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The squad room hums with March energy — not the kind driven by fresh cases or bureaucratic chaos, but something looser, louder. Final Four brackets sprawl across the whiteboard, dry erase markers bleeding ink beside team names in all-caps: UCONN, ALABAMA, PURDUE, NC STATE. Someone’s drawn a little basketball in the corner, mid-air above a crude hoop. A sticky note beneath it reads: $20 buy-in. Winner takes the pot.
Amanda Rollins stands at the coffee machine, back to the board, doing her best impression of someone immune.
“Come on, Rollins,” Velasco says, leaning against a desk like he owns the place. “You’re from Georgia. You telling me you don’t have March Madness in your DNA?”
“I have a strong aversion to heartbreak,” Amanda replies without looking at him.
Velasco rolls his eyes at the joke.
“Come on, you’re not seriously sitting this one out.”
She turns slowly. “It’s just college basketball, Velasco.”
“That’s what makes it fun,” he says. “You don’t have to know anything. Pure chaos. You could win just picking based on jersey colors.”
Bruno swings around from his desk, bracket in hand. “Don’t let her fool you. Rollins knows sports. She just doesn’t want us to know she’s competitive.”
Amanda gives a short laugh and shakes her head. “I’m not competitive. I’m tired.”
“Yeah,” Silva adds, stepping out of the conference room with a stack of files. “Tired of losing.”
Amanda’s smile falters—just for a beat. She covers it with a sip of coffee and a sharp pivot toward her chair.
From her spot leaning against her office doorway, Olivia watches the exchange —not obviously, not enough to draw attention. Just a flicker. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. Amanda’s handling it, and as far as Olivia knows, it’s been years. Still, she watches.
Bruno’s still going. “Even Liv is filling one out.
That gets Amanda’s attention. She looks up from the mug in her hand. “You are?”
Olivia makes brief eye contact, shaking her head, the corners of her mouth tilting. “No,” she says,” I told them that so they’d leave me alone.”
Laughter bounces across the room. Amanda manages a dry smile.
Velasco walks over and slaps a blank bracket down on her desk. “You’ve got two hours. Fill it out, Rollins. It’s tradition.”
Amanda looks at the paper. Just a grid of names. Ink and chance. Her fingers twitch slightly.
“Hard pass, guys,” she says lightly, pushing it back toward him. “You’ll survive without me.”
Velasco laughs, assuming she’s kidding. Bruno groans like she’s denying them a win. Olivia says nothing.
But her eyes don’t leave Amanda.
Amanda’s already halfway back to her desk when the fax machine whirs to life.
She pivots again, glad for the excuse, and walks toward the machine tucked against the far wall.
Behind her, the conversation shifts to first-round upsets and betting odds. She tunes it out.
She doesn’t need to hear the math. She knows how it works. How fast it happens. Twenty bucks here, ten more there. A pool, a parlay, a game she was just curious about. She knows the sick flush that hits just before the score changes. And the deeper one that follows.
And already—already—her brain is halfway down the track.
Purdue’s a safe bet in the first round, but they choke under pressure. UConn has the bench depth. Alabama’s offense is hot, but their defense is soft in the paint. NC State’s got momentum, but it’s all adrenaline. If they drop early, the bracket opens wide.
She catches herself thinking: at least 60% of players will flame out by the Final Four. Most go heavy on top seeds. If she angled for a calculated upset—something smart, not flashy—she could outlast the field. Maybe even take the pot.
Five hundred bucks, give or take.
And that’s all it is. Just numbers. Just odds. Just—
Her breath catches.
Twelve years. That’s how long it’s been since she last placed a bet. Since she walked into a gas station, bought a scratch-off, and felt her hands shake as she scraped it clean in the driver’s seat. Since the lie she told herself: just this once. And then another. And another.
She’d done the work. Meetings. Counseling. Hard truths. Fin. Olivia. The shame of saying it out loud.
But the thoughts? The calculus? They don’t care about years.
They come back fast. Like muscle memory. Like breath.
