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The air in Jake’s apartment was thick and still, heavy with the ghosts of a dozen takeout containers and the faint, hoppy scent of cheap beer. He’d been talking for ten straight minutes, a rapid-fire monologue of increasingly ridiculous hypotheticals about his upcoming undercover mission.
“…and I’m thinking, if the mob boss’s name is Vinnie, I’ll have to go by… Donny? No, too obvious. Tony? Too cliché. Maybe just… Steve. A solid, unassuming name. ‘Hey Vinnie, it’s me, Steve from the.. numbers place.’ See? Blends right in.”
You didn’t answer. You just crossed the room, took the half-empty beer bottle from his nervous hand, and placed it on the cluttered coffee table with a soft clink. Your fingers then found his, lacing them together, stilling their fidgeting. The frantic chatter hit a wall. His shoulders, tight with the effort of the performance, finally slumped.
“Hey,” he breathed, the word soft and raw, all the bravado gone.
“Hey, you,” you whispered back, giving his hands a gentle squeeze.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I’m really gonna miss the dumbest things. Like, the way you steal my fries even when you ordered your own. And the way you snort a little when you laugh really hard.”
“I do not snort,” you protested, your voice thick with emotion.
“You do. It’s my favorite sound in the world.” He brought a hand up to cradle your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a reverence that made your heart clench. “I’m gonna miss you.”
That was all the preamble you needed. You rose onto your toes and closed the distance, capturing his lips with yours. It wasn’t a kiss of fiery passion, but one of profound, aching need. A silent conversation. I’m here. I love you. Remember this. remember me
He responded instantly, a low, yearning sound vibrating in his chest as his arms wound around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a desperate attempt to memorize the taste and feel of each other. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your own.
He walked you backward toward the bedroom, never breaking the kiss, his hands roaming over your back as if trying to imprint the feel of you through your clothes. He stumbled over a discarded sneaker, and you broke apart with a soft, watery laugh.
“Smooth, Peralta,” you murmured, resting your forehead against his.
“guilty as charged,” he agreed, a genuine, if bittersweet, smile touching his lips before he kissed you again.
In the dim, familiar light of his bedroom, the urgency melted into a slow, deliberate reverence. Clothes were not torn away but carefully, almost worshipfully, removed. His calloused hands were impossibly gentle as they skimmed over your shoulders, down your arms, helping you out of your top. You reciprocated, pulling his soft, worn t-shirt over his head, your palms flattening against the warm, solid plane of his chest.
He laid you back on his sheets; the ones that smelled faintly of his detergent and him, and covered your body with his. His weight was an anchor, the one solid thing in a world that was about to tilt off its axis.
His mouth was everywhere, a slow, mapping pilgrimage across your skin. He kissed the hollow of your throat, the swell of your breast, the delicate inside of your wrist. “So beautiful,” he whispered against the skin of your stomach, his voice husky with emotion. “I’m gonna dream about this. About you.”
When his fingers finally, expertly, found the sensitive core of you, you arched off the bed with a sharp gasp. He watched your face, his eyes dark and intense, memorizing every flutter of your eyelashes, every bitten lip, every hitched breath as he worked you with a tender, relentless rhythm.
“Jake…” you moaned, your fingers tangling in his hair.
“shh” he soothed, replacing his fingers with his mouth, and you cried out, the sensation almost too much to bear. He held you through the climax that rolled through you, gentle and overwhelming, his arms wrapped tightly around your thighs until the last tremor subsided.
He moved back up your body, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. He was hard and eager against your thigh, but he took his time, nudging your legs apart and settling between them. He paused, just for a moment, his eyes searching yours in the dark.
“I love you,” he said, the words simple and devastatingly sincere.
“I love you, too,” you breathed, pulling him down for a kiss as he slowly, perfectly, slid into you.
It was a joining that felt less like sex and more like a fusion of souls. There was no frantic pace, only a deep, rolling rhythm that spoke of love and loss and a desperate need to get as close as two people possibly could. His forehead rested against yours, your breaths mingled, your eyes stayed open, refusing to break the connection. Every slow, deep thrust was a promise, a memory, a silent sob. You held onto each other as if the world outside his apartment door didn’t exist, as if the dawn would never come.
The climax, when it finally washed over you both, was quiet and profound, a shared release that felt like a heartbreakingly beautiful ending. He collapsed against you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering. You held him close, threading your fingers through his damp hair, whispering soft nonsense until his breathing steadied.
“I miss you already,” he murmured against your skin, voice hoarse, words tumbling out before he could stop them.
