blanket tucked around her legs, Jake’s hand resting in hers like an anchor. She hadn’t changed clothes in over a day—just swapped out her blazer for a sweatshirt from her locker that smelled like paperwork and lavender hand sanitizer. Her ponytail sagged, her makeup was long gone, and there was a pressure behind her eyes like a migraine threatening to bloom.

But she was awake.

Because Jake still hadn’t been.

Not fully.

He’d twitched again, earlier. Another flicker. The nurses had called it “progress.” The doctor had said, “It’s encouraging.” Amy had nodded politely.

But that wasn’t what she wanted.

She wanted him. Awake. Talking. Joking. Snorting at his own puns. She wanted the full technicolor version of Jake Peralta—not this pale, unmoving outline.

Still, her notebook sat beside her on the rolling tray table, flipped open to a second letter she’d started just before midnight.

“They say recovery happens in inches, not miles. So okay. We’ll go inch by inch. Just don’t leave me behind.”

She sniffed quietly and reached for her thermos, taking a sip of lukewarm coffee. She hadn’t planned to stay another night, but when Rosa and Boyle left, and the sun had started to lower behind the concrete buildings, she’d known she wasn’t going anywhere.

At 2:17 a.m., a low murmur of voices reached her from the hallway.

She heard Holt’s voice first—deep, slow, unmistakable.

Then Rosa’s. Quieter, measured, but firm.

Amy didn’t mean to listen, but the door was cracked just enough.

“Any change?” Holt asked.

“He moved again. Twice today. Santiago saw it.”

There was a pause. A long one.

“And she hasn’t left?”

“No, sir. Not once since yesterday morning.”

“Has she eaten?”

“…I brought her a granola bar.”

Another pause.

“She’s—different,” Rosa said finally, softer than Amy had ever heard her. “Since this happened. I think—she’s trying to hold up the whole world.”

“She’s resilient,” Holt replied.

“She’s in love with him,” Rosa said plainly.

Amy froze.

The silence that followed was almost louder than the words themselves.

Eventually, Holt spoke. “Yes. I suspect she is.”

Amy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She didn’t know why hearing someone else say it out loud made her feel like something cracked open inside her. Maybe because she hadn’t admitted it to herself until now. Not completely.

Not until he was lying broken in a hospital bed and her chest ached every second he wasn’t awake to make another dumb Die Hard reference.

Rosa continued, “If he doesn’t wake up, I don’t think she’ll recover from it.”

“She will,” Holt said gently. “But I hope she won’t have to.”

Their footsteps retreated, leaving Amy alone again with the monitors and the faint ticking of the second hand on the wall clock.

She stood slowly, stretched out the cramp in her hip, and crossed to the window where the city lights glittered in distant silence.

It didn’t feel like the same Brooklyn she knew.

Not without him in it.

She turned back and looked at him—at the slack line of his jaw, the uneven bruise still fading down his neck, the scars along his temple where the glass had cut him during the blast.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” she whispered, coming to sit again. “But in case you can…”

She hesitated, then picked up his hand again, her thumb gently tracing his knuckles.

“I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for a while. I didn’t know it until the second you stopped breathing. And I hate that it took something like this to make me say it.”

The monitor beeped steadily.

She didn’t expect a response.

But something happened. Not a twitch. Not a flinch.

Just a breath.

Slightly deeper than the others.

Like something had registered.

She leaned forward, afraid to hope too hard. Her eyes locked on his face.

“Jake?”

A pause.

And then—

A tiny, impossible sound.

A groan.

His brow twitched—barely, but it was there. His fingers flexed in hers.

Amy’s heart stopped and sprinted all at once.

She leaned closer, her voice trembling. “Jake? Come on. Say something. Just one word. Please.”

His mouth opened, cracked lips parting.

Nothing came at first.

Then, hoarse. So faint it almost wasn’t real:

“…cool…cool…”

Amy burst into tears.

Half a laugh escaped her too, unbidden. She pressed her forehead to his hand and cried openly, freely, her body wracked with the relief of it.

He was in there.

He was Jake.

And he was coming back.

Chapter 4: I Meant It

The monitors were still steady, but this time, every beep seemed more… intentional. Rhythmic. As though Jake’s body was syncing back into the world around it.

Amy hadn’t moved since he spoke.

She was still holding his hand, forehead bowed against his knuckles, tears drying on her cheeks, as the weight of the past forty-eight hours started lifting by degrees. Not all at once. But enough to breathe again.

“Jake?” she whispered, raising her head. Her eyes were wide, searching his face for something solid.

His brow creased again—slow, subtle—and his lips parted with effort.

“Amy?”

Her name was raspy, strained, like it scraped his throat on the way out. But it was hers.