Her stomach turns. The bracket is still sitting on her desk, crisp and clean, untouched—but it might as well be glowing.
Behind her, the squad is still going, voices bouncing off the walls—barking team names and laughing about busted brackets. It’s nothing. Harmless fun. But it doesn’t feel harmless. Not today.
Suddenly there’s a faint warmth creeping up her neck. Not sweat exactly, just heat. A quiet, familiar signal. One she hasn’t felt in a long time.
She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth—an old trick from a counselor, something to ground her—but it doesn’t do much.
She pulls the printout from the tray, but doesn’t move. Just stares at the top sheet—some case summary, irrelevant—while her jaw tenses.
A moment later, she hears footsteps behind her. Light ones. Intentional. She doesn’t turn around.
“You okay?” Olivia asks, voice low.
Amanda swallows. “Yeah. Just… trying to remember where I filed the Alvarez case.”
It’s a weak excuse, and they both know it.
Olivia doesn’t push. She just nods, even though Amanda still hasn’t turned to face her. “You know you don’t have to explain yourself,” she says quietly. “Not to them. Not to me.”
Amanda’s fingers tighten around the paper.
“I’m fine,” she says, and this time, it lands sharper than she means.
Olivia absorbs it, calm as ever. “Okay.”
She starts to turn back toward her office, then pauses. “Just… if you need to step outside for a bit, we’re fine here.”
That’s it. No lecture. No pity. Just an out, offered gently.
Amanda finally glances over her shoulder, just long enough to catch Olivia’s eyes. She nods once—grateful, maybe—but doesn’t take the offer. Not yet.
By the time Amanda gets off hold with the medical examiner’s office, the bullpen’s mostly cleared out for lunch. She stretches her neck, rolls out her shoulder, and heads down the hall toward the break room, letting the silence settle around her like a shrug.
It’s a relief.
The squad had been full volume an hour ago, arguing about Purdue’s three-point percentage like it meant life or death. Now, it’s quiet—just the hum of the vending machine and the soft buzz of the overhead fluorescents.
Amanda opens the fridge and pulls out the salad she had delivered an hour ago before shoving in the fridge for later. She slides into a chair, untucks the top, and lifts the lid on the plastic container inside: a chopped salad with way too many chickpeas and no dressing. She sighs, pokes at it with the plastic fork. It’ll do.
That’s when she sees it.
A bracket. Folded open. Someone left it on the table, half-filled in, blue pen scrawled over team names like a kid doodling in class.
The picks are ridiculous. Michigan State going all the way. A fifteen seed in the Elite Eight. Entire sections crossed out and rewritten like someone couldn’t decide whether they were predicting games or doing Mad Libs.
She tells herself it’s harmless. Just ink on paper.
But her eyes linger.
She doesn’t touch it—at first. Just keeps chewing, slow, detached, while her gaze tracks from Alabama to Baylor to Creighton. Half the choices don’t make sense. Sloppy logic. No sense of momentum or matchup stats. It irritates her, stupidly.
She used to be good at this.
Before it broke her.
Her fork scrapes the edge of the container. She sets it down and reaches—casually, like it doesn’t matter—and pulls the bracket closer. It’s wrinkled. The pen’s bled through a few spots. Whoever filled this out had no idea what they were doing.
Her mind starts fixing it. Automatically.
She grabs a napkin and wipes her fingers, like that’ll help her resist writing. But already she’s replaying stats. Projecting outcomes. Calculating spread margins in her head.
Her fingers twitch for a pen.
And then they find one. Click. Just a little pressure against the paper—barely a mark at first. She circles Baylor’s name. Scratches a quick “W” next to UConn. Crosses out Michigan State entirely.
It’s not like she’s playing. Not officially. Not entering the pool. She’s just… fixing. Correcting dumb picks. Restoring order to something that shouldn’t bother her as much as it does.
Her mind speeds up. The matchups shift in her head like puzzle pieces. She draws a new path through the Sweet Sixteen, her pen tapping the paper with each choice like a metronome.
Tap. Tap. Circle.
