Chapter Text
Rita stirred first.
The TV was still glowing faint blue in the dim living room, the credits to Friends rolling for what had to be the third—or maybe fourth—season finale. She blinked against the light, confused for a second by the weight draped across her legs.
Chris was snoring softly, his long frame curled in awkward angles around the couch, head tilted back just enough to be deeply unflattering.
She smiled.
He looked so peaceful. So not-Lt.-Chris-Lorenzo. For a moment, she let herself enjoy it. The stillness. The normalcy. The way his hand had somehow found hers and hadn't let go.
"Hey," she whispered.
He cracked one eye open. "I still can't believe Ross said Rachel's name at the altar."
She laughed. "God, that was brutal."
Chris groaned as he sat up, rubbing his neck. "Seriously. Who says the wrong name when they are saying their wedding vows?"
"And here I thought Monica and Chandler getting together would have been the bigger shock," she teased gently.
He raised an eyebrow. "Hey, two close friends realizing that there's something more there? I seem to think we've heard that story before."
She let out a warm chuckle. "More like lived it. At least our first time wasn't a drunken hookup."
"Well, you did have those aphrodisiacs of the Plasmire's in your system. I was powerless to resist when you jumped me," he bantered. "Ouch!" he yelped, as she smacked him with a pillow.
They sat for a moment in the soft quiet, the tension of yesterday not gone, but less sharp. Worn at the edges.
Rita reached for the remote to shut the TV off, then glanced at him again.
"What do you want for breakfast?" she asked, getting up and heading to the kitchen.
"You mean brunch?" he called, looking at the clock.
"Yikes!" she said. "I hope we didn't have any meetings scheduled until afternoon."
"I actually already called in," he said. "Told Lipschitz we were working from home. Thought maybe we'd need some breathing room today."
She blinked, surprised. "You were planning a post marathon hangover day?"
"I was planning a no-pressure day. But yeah…whatever you want to do, we can just hang."
A pause.
"Actually," she said slowly. "I met with Dr. Neff yesterday…and she suggested that we do a joint session. Would you… maybe be willing to go if she has any openings this week?"
Chris was quiet for a beat. Then he nodded.
"Absolutely. Did you want to do that today?"
"Yeah, if she has any openings. She said she would find time. I know it's kind of sudden- "
"No, I'm cool, but you had a lot going on yesterday…are you sure you're not overdoing it by going today?"
She shook her head. "If she has availability, and we are free? I spent the last year running from this, Chris, and the last couple of months blocking it out. I'm tired of fighting it."
He exhaled. "Okay. I'll call Dr. Neff and see what she has.
Rita smiled. "Thanks," she said, squeezing his hand.
A few minutes later, he returned.
"She had a cancellation this afternoon. One o'clock."
"One it is, then." She exhaled slowly. "How about some coffee and food in the meantime?"
Their hands brushed as she passed him the mug of reheated coffee. And for the first time in a long time, it felt like they were facing the day together.
At one o'clock, they arrived at the psychologist's office, each with a combination of hesitancy, fear, and hope.
Chris sat on the left. Rita on the right. A space sat between them—not out of discomfort, but uncertainty. A quiet pause in a song they weren't sure they knew the words to anymore.
Dr. Neff looked between them, her voice calm but curious. "Last time, you each opened some very raw places. You've both carried something massive—together and apart," she said gently. "This is a space to explore what comes next."
Chris exhaled. "I've spent the last year thinking there was no next."
Rita turned to him. "And I spent the last few months not even knowing there was a before."
He gave her a half-smile—exhausted, but soft. "Guess that puts us in the perfect place to figure it out together."
Dr. Neff nodded. "Rita, why don't we start with you. What's been weighing on your heart?"
Rita hesitated, then glanced down at her fingers. "I think… I carry a lot of guilt. For forgetting, yes. But also for everything before that. For drawing away. For not being there for him when he needed me most."
Her voice broke slightly. "And then I woke up with no memory, and I treated him like a stranger. Like he was hiding something. But the truth is… I was the one who left him first."
Chris reached over, gently covering her hand with his.
"You didn't leave," he said quietly. "You were in pain. You were drowning. And I… I knew you. I knew how you handled loss. But this time, I was in it with you. And I didn't know how to save either of us. I never blamed you."
His eyes turned to Dr. Neff for a second, like he needed permission to keep going.