She leaned forward instinctively. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. I’m right here.”

He blinked sluggishly, his eyes unfocused. It was like watching someone come up for air after being underwater too long.

“I—where—?” he rasped, swallowing hard. His free hand weakly gripped the blanket, as though trying to place himself.

“You’re at Methodist Hospital. You’ve been out for two days. There was a warehouse… you were trying to protect me. A guy with a gun. You got hit. You…” she faltered, voice wobbling. “You almost didn’t make it.”

Jake’s gaze, still hazy, flicked to her face. “You okay?”

She nearly choked. “Me? Jake, you were in a coma.”

“But you’re okay?” he insisted, even weaker this time.

The floodgates nearly opened again.

She nodded hard. “Yes. I’m okay. I’m fine. You saved me.”

His hand squeezed hers faintly—barely there, but unmistakable.

“You always were the tough one,” he murmured.

That did it.

A sob escaped her throat. Not loud, but deep, like it had lived in her chest for years. She sat forward, her head resting lightly on the edge of the bed as her shoulders shook, hand still wrapped in his.

Jake turned his head slightly—an enormous effort, judging by the way his face pinched in exhaustion—but it let him see her more clearly.

“Did I… was it bad?” he asked after a moment. “I don’t remember… after the shot.”

“You passed out before backup got there. You were bleeding and pinned, and I—” she paused, swallowed hard. “I didn’t know if you’d ever wake up.”

Jake was quiet for a long moment, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.

“Must’ve scared you,” he finally said, almost like an apology.

Amy let out a wet laugh, wiping at her eyes. “You think?”

He smiled. Just a little. One corner of his mouth.

And she wanted to memorize it. That first real smile. Half-there, crooked, sleepy. But his.

Jake Peralta, alive. Awake.

“I stayed,” she said softly, after a pause. “Every night. Haven’t left this room.”

“I figured,” he murmured. “The blanket smells like your lavender lotion.”

She blinked at him, surprised. “You can smell that?”

Jake gave a tiny shrug. “Or I dreamed it. You were in my head the whole time.”

Amy stared at him. Her breath caught.

“Jake…”

He looked at her slowly. “I thought I was gonna die.”

Her heart clenched.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know you did.”

“I remember thinking…” He stopped, frowning slightly, trying to gather a thought that kept drifting just beyond his reach. “I couldn’t let you get hurt. That was all I cared about. You. You always show up for me. I had to show up for you, even if I didn’t make it through it.”

Amy was crying again before she could stop herself.

“I didn’t get to say everything I wanted to,” he added. “Before it happened.”

“You still can,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Silence stretched between them, tender and raw.

Then—

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said. Blunt, honest, like it was the only truth he had left.

Amy exhaled a laugh that cracked halfway through. “Jake.”

“I mean, I might be high on pain meds,” he added sleepily. “So if this is super weird later, you can blame the morphine.”

She shook her head, smiling even as tears streaked her cheeks.

“I already said it,” she murmured. “To you. When you couldn’t hear me.”

Jake blinked at her.

“I’m in love with you too,” she said. “And no, I’m not high. Just… exhausted. And scared. And finally letting myself say what I’ve known for months.”

He looked at her—really looked. His gaze clearer now. A little more aware.

Even bruised and weak, there was something in his face that settled when he heard that. Like something inside him finally aligned.

“Cool, cool, cool,” he murmured. “No doubt, no doubt.”

Amy laughed through the ache.

Then she stood, leaned down slowly, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Gentle. Steady. The kind that said I’m not leaving you again.

His eyes fluttered closed.

“You should rest,” she whispered.

“Will you still be here?” he asked, barely audible now.

“Always,” she said.

______

Jake had drifted off not long after their whispered confessions. Sleep took him quickly—his body still trying to catch up to all it had endured. Tubes still ran from his arm, monitors still beeped steadily, but Amy could already see the difference. The color in his cheeks. The evenness of his breath. The twitch of his fingers now and then.

He was back.

She stayed in the chair, curled with a blanket and one hand still on the edge of the mattress, as the early light filtered through the blinds in thin stripes. She watched him sleep like it was the only thing that made sense.

Eventually, there was a knock.

She startled slightly—still on edge—and turned to see Charles Boyle poking his head in, eyes wide with hesitant hope.

“Amy?” he whispered. “Is…?”

She stood up slowly, heart full. “He’s awake.”

Boyle burst in like a quiet explosion, hands flying to his mouth. “What? When?”

“Early this morning. He only said a few words before falling asleep again, but he knew who I was. He… said my name.” Amy’s voice cracked slightly, but her smile remained steady.

Boyle’s eyes welled instantly. “Can I—can I sit with him for a minute?”

She nodded and stepped aside.