You kissed the top of his head. “You’re not even gone yet.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, pulling in a shaky breath. “Feels like I’ve been missing you for weeks. Six months without you–” His voice cracked, and he pressed himself closer, like he could fuse you together if he tried hard enough. “I don’t know how I’m gonna survive it.”
You stroked his back, grounding him, whispering, “You’ll come back. You always do. And I’ll be here.”
Jake let out a rough laugh, more broken than amused. “I’m a menace, you know that, right? Always screwing things up, always dragging you into the mess with me.”
“Maybe,” you admitted, cupping his jaw to tilt his face toward you. He looked wrecked, eyes glassy, lips trembling. You kissed him gently, like sealing a promise. “But you’re my menace. And I wouldn’t trade you for anything.”
He swallowed hard, his smile faint but achingly genuine. “God, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
For a long time neither of you moved, afraid that breaking the stillness would shatter the fragile illusion that the night might last forever. Eventually his breathing softened into the deep rhythm of sleep, but you stayed awake, holding him, memorizing every detail, because you both knew morning would take him away.
His arm was a dead weight across your waist, holding you tightly against him. You knew you had to go. The sky outside the window was beginning to lighten from black to a deep, inky blue. You started to shift, to gently extricate yourself, but the moment you moved, his arm tightened instinctively, pulling you back against his chest with a soft, sleepy grumble.
“Mm-mm. No,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “Stay.”
Your heart shattered. You softly turned within the circle of his arm until you were facing him. His eyes were still closed, his face peaceful in slumber. You brushed a curl off his forehead.
“Jake,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I have to go, baby.”
His eyes fluttered open, bleary and unfocused. The reality of the situation crashed back into them, and the peace was replaced by a fresh wave of pain. He didn’t let go. Instead, he nuzzled into your neck, his lips brushing your skin. “Just a little longer. Please. Five more minutes.”
You kissed his cheek, tasting the salt of dried sweat and unshed tears. “I can’t. You know I can’t. It’s almost light out.”
He let out a shaky breath, his hold on you finally loosening in resigned acceptance. “Okay.” He leaned in, capturing your lips in one last, slow, sleepy kiss. It was soft and full of a thousand unspoken words. “Be safe,” he whispered against your mouth.
“You, too,” you choked out. “Come back to me.”
You slipped out of bed, your body feeling cold and empty without his. You gathered your clothes and padded silently to his bathroom. The shower was quick and quiet, the hot water doing little to ease the ache in your chest. When you emerged, dressed, he was pretending to be asleep again, but you saw the tense line of his shoulders and the way his fist was clenched on your empty side of the bed.
You didn’t say goodbye. You just paused at the door, looked at him one last time, and committed it all to memory. Then you slipped out into the cool pre-dawn air, your chest aching with a silence that was louder than any farewell.
then: silence. no calls. no texts. not even the faintest reminder that you were still tethered to him. jake was swallowed by the assignment, and you were left behind to pretend you didn’t notice his empty chair in the bullpen.
6 months later
The hum of the precinct was a familiar song Jake hadn’t realized he’d memorized. The squeak of the elevator doors, the distant clack of typing, the low murmur of voices; it was the soundtrack of his life. After six months in a world of gruff voices, motorcycle engines, and the constant, low-grade fear of being made, the normalcy of the 99th precinct was almost jarring.
He stepped out of the elevator, half-expecting… he didn’t know what. A parade? A banner? Part of him, the part that was still a little boy seeking approval, had hoped for it. But this was better. This was real.
Gina glanced up from her phone, did a double-take, and offered a slow, approving nod. “Look what the cat dragged in. The polyester is strong with this one.” She went back to her phone. It was perfect.
Rosa, walking by with a file, didn’t break stride. She just offered a curt, “Peralta,” and a barely-there lift of her chin. It was the equivalent of a bear hug from anyone else.
Holt emerged from his office, his expression as inscrutable as ever. “Detective. Welcome back. Your desk is as you left it.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “It is… adequate to see you.”
It was all so perfectly, mundanely them. Jake’s grin was genuine, if a little weary. He felt the tension in his shoulders, the constant vigilance he’d lived with for half a year, finally begin to unspool. He was home.
His eyes immediately scanned the bullpen, searching for the one face he’d pictured every single day. His gaze landed on her desk.
And the world went quiet.
The desk was clean. Impeccably so. The chair was pushed in. There was no worn-out novel bookmarked halfway through, no jacket draped over the back, no familiar mug that said ‘World’s Alrightest Partner’ that he’d won for her at a carnival.