Dr. Neff leaned forward just a bit. "You were both surviving something that no one is equipped to survive. There's no timeline for grief. No rulebook. But there is this moment. Right now."
They sat in silence a beat, their hands still entwined.
Dr. Neff spoke again, gently. "So, what does moving forward look like?"
Rita shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know if I'll ever be ready for more children. Part of me is terrified I'll break again."
Chris squeezed her hand. "And if you're never ready, that's okay. We finish healing together first. Maybe one day… but only when it feels right."
Rita gave a fragile smile. "Sammy would've wanted us to share our love again someday."
Chris's voice was soft. "She would."
Rita wiped her cheek, not even realizing a tear had escaped. "Sometimes I think… maybe we were just meant to love her. Maybe that was the point. Even if it was only for a little while."
Chris's voice cracked. "She changed everything. Gave us a kind of love we never even knew existed."
Dr. Neff gave them a moment, then gently shifted.
"And the two of you?" she asked. "Outside of being parents. Outside of grieving. Do you feel like you're still connected?"
The silence stretched—not awkward, but thick with unspoken things. Chris glanced at Rita, then spoke first.
"We had a bond long before we were a couple," he said. "We were partners. Best friends. We knew each other's rhythms, moods, habits. We could finish each other's thoughts before we ever crossed that line."
Rita nodded slowly. "There was always… something between us. Even when we didn't act on it."
Chris's voice softened. "When we finally did—it wasn't impulsive. It felt inevitable. Like we'd been moving toward it for years."
"But the pregnancy happened right away," Rita added. "We didn't have time to really date. Or figure out what we were like as just… a couple. Everything shifted so fast into being parents."
"We never resented that," Chris said quickly. "But I think we skipped the part where we got to explore what it meant to just love each other. Without the job. Without the chaos. Without the baby monitor always between us."
"And now…" Rita's voice trailed off. "We don't really know what that version of us looks like."
Chris met her eyes. "But I want to find out."
Rita's lip trembled. "Sometimes I wonder if you only love the memory of who I used to be."
"I don't," he said. "I love the woman who woke up and fought to remember who she was. Who's still here, still healing, still trying."
Dr. Neff leaned forward. "That's a powerful truth. You've been each other's anchor in the worst storm imaginable. But connection takes ongoing work—even outside of grief."
She let that sink in before asking her next question. "Before you became intimately involved, what did your relationship look like outside of work?"
They looked at each other, soft smiles as memories of their friendship played in their minds.
"Just about everything and anything," Rita said. "We'd go out to eat, or get takeout, watch TV, movies."
"Casablanca and Maltese Falcon are our favorites," Chris chimed in. Sometimes, after work we'd go walking on the beach and just chat. It was a way for us to process whatever was going on at work or in our lives."
"And we are athletic, like to run or play volleyball with our police league." Rita recounted.
"We were each other's stand ins for different events or parties, if we weren't dating others at the time. Or actually, sometimes if we were," Chris stated, recalling a few occasions where they didn't feel their current relationships were at the "meet the friends" level.
"We've gone to Society-the cop hangout- several times, by ourselves or with other friends."
"Don't forget all of the manual labor that you've put me through," he joked. "Helping buy an aquarium and carry it up three flights of stairs."
"Excuse me, what about all of the times I had to pick you up because your dream muscle machine crapped out on you again? That goes both ways, partner," she retorted.
Dr. Neff eyed them curiously. "All of these activities were before you were a couple?" she said skeptically. "I'd wager to say that you've been dating all along, despite what you may have labeled it as."
They looked at each other and burst out laughing.
"You sound like every other person that we've ever dated," Chris said.
"And some that we haven't," Rita added.
Carla smiled. "Do you see that, perhaps, you have explored that version, to an extent?"
Rita sighed and looked back at Chris, who was grinning sheepishly. "I think denying our feelings has always been a core component of our relationship."
"But it's not now," Carla reminded her. "You obviously had a strong bond before, and there's components of it now, or you wouldn't be here, together. Especially after everything we went through yesterday, Rita. Chris has said that he wants to try. Do you think that you can picture joy again?" she asked. "Not in the abstract. But in your daily life. In being partners. In laughing. In touching. In rediscovering each other without guilt?"
Rita swallowed. "I think… I can. I want to. I'm scared. But I want to."
Chris nodded. "Me too."