Charles sank into the chair like it was a holy place and took Jake’s hand like it was made of glass. “Hey, buddy. It’s me. You came back. You did it.”

Amy watched from the window, giving them a moment. Her throat tightened again. How many nights had she sat in that same chair, whispering the same impossible hope?

About twenty minutes later, Rosa arrived—quiet, no-nonsense, with two coffees in her hand. She passed one to Amy without a word, then sat across the room.

“He looks better,” she said softly.

“He is.” Amy sipped gratefully. “He’ll be okay.”

“You’ll be okay?”

Amy blinked at the question. Rosa’s eyes were on her—direct but not unkind.

Amy hesitated. Then she nodded, but it wasn’t convincing.

“I thought I’d lost him,” she admitted, voice low. “And for so long I didn’t even let myself believe I felt this way. Not until it was almost too late.”

Rosa leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t miss your chance.”

Amy glanced back at the bed. Jake stirred a little, his brow twitching in a dream. She knew his dreams—had studied his face long enough to read even his subconscious.

“No,” she said. “But I think I lost myself a little in all of it.”

Rosa gave a slow nod.

Amy continued, voice quieter now. “I didn’t sleep. I didn’t feel anything except panic. I had to keep it together so no one else would fall apart.”

“You’re allowed to fall apart now,” Rosa said, her voice gentle in a way only she knew how to make it.

Amy looked down. Her fingers were trembling, and she hadn’t even realized it.

Rosa stood and crossed the room in two steps. She pulled Amy into a rare but fierce hug.

For a long moment, Amy stood stiff. Then she melted. Her hands gripped the back of Rosa’s jacket as her body shook with sobs she had buried for days. No words. Just all of it—fear, exhaustion, grief, relief—spilling out in quiet waves.

Rosa held her through it. “You did good,” she murmured. “You kept him here. He heard you.”

When they pulled apart, Amy wiped her eyes. “He told me… he loves me.”

Rosa’s brows lifted slightly. “So that’s finally out there.”

Amy gave a wet laugh. “Yeah.”

More footsteps approached, and in came Terry and Holt together, both stopping in the doorway like they were crossing into sacred ground.

“He’s still resting,” Amy told them quickly, sniffing and brushing her hair back. “But he’s awake. Aware. He said my name.”

Terry let out a breath of pure relief. Holt gave a quiet nod, folding his arms across his chest.

“Detective Peralta,” Holt said, his voice softer than usual, “has always been the type to hold out until the dramatic moment.”

Amy smiled. “Yeah. He really nailed the timing.”

Terry clapped a hand on her shoulder, warm and strong. “You okay, Santiago?”

She opened her mouth to answer. Closed it. Then nodded slowly. “Getting there.”

They stayed for a while—rotating chairs, reading charts, giving Jake soft words when he stirred. Boyle got weepy again and took five minutes in the hallway to “emotionally hydrate,” as he put it. Rosa stayed until Amy made her promise to get some real food.

By late afternoon, the sun crept golden into the room. Amy had drifted off beside the bed again, one hand tucked under her cheek on the mattress, the other loosely wrapped in Jake’s.

Jake woke.

This time, his eyes opened fully.

And the first thing he saw was her.

He didn’t speak. Not yet. He just looked.

Amy stirred, sensing him, and blinked up blearily. Then she saw him—awake, watching her, the corners of his eyes crinkled faintly like he wanted to smile.

She sat up instantly, brushing hair from her face. “Jake?”

He nodded—slow, tired, but unmistakable.

“You’re really back,” she whispered.

“You were right here,” he murmured. “When I opened my eyes. Just like I dreamed.”

Amy pressed her hand to his cheek, heart wide open. “You’ve been gone for days.”

“I had to find my way back,” he said. “But I knew you’d be here.”

Her face broke into a smile laced with tears. She leaned forward, kissed his forehead again, this time feeling the warmth behind his skin, the slight movement as he leaned into it.

They didn’t say more for a long time.

They didn’t need to.

______

Jake woke with sunlight on his face and a dull ache behind his eyes—not pain exactly, but weight. Like his body was a suit he hadn’t worn in a while and he was still settling back into it.

The room was quiet. Somewhere outside, a cart rattled down the hallway. Monitors beeped steadily. He blinked up at the ceiling, then turned his head slowly—his neck sore but functional.

Amy was there.

Not asleep this time. Just sitting beside him, curled up in a sweatshirt two sizes too big, one hand tucked under her chin as she scrolled slowly through her phone.

He let out a quiet breath. She looked up immediately.

“Hey,” she said, soft and careful like she wasn’t sure if this version of him would still be real.

“Hey,” he rasped.