By the time she hits the Final Four, her heart’s thudding faster than it should be.
She leans back.
The fork in her salad container is buried sideways, forgotten. Her lunch untouched.
And her hand—still holding the pen—trembles just slightly.
What am I doing.
She pulls it back, like she’s touched something hot. Drops the pen onto the table, hard enough that it clatters. The sound makes her flinch.
She moves to shove the bracket away, to fold it or tear it or do something—but she’s not fast enough.
Because the door opens.
And Olivia steps inside.
Her gaze flicks once to the bracket, once to Amanda. And that’s all it takes. She doesn’t even need to ask.
Amanda exhales through her nose, sharp and embarrassed, already reaching to ball the paper up. “It’s not what it looks like,” she mutters, even though it absolutely is.
Olivia doesn’t respond right away. She walks to the counter, pours herself a cup of whatever coffee’s still burning in the pot. Turns, leans against the edge.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I wasn’t entering,” Amanda adds, like that makes it better. “It was just… someone did it wrong. I was—correcting.”
Olivia nods, sipping her coffee. She doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t pull rank or push concern. She just… lets the silence fill in the shape of what Amanda’s not saying.
After a beat, she murmurs, “Still comes back fast, huh.”
Amanda freezes. Then sinks a little in her chair.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Yeah, it does.”
“I didn’t even realize I was doing it,” she says finally. Her voice is thin. “It just… happened.”
Olivia nods slowly, sipping her coffee again. “It’s how your brain was trained. Doesn’t mean you failed.”
Amanda exhales, short and tired. “Sure feels like it.”
“Twelve years, Liv.”
“I know.” Olivia’s eyes soften. “I remember.”
Amanda sets the crumpled paper on the table. Smooths it out, then turns it face down.
“It pisses me off,” she says. “How fast it came back. One dumb bracket and suddenly I’m doing win-loss projections like I’m back in it.”
Olivia crosses the room and sits in the chair beside her. Not across from her. Beside her.
“You don’t have to be ashamed of the part that wants,” she says. “You just have to keep choosing the part that doesn’t.”
Amanda lets out a shaky breath.
“You know,” Olivia adds after a moment, “you don’t owe anyone a reason to pass. If you ever feel like you do… you can come find me.”
That lands differently.
Amanda doesn’t answer right away. Just nods. Then leans back, eyes on the ceiling.
Olivia reaches for Amanda’s salad container, still untouched, and nudges it closer. “You gonna eat this, or am I calling in an emergency sandwich instead?”
Amanda looks up at that, her eyes a little less glassy. “You trying to feed me now?”
“You look like you need a reset,” Olivia says, easy. “Start with lunch.”
Amanda exhales again—this one less sharp. She picks up her fork. Not because she’s hungry, but because Olivia’s right. She needs something to put her back in her body.
“I’m okay,” she says, quieter this time.
Olivia doesn’t respond right away. Just reaches out and touches Amanda’s hand once, briefly.
And then: “Come on. You’ve got chickpeas waiting.”
The squad crowds around a high-top table at O’Hanlon’s, the kind of half-dive, half-precinct-regular spot where the wings are always too hot and the beer’s always cheap. A Knicks game plays muted on one screen. The one everyone’s watching—the screen—is tuned to the Sweet Sixteen.
Amanda nurses a club soda with lime, elbows leaned on the sticky varnished wood. The others are halfway through a second round, still loose from the win on their latest case, still loud from Velasco’s endless running commentary on everything.
“This is it,” he says, stabbing his finger toward the screen as the game clock winds down. “If Tennessee holds here, I’m golden. I’m telling you—Final Four locked in.”
“Tennessee’s not holding,” Amanda says, almost under her breath, shifting in her seat.
She’s not really watching the game. Except she is.
She knows this play. The momentum swing. The tired legs. The matchup nightmare on the right wing. And she knows—knows—Tennessee’s not gonna hold.
The bar erupts as the underdog drains a corner three. Tie game. Five seconds on the clock.