Dr. Neff nodded, gently. "Then let that be your next exploration. Find the small things. Not the sweeping gestures, not the milestones. The rituals. The comfort. The things that feel like yours."
She smiled. "Grief built a wall. You don't have to break it down in one day. Just… meet each other at the door."
"So, what does that look like?" Chris asked. "I don't want to rush anything, but I want to be here for you, Rita."
Dr. Neff looked at him pointedly. "I think you're forgetting something, Chris."
He sighed and looked at the ceiling momentarily. "And…I need to take time to grieve properly, too."
"Yes, you do. Don't be afraid to ask for what you need in this process, too," the doctor said.
Rita nodded in agreement. "I want to be there for you, too. You're the one person who is experiencing this with me. You always have been. We both need to heal."
Dr Neff stood to signal the end of the session. "That's the key to moving forward. Just remember that you are grieving together. Maybe your next step is something small. Like visiting Samantha's grave together. Or a support group. Or even just… holding space for her between you. But right now—could it be enough to just… rebuild? Sit with the pain and the love together?"
Chris looked at Rita. "It already is."
They rose together.
This time, when they left the room, there was no space between them.
Only quiet hope.
The house was quiet that afternoon, the kind of quiet that felt full, not empty. They sat in the living room, surrounded by shadows of the past and the light filtering in through half-closed blinds.
Rita pulled an old photo album from the shelf. Together, they flipped through wedding pictures—Rita in her white sundress, Chris in his rolled-up sleeves, the glint of the Claddagh ring catching sunlight.
They talked about Sammy—her obsession with glitter, her refusal to eat anything green, how she used to call Lipschitz "Cappie" and Fran "Nana Fran."
They wandered into Samantha's empty room. She ran her fingers over the soft pink door frame, worn faintly at the bottom from years of tiny handprints and sticker residue.
Chris leaned against the doorway behind her, holding two mugs of tea.
"She always stuck those glow-in-the-dark stars to the ceiling," he said. "Remember? Half of them peeled off after a week."
Rita turned, smiling softly. "She insisted they made the room magic."
They stood for a moment in that silence, then stepped inside together.
"I thought," Rita said quietly, "we could make it into a home office/reading room. But still keep some of her things here. Not... a shrine. Just something soft. Some of the good parts."
Chris nodded. "I like that. Cozy chairs. Books. Maybe your desk in the corner. And a few of our family photos back around the house too."
She walked over to the window. "We can put some chairs here and hang her pictures on the opposite wall.
He glanced around slowly. "Maybe we could put her indoor basketball set in that corner? I mean, you know she'd want me to keep using it," he protested.
"That's what you said when you bought it for her, when she was four months old," Rita teased.
"Hey, we had some good matches on that thing, once her gross motor skills kicked in," he replied.
Rita laughed. "Ok, maybe that wouldn't be a bad idea. But, if we are going to use this room to work, if it becomes a distraction…"
"Yeess!" Chris pumped his fist towards the ceiling.
Their eyes met and they smiled quietly at each other.
"Do you think… we should donate some of her clothes and toys?" she asked gently.
Chris hesitated. "Honestly, kidding aside about the b-ball…I'm not ready."
"Me neither," she whispered. "Maybe one day. Or maybe… if we ever do…"
Her voice faltered. She looked away.
Chris finished for her. "If we ever have another child."
Silence sat heavy between them.
"I don't know if I can," Rita finally admitted. "Not just physically. Emotionally. That loss…" Her voice broke.
"You know, before we were even together, part of me was always waiting to lose you. But Sammy?" She shook her head. "I never saw that coming."
Chris's voice was rough when he spoke. "You weren't the only one afraid. I've handled everything that's come our way… except the idea of losing you. That would break me."
He looked at the window for a moment, lost in thought.
"I worry too. About having another kid. What if something goes wrong? I still beat myself up. What if we had taken her in that first night, or after we saw Dr. Katowski or…"
"Christopher." Rita placed her palm against his cheek. "We talked about this the other day, remember? We did everything that any other parent would have done. We trusted Dr. K; he had been her pediatrician since she was a baby. Frannie herself was a nurse in New York and had tons of experience. None of us knew. Even the doctors at the hospital were caught off guard," she said.
He held her gaze. "I know you said that the other day, but now that you remember- "he replied huskily, tears building up.