She leaned forward, eyes sweeping over him. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got into a bar fight with a tractor trailer,” he said, voice gravelly but steady. “Did I win?”

“You’re alive,” she said, smiling. “That’s a win.”

Jake shifted slightly in the bed and winced. Amy was already reaching to adjust his pillows. Her hand brushed his shoulder, and he felt it all the way through his ribs.

“How long was I out?” he asked.

She hesitated. “Five days. Two in surgery. The rest… waiting.”

He swallowed. “You were here the whole time?”

Amy sat back, brushing hair from her face. “Every night. I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

Jake blinked at the ceiling, trying to push down the lump in his throat. “Did I say anything weird while I was… you know, drifting in and out?”

She smiled, eyes glassy. “You called me ‘Captain Hothead’ once. And mumbled something about dying with honor in a bear trap.”

“Sounds about right.”

Then, quieter: “You also told me you loved me.”

Jake froze.

Amy kept her gaze steady. “You don’t have to say it again, if it was the painkillers talking. But I thought you should know.”

Jake turned his head to face her fully. His heart was thudding now, slow but insistent.

“I remember,” he said. “It wasn’t the meds.”

Amy’s breath hitched.

“I meant it,” Jake continued, voice soft. “I think I’ve loved you for a long time. I just… didn’t realize how much until I almost lost the chance to tell you.”

Amy’s eyes filled instantly. “Jake…”

“I woke up and you were there. Every time. You were the thing I held onto.”

She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his.

“I didn’t let myself think about how I felt,” she said, voice thick. “Not really. I thought it would ruin everything. I thought we were too good as partners to mess it up with… feelings.”

Jake gave a tired but crooked smile. “Spoiler alert: feelings messed it up anyway.”

Amy laughed, teary. “Yeah. They really did.”

They sat in silence, hand in hand, breathing the same air. Then Jake spoke again.

“What now?” he asked.

Amy looked at him for a long moment. “You get better. You let the squad fuss over you. And when you’re up for it… we figure this out.”

“You’re not scared?”

“I’m terrified,” she said. “But also… I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He let her words settle, like sunlight filtering through the blinds, warm and steady.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

A knock came at the door, and in stepped Boyle, armed with a tray of what looked like muffins, juice boxes, and a collection of “Get Well” balloons that had tangled themselves into a disastrous mess.

Jake grinned. “Hey buddy.”

Charles stopped short. “You’re talking.”

“Yup. Like a real human. No bear trap in sight.”

Charles dropped the tray onto the windowsill and launched himself toward the bed in a careful but exuberant hug.

Amy stepped back, watching them, her heart fuller than she could handle.

This was real.

Jake was awake. He remembered. And somehow, against the odds and the silence and all the times they hadn’t said the thing out loud—they were here.

Chapter 5: Just Needing You

The hospital days stretched longer than Jake had hoped and shorter than Amy was ready for.

After that first full conversation, where the words “I love you” had stopped being a whispered confession and started living in the light, things shifted. Not all at once—but enough. Their conversations were softer. Their silences easier. Amy brought crossword puzzles and books he wouldn’t read. Jake made jokes even when they hurt his ribs to laugh. Sometimes they just watched reruns of Jeopardy! and let their hands rest near each other without touching, like a promise quietly forming.

Still, his recovery wasn’t glamorous. There were bedpans and sponge baths. An unfortunate allergic reaction to hospital pudding. Physical therapy that left him pale and gritting his teeth. Sometimes his hand would tremble so badly he’d fumble the spoon, and Amy would quietly take over, feeding him soup without saying a word about it.

He hated feeling helpless.

But he didn’t hate that it was her helping him.

Amy seemed to know when to talk and when not to, when to let him joke and when to meet his eyes and say, “Hey. You’re doing enough. Just breathe.”

When they weren’t watching TV or talking quietly about the squad’s texts, she worked beside him. Files spread on the hospital tray table. Case notes annotated in her neat, decisive handwriting. Occasionally she’d read him his own reports—“Jake, you literally described this suspect as a ‘creepy suburban Dracula.’”—and he’d grin and say, “Not wrong though.”

By week two, he was up and walking slowly with assistance. By week three, he was cleared to leave.

“You sure you’re ready?” Amy asked, standing beside the discharge nurse.

Jake rolled his eyes but looked exhausted. “I’m more than ready. I need a real shower and sheets that don’t feel like recycled paper towels.”

Amy gave a soft smile and glanced at the nurse. “He has a place he can go?”

Jake’s apartment wasn’t exactly rehab-friendly. Fourth-floor walkup. Broken radiator. The couch had a spring that stabbed you if you leaned left.

“I was thinking… maybe you could come to my place. Just until you’re steadier.”

He looked up at her, surprised.