The air left his lungs in a quiet rush. The easy smile melted off his face, replaced by a hollow ache. She’s gone. The thought was a cold, sharp certainty. She hadn’t waited. He’d been gone too long, the silence between them had stretched too thin, and she had finally moved on. The memory of their last, desperate night together felt like a dream, a beautiful, painful illusion.
He stood frozen in the middle of the bullpen, the joyful homecoming now feeling like a cruel joke. Charles, buzzing over from his desk, didn’t seem to notice the shift.
“Jake! You’re back! You’re here! In the flesh! I’ve prepared a slideshow of all the meals you missed, categorized by season and emotional resonance–”
“Charles,” Jake interrupted, his voice rough. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the empty desk. “Where’s Y/N?”
“Hmm? Oh, she’s not in today,” Charles said, following his gaze. “Took a personal day. Probably just a head cold or some low-grade ennui. You know how it is.”
The relief was so sudden it was dizzying, but it was instantly followed by a fresh, confused hurt. A personal day? On the day I come back? It felt like a rejection. He’d spent every day for six months counting down to this moment, and she’d chosen today of all days to be absent.
He must have looked as devastated as he felt, because Charles’s face softened with dawning understanding. “Oh, Jake… no. No, no, no. She doesn’t know. We all knew you were coming back today, but we decided not to tell her. We thought it would be an amazing surprise!”
Jake just stared at him, the information not quite computing.
“It was gonna be so great!” Charles continued, wringing his hands. “She’d walk in, and BAM! There you’d be! But then she just… wasn’t here. We had no idea she’d taken the day off. The universe hates romance.”
The explanation was so utterly, ridiculously them that a weak, shaky laugh escaped Jake’s lips. Of course. They’d tried to engineer a perfect movie moment and had instead created a classic 99 mishap.
Terry had been watching. He walked over, his expression kind. “It’s a bust, Peralta. We messed up. She has no idea you’re here.”
The weight lifted. She wasn’t gone. She wasn’t avoiding him. She was just… living her life, completely unaware that his had just realigned with hers. The emptiness in his chest filled with a new, nervous energy.
“So,” Terry said, a slow smile spreading. “The surprise isn’t ruined. It’s just… mobile. You know where she lives?”
Jake nodded, a real grin finally returning to his face.
“Then what are you doing standing around here?” Terry said. “Go. And for god’s sake, stop and get some flowers. Not the wilted ones from the bodega.”
That was all the push he needed. The precinct, his desk, his reintegration briefing. It could all wait. There was only one place he needed to be.
He turned, the familiar energy surging back through him, and practically ran for the elevator, already planning his next, better surprise.
The cab ride felt longer than the entire six months undercover. Jake’s knee wouldn’t stop bouncing, his fingers nervously tracing the crinkly cellophane wrapped around the bouquet in his lap. He’d gotten the good flowers, like Terry said, a riot of sunflowers and lilies and sprigs of green things that smelled like a garden, not a funeral.
He stood outside her door, his heart doing a frantic tap-dance against his ribs. This was it. No squad, no audience, just him. He knocked, the sound too loud in the quiet hallway.
A moment passed. Then he heard the soft scuff of footsteps inside. The lock clicked, and the door opened just a crack, still on the chain.
He saw one eye, a sliver of a face, framed by messy hair. She looked tired. And… thinner. The observation was a quick, sharp pang in his chest. But then her eye focused on him, widened, and the world stopped.
There was a beat of pure, uncomprehending silence.
Then a gasp. A sharp, inhaled sob of disbelief.
The door slammed shut. For a terrifying second, Jake thought she’d closed it on him. But then he heard the frantic fumbling of the chain lock sliding free. The door flew open.
And there she was.
In full, glorious view. Wearing an ancient, faded t-shirt that had probably been his once, and a pair of fluffy, mismatched socks. Her hair was a beautiful mess piled on top of her head, and her face was free of any makeup, her eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears.
“Jake?” The name was a whisper, a prayer, a question all at once.
He couldn’t speak. He just nodded, his own vision blurring.
She launched herself at him.
It wasn’t a gentle embrace. It was a full-body collision, a force of nature. Her arms wrapped around his neck so tightly he could barely breathe, and he didn’t care. He dropped the flowers, they could wait, and his own arms banded around her waist, lifting her clean off her feet as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. She felt lighter than he remembered, but she was real. She was solid. She was here.
She was trembling, little hiccupping sobs shaking her frame. “You’re here,” she choked out against his shoulder, her voice muffled by his jacket. “You’re really here. They said… they said no contact… I didn’t know…”
“I’m here,” he finally managed, his voice thick with emotion. He set her down but didn’t let go, holding her just as tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head. “I’m back. It’s over. I’m here.”