"My feelings haven't changed. I had the same thoughts you know. I blamed myself. I thought that I was cursed from having so many people in my life die that I brought it onto our daughter." She leaned her head down as Chris wrapped his arms around her.
"Never, Sam. You see how many people died, I see how many you have saved. You've helped so many survivors after they experience tragedy at work. You keep those runaways at the shelter from ending up on our desks. You bring light and joy to all of our coworkers and friends, and you were the center of Sammy's universe," he whispered, kissing the top of her head.
"And you've saved my life, literally and figuratively, every day. Without you, my body functions but my soul doesn't exist, Sam," he confessed.
Tears streamed down her face, and she looked back at him. "You're my other half, Christopher," she replied.
She took a deep breath. "Afterwards…I worried I'd lose you too, so I pushed you away first. Preemptive damage control, I guess."
He leaned in and gave her a soft kiss, which she returned lightly. Pulling back, he replied, "I promised you long ago, no matter what you're doing, where you are, I'll always be here for you."
"I'm the one that wasn't there for you," she said, looking directly into his eyes.
"Rita, when you didn't know that Sammy was ours, when you saw her grave, the first thing that you did was hold me. You've always been there. You don't need forgiveness for losing yourself in the worst loss either of us has experienced. You are still here, that's what counts," he said, maintaining steady eye contact.
She smiled weakly. "Why don't we make a pact to let go of our guilt together?"
"I think that sounds like a plan,Sa-." For the first time, he realized that he had slipped into using their name. "I'm sorry."
She placed her fingers over his mouth. "It's ok. When I had amnesia, it bothered me that you didn't call me it. And now, it feels…right again. It always was our name."
Chris smiled. "You remember when we named her?"
Rita leaned into his arms and chuckled. "Yeah, after nine months of arguing about names and 16 hours of labor, you were still insisting on Hildegarde for a girl."
"Hey, you didn't want a name that you thought might belong to a woman that I dated. And you insisted on Caitlyn, which everyone was naming their kid that year," he protested.
"And then they placed her in my arms, and we knew," she summed up.
"She was us," he agreed.
"And we both said Samantha at the same time," she recalled.
"It was parfait." He concluded. "Especially when you wanted to name her after my Grandma Rose."
"Yeah, "she reminisced softly. "So, you, see? I think she would want us to keep the name. Now it just has more meaning."
Chris lifted her face to look at him. "If you're sure…I've missed the Sams."
She hugged him tightly. "Me, too."
They stood in silence, holding each other for several moments.
Chris broke the silence. "Look, I don't know what the meaning of it all is. Why she was taken from us. But maybe you're right—maybe she was meant to teach us something. Leave something bigger behind. And I have to believe we wouldn't be asked to live through that kind of pain twice."
She sighed. "I hope not. Maybe one day… But if we don't- "
"Then it's you and me, 'til the end. You are all that I've ever needed, even when I didn't admit it to myself. I need you to know—I believe we would've married either way. You've been my soulmate since the day we met. Even when I didn't know what to do with that truth."
She tilted her head. "You didn't know what to do with a lot of things."
He grinned. "Well, I figured out how to marry you and make waffles, so that's two victories."
"I love you," she said, her voice warm and sure. "You've always been the only one who fit."
Chris leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Same here. No escape routes, no pretending. Just us."
"Speaking of no escaping…" She took a deep breath. "Let's go ahead and get this ball rolling, partner." She pulled him out of the room and towards the attic pulldown.
The two spent the remainder of the afternoon carefully choosing photos and memorabilia to bring into the new office. As they shared more memories, tears, and smiles, the presence of their daughter became less haunting and more comforting.
When the day began to fade into early evening, Rita pulled back, eyes thoughtful. "I think it's time to sell the old apartment. I don't think we really need it, and I don't want to be able to escape anymore."
"Yeah?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yeah. I was thinking we could use the money to set up a scholarship. Or a foundation. Something in Sammy's name to help other kids. Something that says—she was here."
Chris swallowed hard and pulled her close. "That would mean everything."
They spent the rest of the afternoon rearranging furniture. Clearing space. Hanging photos. Rita pulled out an old framed picture of Sammy with Frannie and Lipschitz at the precinct Christmas party. She placed it on the windowsill.
By the time the sun dipped low, the room had transformed—half sanctuary, half fresh start.
Chris wandered into the kitchen, tugging open the fridge. "Okay, what's your poison? Pasta or pancakes?"