She shrugged quickly, defensive. “You’d be more comfortable. No stairs. Better food. Plus I’d get to supervise your physical therapy and make sure you don’t sneak out to chase any perps with a still-healing spleen.”

He smiled, slow and genuine. “You sure?”

Amy nodded. “Yeah. I want to.”

Jake leaned back into the wheelchair. “Then lead the way, Nurse Santiago.”

⸻

Her apartment became his halfway world.

The living room was tidy and smelled like citrus. Her couch didn’t stab him. The guest bed was made with hospital corners—of course—and she’d cleared a shelf in the bathroom for his stuff.

They quickly fell into a rhythm.

Mornings: slow showers, coffee, a walk around the block if he felt up to it.

Afternoons: PT exercises in the living room, paperwork she snuck from Holt, leftovers for lunch.

Evenings: movies, arguments about which snack foods were superior, Amy trying to beat his high score in Mario Kart and never succeeding.

One night, after a particularly rough day of soreness and a long nap that had made him groggy and irritable, Jake found her sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop open, glasses on, hair down.

She looked up and smiled tiredly. “You okay?”

He hesitated in the doorway.

“I don’t know how to be this version of me,” he said finally. “The one who needs help. The one who sits on the bench.”

Amy closed her laptop.

“I know,” she said, coming to him. “But you don’t have to be anything except here.”

And he let her guide him to the couch, let her pull a blanket over his lap, and when she sat beside him—close but not pushing—he leaned in. Their shoulders touched. Their hands found each other again.

He closed his eyes. “I like being here.”

She rested her head gently on his uninjured shoulder. “Me too.”

⸻

Back at the precinct, the first day was strange.

He walked in slowly, the elevator ride taking longer than he remembered. His badge was clipped to his belt again. His limp was still noticeable, but improving.

The moment he stepped into the bullpen, there was a pause.

Then applause. Then a loud “JAAKE!” from Boyle, who hugged him gently but emotionally, followed by Terry giving a smile so wide it practically split his face. Rosa offered a rare, quiet nod of approval.

Holt stepped out of his office, expression neutral.

“Detective Peralta. I trust your recovery is progressing.”

Jake grinned. “I’m not chasing any perps yet, but I can eat a burrito without passing out.”

“Excellent. Carry on.”

Amy stood beside her desk, her hand brushing his as he passed.

Their new dynamic was subtle. Respectful. But different. There was a closeness now that lived in the quiet between their words. They weren’t rushing into labels or declarations. But they both knew.

At the end of the day, when the bullpen cleared and the sun dipped low behind the blinds, Amy passed him his jacket.

“You did good today,” she said.

Jake looked at her, eyes soft.

“You’ve been here every step,” he said. “You keep showing up.”

Amy shrugged. “I plan to keep doing that.”

He leaned closer. “Then so will I.”

They left the precinct together, walking side by side into the Brooklyn dusk.

______

The first weekend after Jake’s return to work, Amy invited him over.

Not in a “you’re still recovering and need supervision” way.

Not in a “we should go over case notes” way.

She invited him because she wanted to.

Jake noticed the shift the moment she opened her door. She was wearing jeans and a soft, slightly oversized hoodie—not her usual crisp shirt or blazer. Her hair was loose around her shoulders. There were no files on the table. No whiteboard. Just soft lighting, takeout containers on the kitchen counter, and music playing low in the background.

It felt… quiet. Safe. Intentional.

“Welcome to your first non-medically supervised visit,” she said, and Jake smiled.

“No blood pressure cuff? No sterile wipes?”

Amy grinned. “Just Thai food and maybe a movie if you’re good.”

Jake stepped inside. “So, like a date?”

Amy hesitated, her eyes flicking up to his. “It’s… not not a date.”

And just like that, the air between them changed.

Not tense. But charged.

Like something had already happened, and something else was about to.

⸻

They ate on the couch, side by side, too close to be casual. Jake told stories from his hospital recovery—his favorite nurse, the endless jello cups, the one time Boyle tried to sneak in a footlong sandwich in a plant pot.

Amy laughed, truly laughed, and then her hand brushed his as she reached for her drink, and they both paused.

Jake looked down. “This okay?”

Amy nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Their fingers laced quietly.

They didn’t talk about what had happened in the alley. They didn’t talk about comas or monitors or the way Amy had cried into his hospital sheets when no one else was around.

They just sat there, fingers entwined, watching a bad action movie and slowly shifting closer on the couch as the night wore on.

⸻

Eventually, the movie ended, and neither of them moved to turn the TV off. The screen flickered in the dim room.

Jake turned to her. “Can I ask something kind of scary?”

Amy’s heart thudded. “Yeah. Of course.”

He hesitated. “When I was out… when I was in the coma… did you—was it really bad?”