She pulled back just enough to cup his face in her hands, her thumbs stroking his cheeks as if to make sure he was real, her eyes searching his, tracing every new line and faded bruise. Her voice cracked, half-sob, half-laugh. “God, you’re such an idiot. My idiot.”
He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. The last six months of greasy food, lonely motel rooms, and manufactured bravado evaporated. This was the only welcome home he’d ever needed. The smell of her shampoo, the feel of her old pajamas under his hands, the sound of her breath catching in her chest. this was the reality he’d been fighting to get back to.
He opened his eyes and finally smiled, a real, easy, Jake Peralta smile. “I like the pajamas,” he said, his voice still rough. “Very chic.”
She let out a wet laugh, swatting his arm before pulling him back into another bone-crushing hug, holding on as if he might vanish into smoke. He held her just as tight, knowing, finally, that he was home.
The initial, desperate shock of his arrival had worn off, leaving a quieter, more vulnerable energy in its wake. You’d pulled him inside, shutting the door on the world, and now you were both just… looking.
He was here. In your living room. Leaning against your kitchen counter like he’d never left, but different. His hair was a little longer, his face a little leaner, his eyes holding a new depth that hadn’t been there before. It made a shyness bloom in your chest, a sudden self-consciousness. You crossed your arms over your old, threadbare t-shirt, acutely aware of your messy hair and bare face.
“You want some coffee? Or… something?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended. It felt like the first time all over again, navigating the space between you.
Jake’s smile was gentle, understanding. He pushed off the counter and closed the distance between you, but slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. you didn’t. He just took your hands, lacing his fingers through yours. His touch was familiar, but the calluses on his palms were new.
“I just want to look at you,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve been dreaming about this for six months. About your face.”
Your cheeks warmed. “It’s the same face.”
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. He brought one hand up to trace the line of your jaw. “It’s better. It’s real.”
The shyness began to melt under the warmth of his gaze. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkward. It was heavy with everything unsaid, everything felt. You were memorizing each other all over again, but this time without the specter of goodbye hanging over you. This was a rediscovery.
You led him to the couch, sitting close but not touching, your knees almost brushing. You talked in fragments. He told a funny, sanitized story about his undercover persona’s terrible taste in music. You told him about how Terry chipped his tooth and had a lisp for a week. It was all surface, a gentle wading back into the waters of each other.
Then, a lull fell. You were just looking at each other again, and the air in the room shifted. The careful distance between your bodies on the couch suddenly felt vast and unbearable.
Your eyes met, and you saw the same hungry yearning in his that was clawing its way up your own throat. The shyness, the carefulness, the six months of distance. It all combusted at once.
With a sharp, inhaled breath, you moved.
You didn’t lean in slowly. You pounced. One moment you were sitting a foot apart, the next you were in his lap, your knees straddling his hips, your hands framing his face as you crashed your lips onto his.
It wasn’t the gentle, memorizing kiss from his apartment six months ago. This was claiming. This was hunger. A raw, needy sound was torn from his chest as his arms locked around you, one hand tangling in your hair, the other splaying across your back to press you impossibly closer.
The careful conversation was over. Now there was only this: the frantic slide of lips, the desperate clutch of hands, the ragged sound of breathing. You rocked against him, feeling the hard evidence of his want press against you, and a shuddering moan escaped you.
He broke the kiss, his breath hot against your skin as he trailed his mouth down your neck. “Y/N…” he gasped, his voice ragged. “God, I missed you… missed this…”
You answered by pulling his shirt over his head, your fingers skimming over the new scars and familiar planes of his chest. He did the same for you, peeling away the old t-shirt with a reverence that made you tremble. His eyes darkened as he took you in, and any last shred of shyness vanished under the heat of his gaze.
He stood up, lifting you with him effortlessly, and carried you the few steps to your bedroom. This wasn’t about slow worship or gentle rediscovery. Not this time. This was a conflagration, a desperate, six-month build-up of need finally igniting.
When he entered you, it was with a single, deep thrust that made you both cry out. It was coming home. It was a frantic, perfect reunion of bodies that knew each other better than they knew themselves. There were no more words, just the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, and the broken, gasped repetitions of each other’s names, a sacred mantra against the silence of the long, lonely months apart. It was fast, and desperate, and perfect, and when you fell over the edge together, it felt less like an ending and more like a brand new beginning.