"Please. Pancakes aren't dinner."
"Blasphemy," he said, pulling out eggs.
She joined him, teasing as she poured the batter too thick on purpose. "I seem to remember you setting off the smoke alarm last time."
"That was one time," he muttered.
"That was three times."
He moved closer, brushing flour off her cheek with his thumb. "You trying to pick a fight, Lieutenant?"
Her breath caught just slightly. "And what are you going to do if I am?"
He kissed her. Hard and deep and full of heat, like the kind of kiss that said they were still alive. Still in this. Still each other's.
Her back hit the counter. The pan sizzled forgotten behind them.
Their lips met in the kitchen, softly at first, then with aching familiarity. When Chris kissed her this time, he didn't pull away. His hand curved around the back of her neck, fingers slipping into her hair as his other hand found her waist.
Rita leaned into him, her body relaxing and igniting all at once. The kiss deepened—still slow, still tender, but no longer hesitant. Her hands gripped the fabric of his shirt, pressing against his chest, wanting to feel the heartbeat beneath.
They broke apart only long enough for her to whisper, "Come with me."
Chris kissed her again instead of answering, and together, they began moving down the hallway.
He walked behind her, his hands brushing her arms, her back, like he couldn't bear not to touch her for even a moment. At the door to the bedroom, he turned her gently, kissed her with a breathless sort of wonder, and murmured, "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
Inside, the lamp glowed dimly, casting long, warm shadows across the room.
He reached for the hem of her shirt and lifted it slowly, reverently, exposing the curve of her waist, her ribs, the swell of her breasts. His fingers grazed her skin like a man rediscovering holy ground. She raised her arms, letting the fabric fall away, eyes locked on his.
She undressed him the same way—unbuttoning, peeling, baring—her hands shaking slightly with emotion more than need.
There was nothing rushed, nothing urgent.
Just reverence.
He stood again, and they eased onto the bed, limbs entangling like second nature. When their bodies met, there was no fumbling. Just a slow, perfect alignment.
Chris ran his hand over Rita's hair. "I missed you. All of you."
"I'm here now," she said, voice thick. "And I remember it all."
Chris cradled her face as he slid inside her—inch by inch, so slowly it made her breath catch. Her eyes fluttered shut, a soft sound escaping her lips. He held still inside her for a moment, forehead to hers, breath uneven.
"God," he whispered. "You feel like home."
She ran her fingers down his back, pulling him closer.
Their rhythm was gentle at first, an unhurried rocking, as if the world had slowed to match them. He kissed her again and again—her mouth, her jaw, the hollow of her throat—his hands roaming the curves of her body with exquisite tenderness.
When her first pinnacle hit, it came in waves—deep and grounding. Her back arched slightly, her legs tightening around him, her breath stuttering.
Chris didn't speed up. He just held her, watched her fall apart beneath him, eyes locked on hers, brushing a thumb against her cheek.
Rita clung to him, overwhelmed. She whispered his name in the darkness like a prayer.
He kept moving with her, whispering against her skin, "I've got you. I've got you."
As the tension built again, slower this time, more profound, she cupped his face with both hands and whispered, "I love you."
It was that—those words, said so raw, so real—that undid him.
He watched her as she broke again, her second release washing over her with a cry of his name, her hands gripping his shoulders, eyes wide with tears.
That's when he followed—burying himself deep, his own release shaking through him as he groaned her name into the crook of her neck, the weight of everything they'd lost and found again threading through every breath.
Afterward, they lay in the quiet. No words. No need.
Just skin against skin, heartbeats slowly settling, and the echo of something long buried finding its way home. The smell of coffee hit Chris before consciousness did. He blinked against the morning light as he felt a weight settle on the edge of the bed.
He turned his head and found Rita perched beside him, holding out a steaming mug.
"Is this a bribe to get me to wake up?" he murmured, voice still hoarse with sleep.
"It's a peace offering," she said, passing him the cup. "You did a lot of hard work last night."
A slow grin spread across his face. "Just last night?"
Rita gave him a look, lips twitching. "You're lucky I let you sleep at all."
He reached for her hand and tugged her down beside him, wrapping an arm around her waist and burying his face in her shoulder. "God, I forgot how good it feels to wake up next to you."
She kissed his hair. "Same."
They lay there in easy silence for a moment, sipping coffee, tangled in sheets and sunlight.