Amy looked at him for a long time. Then she reached out and took his other hand.

“It was the worst thing I’ve ever gone through,” she said honestly. “I didn’t know if you were going to wake up. I didn’t know if I’d ever hear your dumb voice again or argue about whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie or hear you call me Santiago with that little smirk you do.”

Jake looked down, swallowing hard.

“I came every day,” she said softly. “Because I couldn’t not. Because even if you didn’t wake up, I had to be with you.”

Jake met her eyes, and they were shining.

“I didn’t know how much I loved you until I thought I’d lost you.”

Silence fell between them like snow.

Jake leaned forward just slightly, his hand still in hers.

“I didn’t know how much I needed you until you were the only thing I could hold onto in the dark.”

Amy’s voice trembled. “Jake—”

He kissed her.

It was slow. Careful. Nothing flashy. Just warmth and trust and every word they hadn’t said yet pressed between them.

When they pulled apart, Amy was blinking back tears, and Jake looked like he’d finally taken a full breath for the first time in weeks.

She rested her forehead against his.

“So I guess this is a date.”

Jake grinned. “Best one I’ve ever been on.”

They didn’t rush it.

They didn’t fall into bed.

Instead, they stayed on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, Amy curled into Jake’s side as his hand rested over hers. At some point, she fell asleep against his shoulder, and he tilted his head to rest against hers.

Safe. Together.

Not partners in the line of fire anymore.

Something quieter. More sacred.

Something new.

______

Amy woke with her cheek against Jake’s shoulder and a sunbeam slashing across her face.

For a moment, she forgot where she was — until she inhaled and caught the familiar scent of him. Not just soap and laundry detergent, but something warmer. Something that made her chest ache.

She shifted carefully, trying not to wake him. But Jake stirred anyway.

“Mmgh,” he said. “Are we being attacked? Or is that just sunlight? Because if it’s ninjas, I need at least six more hours.”

Amy smiled sleepily. “Just the sun.”

Jake opened one eye. “Betrayal.”

She laughed, and Jake tightened his arm around her.

They lay there a few more minutes in that quiet, early-morning warmth, still wrapped in the blanket from the night before. Jake looked down at her, his voice scratchy but serious.

“Do we have to go back to normal now?”

Amy looked up at him. “What if this is normal now?”

Jake blinked, like he hadn’t even dared to hope that was possible.

She sat up slowly, brushing hair from her face, aware of the crease in her cheek from the knit of his sweatshirt. “We should go in soon. Holt’s expecting a morning debrief.”

Jake groaned. “Captain knows no mercy.”

But he sat up, too. “So… how do we do this? I mean, us. At work.”

Amy thought about it. “We don’t have to rush anything. But we don’t lie, either. We’ve been through too much for that.”

Jake nodded. “So, low-key honesty?”

“Exactly.”

“Cool. Super chill. Just two detectives being emotionally healthy and adult.”

Amy smiled. “Revolutionary.”

⸻

The precinct buzzed with the usual Monday chaos. Hitchcock was arguing with a vending machine. Boyle was enthusiastically sharing pictures of his new bread starter. Terry was yelling something motivational at a printer.

Jake followed Amy through the bullpen slowly, leaning on his cane more than he wanted to, but no one said a word.

Rosa raised an eyebrow at their arrival, her eyes sweeping over them like a human lie detector. She didn’t say anything, just nodded slightly and went back to her files.

Captain Holt stood outside his office, arms crossed.

“Detectives,” he said, eyeing Jake. “You’re early.”

Jake blinked. “I’m pretty sure we’re five minutes late.”

“Exactly. That’s early for you.”

Jake opened his mouth, then closed it. “Fair.”

Holt turned his gaze to Amy. “Is he fit for desk duty?”

Amy’s mouth opened to say yes, but Jake cut in.

“Captain, I’m—”

“Still recovering,” Holt said firmly. “And will be treated as such. I expect you to take breaks. To hydrate. And if you fall asleep on the filing cabinets again, I will write you up for using department furniture as a mattress.”

Jake grinned. “Understood, sir.”

Holt’s face softened imperceptibly. “Welcome back.”

Jake watched as Holt disappeared into his office. “Did he just… show emotion?”

Amy smirked. “Don’t ruin it.”

⸻

They made it through the day.

They cleared small cases. Reorganized open files. Got pizza with Rosa and Boyle at lunch. Jake caught Amy’s eye more times than he could count. Every time, she smiled a little.

It wasn’t some grand, sweeping announcement. But people noticed.

Boyle stared at them over his soda can and finally leaned in, whispering, “Are you two— Is this a thing now?”

Amy looked at Jake.

Jake looked at Amy.