The first time was a frantic, glorious blur. A collision of pent-up need and six months of starved imagination. It was over too quickly, a flash flood of sensation that left them both breathless and trembling, tangled in your sheets, sweat-slicked and stunned into silence.
Jake was the first to break it. His chest was still heaving. He turned his head on the pillow to look at you, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face, though his eyes were still dark with spent passion.
“Okay,” he panted. “So that was… wow. But I feel like I blacked out a little. I need a do-over. I need to… fact-check.”
You let out a breathless laugh, swatting his arm weakly. “Fact-check?”
“Mhmm,” he murmured, already rolling over you, his weight a delicious anchor. He nuzzled into your neck, his lips finding your pulse point. “I have a very specific, very detailed memory from six months ago of you being particularly responsive… right… here.” He punctuated the words with a slow, deliberate swirl of his tongue that made your back arch off the mattress.
“Oh, do you?” you managed, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Detective,” he whispered, his voice dropping into a low, filthy rumble that went straight to your core. His hands began to roam, not with the frantic urgency of before, but with a focused, rediscovering intent. “I need to verify the data. For the record.”
And so began the second time. It was slower, but no less desperate. It was Jake mapping your body with his mouth and hands, muttering against your skin like a man possessed.
“Missed this,” he breathed into the soft skin of your inner thigh, his stubble a rough, perfect contrast to the gentle press of his lips. “Thought about this spot every damn day. Drove me crazy.”
“Jake…” you whimpered, your hands fisting in his hair.
He looked up, his eyes glinting with mischief and raw hunger. “What’s the matter? Can’t handle a thorough investigation?” He didn’t wait for an answer, lowering his head again with a groan that vibrated through your entire body. “God, you taste the same. Better. Fuck.”
The second time he entered you, it was with a slow, aching slide that made you both gasp. He held himself still, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes screwed shut.
“You feel that?” he rasped, his voice strained. “That’s what I dreamed about. Right there.”
You could only nod, tears pricking your eyes again, this time from the overwhelming, physical rightness of it.
He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was pure torture and bliss. “Tell me you missed me,” he demanded, his voice rough, losing its playful edge. “Tell me.”
“I missed you,” you choked out, meeting every thrust. “Every second. I missed you so much it hurt.”
“Yeah?” A broken sound escaped him. “Good. Me too. Hurt so damn much.” He drove into you harder, his rhythm starting to fracture. “Never again. I’m never leaving this bed. They can fire me for real.”
You laughed, a ragged, sobbing sound, and pulled him down for a messy, open-mouthed kiss. “Shut up and fuck me, Peralta.”
He groaned against your mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
The night blurred into a sweaty, gasping, glorious cycle of rediscovery. They weren’t just making love; they were erasing the distance, one touch, one kiss, one desperate coupling at a time. They dozed for twenty minutes, then woke up with a jolt, reaching for each other in the dark as if afraid the other had vanished.
Around 3 AM, you were on your knees, him behind you, his chest plastered to your back, his mouth on your shoulder. His hands were on your hips, guiding you, his whispers filthy and perfect in your ear.
“You have no idea,” he grunted, his thrusts becoming erratic. “No idea what you do to me. What thinking about you did to me over there. I’d lie in that shitty bed and touch myself thinking about your mouth.”
The crude, honest words pushed you over the edge before he’d even finished speaking, your cry muffled by the pillow. He followed with a guttural moan, collapsing on top of you, both of you spent and shaking.
As the first grey light of dawn began to filter through the blinds, you were facing each other, limbs intertwined. You were both exhausted, sore, and utterly satiated. He was tracing idle patterns on your hip, his eyes heavy-lidded but refusing to close.
“So,” he said, his voice hoarse from overuse. “The file has been successfully updated. All data verified and… enthusiastically corroborated.”
You smiled, snuggling closer. “Glad to be of service.”
He grew quiet for a moment, his playful tone fading. “I mean it, Y/N,” he said, his voice soft but serious. “That… that was everything. I was… I was scared I’d forgotten. Or that it wouldn’t be the same.”
You looked up at him, seeing the vulnerability he usually hid behind the jokes. “It’s better,” you whispered, echoing his words from hours before. “It’s real.”
He leaned in and kissed you, a slow, deep, tender kiss that tasted of exhaustion and promise and home.
“Best homecoming ever,” he murmured against your lips. “And this is just the first draft. The director’s cut is gonna be insane.”
You laughed, and finally, wrapped in each other, you both fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The six months were gone. There was only now. And it was more than enough.
Flora29 Mon 08 Sep 2025 03:01AM UTC
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