"By the way," Rita said eventually, stretching, "Captain Lipschitz called. Wants us in for a consult. Nothing heavy, just a gang-related retaliation case they think might cross over into one of our old investigations."
Chris groaned. "Reality ruins everything."
"You can say that again."
The workday was short, just enough to review files and give guidance. By early afternoon, Chris and Rita had peeled out of the station in his car, windows cracked, the breeze warm against their skin.
Neither said it aloud, but they both knew where they were going.
Chris turned the car toward the cemetery without asking.
Rita reached over and took his hand.
The cemetery was quieter than it had been during Ruiz's funeral. The breeze rustled the trees gently, and a few birds chirped overhead, the sounds soft against the backdrop of stone and grass.
They walked side by side, Chris carrying a small bouquet of yellow daisies—Samantha's favorite, Rita had remembered last week. She still didn't know how the memory had come back. It had just… arrived, like a breath.
They stopped in front of her headstone.
SAMANTHA ROSE LORENZO
October 17, 1993 – February 25, 1997
Our sunshine.
The ground was neatly kept. A small painted rock—purple with glitter—sat tucked against the base, likely left by another child's parent. It made Rita ache.
She knelt first, fingers brushing the edge of the stone. "Hey, baby girl," she whispered. "It's Mommy."
Chris crouched beside her. He didn't speak right away.
Rita cleared her throat. "I know we haven't come together like this in a while. It's just… it was too hard. For both of us." She looked up at Chris, then back. "But we're here now. And we miss you."
Chris's voice cracked as he spoke. "There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about you. Your laugh. Your stubborn little face." He chuckled, tears already in his eyes. "You were so mad the day we made you try broccoli. You made that same scowl your mom does."
Rita wiped her cheek. "You used to tell me stories at bedtime. Even when you didn't feel good, you'd curl up and tell me about the pink spaceship you wanted to build."
Chris nodded. "You made me draw it for you. I still have the picture. Somewhere."
They both fell silent, the wind catching Rita's hair and lifting it gently.
"I don't know if you can hear us," Rita whispered, "but we're trying. We really are. This past year... we just didn't know how to live with this hole in our lives."
Chris took her hand. "But we're gonna try. For real this time. We want to find joy again. Love again. Because you would've wanted that."
Rita pressed her forehead to the stone. "Send us a sign, Sammy. Let us know what we should do in your name. How we can carry you with us without always breaking."
Chris reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small pin—one of Samantha's old toy buttons, shaped like a sunflower. He set it on the grave.
"You'll always be our sunshine," he said again, softly.
They stayed like that for a while. Kneeling. Holding each other's hands. Letting the wind carry their words upward.
They stood to leave, still holding hands, walking in silence back toward the car. Chris opened the door for her, but before she got in, Rita paused—something catching her attention across the lot.
A small girl stood by the edge of the cemetery entrance, maybe nine or ten years old. She was clutching a worn pink backpack and looking around anxiously, like she was waiting for someone who hadn't come.
Rita's brow furrowed. "Do you see her?"
Chris followed her gaze. "Yeah. She looks—lost."
They walked over slowly, careful not to scare her.
"Hey there," Rita said softly, crouching to her level. "Are you okay?"
The girl nodded, then shook her head. "I'm supposed to wait here. My mom said she'd be back. But she's been gone a long time."
Rita glanced around. The lot was nearly empty.
"Do you know her phone number?" Chris asked gently.
The girl opened her backpack and pulled out a crumpled note. Rita unfolded it—there was no number, just a first name and a vague message: "Wait here. I'll come back for you. I promise."
Rita's heart broke a little.
"What's your name, sweetie?" she asked.
"Aniyah."
"Do you want to sit with us for a little bit while we call someone who can help?"
Aniyah nodded.
As Chris called the precinct to report a possible abandonment case, Rita wrapped her jacket around the girl's shoulders. Aniyah leaned into her instinctively.
She looked up at Chris.
He didn't say a word—but the look on his face said everything.
They stayed with Aniyah until social services arrived. Rita spoke quietly to the intake worker, giving her all the information she could. When it was time for Aniyah to go, the girl hugged Rita tightly and whispered, "You smell like flowers."
Rita smiled, blinking fast. "You take care, okay?"
As the car pulled away, Chris reached out and took Rita's hand again.
"She was sitting right there," Rita said, still watching the spot by the gate. "Like she was waiting for us."