Jake shrugged. “We’re figuring it out.”

Boyle gasped so loudly Rosa threw a fry at him.

“I knew it! I KNEW it! You fell in love during the coma, didn’t you? This is so classic!”

Amy groaned and put her face in her hands.

⸻

That night, Jake limped back into his apartment and found it unbearably quiet. For the first time since he got out of the hospital, he wished he wasn’t alone.

Not just because of the physical healing.

Because of the absence of her.

He stood in the kitchen, holding a mug of tea he wasn’t really interested in, and scrolled through his phone.

No messages.

Then, as if she’d read his mind, a text came through.

AMY:
Let me know if you need anything. Or if you just want company. I’m two stops away.

Jake smiled.

JAKE:
Come over. Not because I need anything. Just… because.

Twenty minutes later, she knocked on his door.

Jake opened it to find her holding a Tupperware of pasta and an overnight bag.

“I figured we could ease into this slowly,” she said, brushing past him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jake watched her walk into his kitchen, take out two forks, and pour them both glasses of water.

And just like that, the silence wasn’t heavy anymore. It was home.

Chapter 6: Just The Beginning

Jake’s apartment felt different now.

It wasn’t the light or the furniture—it was the quiet fact of Amy Santiago in his space like she belonged there. She had kicked off her shoes by the couch, hung her blazer on the back of his chair, and was now plating the pasta she’d made as if this were routine.

It wasn’t.

But it could be.

Jake leaned against the kitchen doorway, his cane resting against the fridge.

Amy looked over. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Just… soaking this in.”

She smiled, gentle and knowing. “Me too.”

They ate curled up on the couch again, side by side, her knee against his thigh. They talked about everything and nothing—Rosa’s new motorcycle helmet, Boyle’s five-paragraph review of an egg salad sandwich, how Terry had switched precinct printer paper to a more environmentally friendly brand and refused to stop bringing it up.

They didn’t talk about what happened that night in the alley.

They didn’t talk about the hospital, the machines, the coma.

But they felt it, like a second heartbeat between them.

Jake turned toward her after they finished eating, his plate on the coffee table, hers balanced in her lap.

“Can I ask you something?” he said quietly.

Amy looked at him. “Anything.”

“When you came to see me in the hospital… did you ever talk to me?”

Amy went very still.

Then she set the plate down and nodded. “Every day.”

Jake’s eyes softened. “What did you say?”

She swallowed. “I told you I needed you to come back. That the squad wasn’t the same without you. That I wasn’t the same without you. I told you that I was mad at you for getting hurt, and that I wasn’t ready to lose you. And…”

Her voice faltered, and Jake reached out, brushing her hand with his fingertips.

Amy looked up at him, her voice cracking. “And I told you I loved you.”

Jake stared at her, his breath catching.

“I don’t know when it happened,” she said. “It wasn’t some dramatic turning point. It was little things. The way you always cover me without thinking. The way you make everyone feel seen, even when you’re deflecting. The way you look at me like I’m not too much. Like I’m just… enough.”

Jake’s throat worked. “You are enough. You’re everything.”

The air between them snapped taut and then pulled tight like a drawn bowstring. Jake leaned forward. Amy met him halfway.

Their kiss was slow at first—cautious, built from weeks of silence and yearning. His hand rose to her cheek, hers to his chest. It deepened gradually, mouths parting, breath mixing, until they were tangled together on the couch and time disappeared completely.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads touched.

Amy’s voice was low. “Can I stay?”

Jake nodded, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. Please.”

⸻

They ended up in his bedroom.

The walls were soft with lamp light. The bed was unmade. There were books stacked near the nightstand and an old NYPD hoodie draped over the desk chair.

Amy stood beside him as he leaned slightly on the bedframe, his cane set aside. They kissed again, deeper this time, their bodies pressing together. His hands moved slowly over her back; hers explored the line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck.

They undressed without rushing. It wasn’t about perfection. It was about closeness. A long ache finally answered.

Amy pressed her hand to the scar at Jake’s side and kissed just beside it. Jake exhaled, his eyes fluttering shut.

When he pulled her close again, they moved together carefully, every touch a silent question—This okay? This still okay?

She answered with her body, her mouth, the way she gasped softly into his neck and clung to his shoulder. Jake moved with instinct and reverence, holding her like she was both fragile and powerful. There were no roles here. No partners. Just Amy and Jake—her Jake—finding something real in the dark.

After, they lay tangled in his sheets, her head on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns along his ribs. His heart was still racing. Her skin was warm where it touched his.

Jake spoke first, voice low.

“Pretty sure that was the best physical therapy I’ve had so far.”

Amy let out a breath of laughter against his chest. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m trying to memorize this moment.”

He kissed the top of her head.