Chris exhaled. "Do you think that was…?"
Rita didn't answer for a moment.
Then: "I think Samantha just told us what she wants us to do."
Chris turned toward her, eyes searching hers.
"And what's that?"
Rita's voice was steady. "Help kids like her. The ones left behind."
He nodded slowly. "Then let's do it."
They got into the car together, not needing to say anything more.
The sun was setting by the time they reached the beach—a private stretch they used to take Samantha to on quiet weekends. The sand was cool beneath their shoes, and the sky was painted in streaks of violet and gold.
Rita walked ahead a few steps, hands in her jacket pockets, the wind teasing her hair. Chris followed, eyes on her, the ocean crashing in rhythmic pulses behind them.
The wind rolled off the waves in slow, salty gusts as Rita and Chris walked along the shoreline, shoes dangling from their fingers, toes sinking into the cool sand. The sun was low on the horizon now, casting a golden shimmer across the ocean. It made everything look softer—like the day was exhaling.
They hadn't said much since leaving the cemetery.
But they hadn't needed to.
Chris stopped first, just far enough from the water that the tide couldn't reach them. Rita took a few more steps, then turned to find him standing still, watching her like he was seeing her for the first time all over again.
"What?" she asked, smiling gently.
He didn't smile back right away. His eyes searched hers with something deeper.
"I've been thinking about what you said," he began. "About honoring her. About not staying stuck in the pain."
Rita's smile faded, but not from sadness. She could feel something shifting in the air between them.
Chris reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small navy velvet box.
"Before everything happened... before the accident, before we started unraveling... I was going to give this to you on our anniversary."
She froze. He stepped forward and opened the box slowly.
Inside was a ring—delicate and gold, with three small stones side by side. One was a soft emerald. One was a ruby. The third was a pale rose quartz.
"I had this made," he said quietly. "Your birthstone. Mine. And Sammy's."
Rita's breath caught.
"I didn't want it to be just a piece of jewelry. I wanted it to be a promise," he said, voice rough now. "That we'd carry her with us. That we'd find our way back to each other. That we wouldn't let her memory be the end of us."
He held it out to her, palm open.
"I don't need a new wedding. I don't want a do-over. I want this—you and me, carrying everything we've been through, everything we still feel. I want to stand beside you again—not as someone new, but as someone who's survived it with you."
He dropped to one knee—not grand, not performative, just reverent.
"Will you renew your vows with me, Rita? Not to start over. But to keep going."
She knelt in front of him, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
Her fingers closed over the ring.
"Yes," she whispered, choking on the word. "Yes, yes, of course I will."
He pulled her into him, both of them on their knees in the sand, holding each other like the tide might try to take one of them back.
When he slid the ring onto her finger, it fit perfectly.
Like it always had.
And in the fading light, she finally understood:
What she left behind wasn't lost.
It was waiting to be found.
Disclaimer: All OG characters from Silk Stalkings belong to Stephen J. Cannell productions(but should consider giving them to us, b/c you clearly don't want to reboot the show in the era of reboots…). Certain lines and plots from various episodes ( Meat Market, Giant Steps, Partners 1 & 2, and portions of Soul Kiss) also belong to those writers-just borrowed them for continuity. "Friends," Joey,Monica, Chandler, Ross and Rachel all belong to Kauffmen, Bright & Crane (RIP Matthew Perry). "Destiny" belongs to Jim Brickman. "Boot Scoot Boogie" belongs to Brooks & Dunn. "Bridge over Troubled Water" belongs to Simon & Garfunkel. Fans of another police procedural may have noticed a familiar line in Chris' description of Rita….I may have borrowed it from Terri Edda Miller & Andrew Marlowe's awesome show that will likely surface in future fics.
Ruiz, Harwood,Bell,Maureen, Chloe, Dr Wells, and of course, Samantha Rose Lorenzo are mine,as is the detour that Soul Kiss took….
I'd like to extend a HUGE thank you to both resauthor and juliagulia for your encouragement over the years, especially the last few weeks when this story would stay hidden no more! Thank you for allowing me to use your name Julia (and become the woman that tortured Rita's mind many a night ) .I look forward to our future collaborations!
Above all, thank you to Rob Estes and Mitzi Kapture for portraying the roles so well that you became my first ship when I was 15…and still stick around decades later. Anytime you guys want to reboot, we're here waiting!