“I’ve loved you for a long time, Santiago,” he whispered.

Amy tilted her head up to meet his eyes. “So have I.”

He grinned. “This gonna be a problem for our paperwork?”

She laughed, full and soft. “Only if we survive the HR forms.”

Jake pulled her closer. “Worth it.”

And for the first time in months, Amy Santiago didn’t feel afraid.

______

The morning light slipped across Jake’s room in soft gold slats, brushing over tangled sheets and two bodies barely moving beneath them. Amy blinked awake slowly, her cheek pressed against Jake’s bare shoulder. She felt the steady rhythm of his breathing before she processed where she was.

And then she remembered.

The night before.

The kiss. The whispered I love yous. The way they fit together like something long overdue.

She should’ve been panicked. Should’ve been spiraling with anxiety over what this meant for work, for Holt, for everything.

Instead, she felt calm.

Safe.

Jake stirred beside her, eyes fluttering open. “Morning.”

His voice was hoarse, sleep-heavy. Amy couldn’t help but smile.

“Hey,” she said softly.

They stared at each other for a long, quiet moment. Then Jake reached out and brushed a thumb across her cheek.

“I half-thought I dreamed this.”

“You didn’t.” Her voice caught, but not in fear. Just in awe. “I’m here.”

Jake leaned in and kissed her forehead, then groaned. “Ugh. I gotta pee, but also I really don’t want to move. Internal struggle.”

Amy snorted and nudged him. “You are allowed to be vulnerable and human. Just maybe not while in bed with me.”

Jake smiled sleepily. “Even better. You just implied you’re gonna be in my bed again.”

Amy rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her.

“Let’s get coffee,” she said. “We can panic about work over caffeine.”

⸻

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder in Jake’s kitchen ten minutes later, mugs in hand, the radio low in the background. She was still in his t-shirt; he’d thrown on sweats and limped his way to the pot.

“I should go soon,” Amy said reluctantly. “Change before work. Pretend like I didn’t sleep with my partner.”

Jake looked up, trying to mask the sudden flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”

Amy reached across and laced her fingers through his.

“But I don’t want to pretend.”

Jake blinked. “You don’t?”

“I’ve spent months watching you almost die. I’m not interested in pretending anymore.” She squeezed his hand. “Let’s just… figure it out together, okay?”

Jake nodded slowly. “Okay. Yeah. Together.”

⸻

Later that morning, Amy stepped into the precinct, hair still slightly damp from her rushed shower, her heart still thudding from the look Jake gave her when she left.

She felt it in her chest, like a steady pulse.

Boyle greeted her at the elevator, bouncing on his heels. “Santiago! How’s my second-favorite detective?”

“Second?” she teased, trying to center herself.

“Well, Jake’s finally back, so…”

She smiled despite herself, and Boyle caught it.

“You seem… happy,” he said slowly.

Amy raised a brow. “That a crime?”

“No, but it’s suspicious. Like when you find a dog with no tags and it just knows how to sit.”

Amy patted him on the arm. “You’re rambling.”

“I am,” he said, still narrowing his eyes at her like he was solving something. “And you’re glowing.”

She escaped toward her desk before he could push further.

⸻

Mid-morning, Rosa knocked gently on the file room door. Amy looked up from where she was pretending to reorganize reports.

Rosa stepped inside, quiet.

“Santiago,” she said, voice neutral. “You good?”

Amy hesitated.

There was no judgment in Rosa’s face. Just curiosity. And a little worry.

“I’m fine.”

Rosa raised a brow. “Bull.”

Amy sighed and sat on the edge of the table. “I spent the night at Jake’s.”

Rosa didn’t flinch. “Yeah, I figured.”

Amy blinked. “You did?”

“You’ve been unraveling for weeks, and now you’re not. And he looks like someone gave him back his favorite hoodie and told him it still fit.”

Amy looked down, quiet.

“I love him,” she said, barely audible. “It’s not just because he almost died. It’s… everything. And I don’t know how to do this with the squad or Holt or with all the stuff we’ve been through, but I don’t want to lose it just because I’m scared.”

Rosa was quiet for a long time. Then she crossed her arms.

“You won’t lose it. And if anyone gives you crap, I’ll break their kneecaps.”

Amy huffed a soft laugh. “Thanks.”

“You deserve something good. So does he.”

Amy looked up, and Rosa gave her a rare, full smile.

“Don’t overthink it,” Rosa added. “Just let it be real.”

⸻

That afternoon, Jake passed by Amy’s desk, and their fingers brushed under the surface as they handed off a file. No one noticed.

But Amy did.

And so did Jake.

That night, they met again—this time not out of crisis or fear or survival.

Just love.

And it felt like the beginning.