“Wait—no,” Velasco says. “No, no, no—”
The next possession is a blur.
The ball turns over.
A fast break.
Amanda’s heart stutters.
The underdog sinks a three from the corner.
Velasco swears—loudly—as the bar erupts. Someone whoops at the next table. The buzzer sounds.
And just like that, he’s out of the pool.
Silva laughs, Bruno shakes his head, and Velasco buries his face in his hands. “You gotta be kidding me. A buzzer beater from Colgate? Who the hell bets Colgate?”
Amanda doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.
Because she did.
Not on paper. Not in the pool. But earlier this week, in a quiet break room with no one around, she circled Colgate’s name like it meant something. Like it meant she still knew.
Her stomach flips.
She presses the cold glass to her lips, but her mouth’s dry. She can feel it starting again—that scratchy hum under her skin. The one that whispers you would’ve won. The one that tells her she missed her shot.
It’s grief. Regret. Hunger.
And shame.
Across the table, Olivia catches her eye. She hasn’t said a word the whole time, but Amanda can feel it—her awareness. The way she’s watching, not to catch her but to anchor her. Just in case.
Amanda looks down. Takes a slow breath. Forces herself to uncoil her fingers from the glass.
“You good?” Olivia asks, quietly enough that no one else hears.
Amanda nods. But it’s not steady.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m just gonna… use the restroom.”
She walks to the back of the bar but instead of getting in line for the restroom, she shoulders the back door open, a half-crumpled cigarette pack in her hand.
She lights up fast. No hesitation, no fumbling. Just muscle memory.
She barely smokes anymore. A couple times a year, maybe. Usually when something’s gone wrong. Or when something almost has.
The first drag burns. She lets it.
The door creaks open behind her a moment later, and footsteps crunch across the patch of sidewalk. Olivia.
Amanda doesn’t turn around.
“You trying to make yourself throw up or just stink up your coat?” Olivia says lightly, tucking her hands into her coat pockets.
“Little column A, little column B,” Amanda mutters, cigarette clenched between her fingers.
Olivia leans against the brick beside her. Not touching. Just close enough to be felt. “Solid plan.”
Silence settles for a beat. The buzz of the bar behind them fades into something softer, distant.
“It’s one,” Amanda says to fill the silence. “Just one.”
Olivia nods. “Sure.”
Another drag.
Amanda shifts her weight, not looking at her. “I didn’t feel it during the game. Not at first. But when it happened—when he lost—” She swallows. “It just came back. That voice. That feeling like I missed something. Like I was supposed to be in it.”
Olivia’s quiet for a second, then glances at her sideways. “You weren’t.”
“I know.” Amanda’s voice is sharper than she means it to be. She takes another drag, exhales too fast. “I know,” she repeats. “But my brain doesn’t.”
“That’s not your fault.”
Amanda finally looks at her, eyes a little red—not from tears, probably. Just smoke. Or wind. Or both.
“You gonna tell me to quit?” she asks, holding up the cigarette halfway like a white flag.
Olivia smirks, but it’s gentle. “Would it help?”
Amanda considers it. Then flicks ash onto the sidewalk and says, “Nah. But it’d be familiar.”
They stand in silence for another moment.
Then Olivia says, “You know I’m here, right? For whatever version of this you need.”
Amanda nods slowly. “I know.”
The squad room’s mostly cleared out, the overhead lights dimmed, the case files shelved for now. Amanda shrugs on her coat, waves briefly to the night desk, and pushes out into the evening air.
Her body aches with the kind of weariness that has nothing to do with work. It’s been a long day—court, case updates, brackets still scrawled across every whiteboard.
She breathes in sharp, crisp air and heads for her car, coat collar tugged up, eyes low.
“Rollins.”
The voice slides out from the shadows near a streetlamp—familiar, like a bruise you forgot about until someone presses it.
Amanda stops.
A man steps forward from the passenger side of a black sedan, leaning with casual ease. His leather jacket creaks. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Told myself that had to be you,” he says. “Still playing detective, huh?”
Amanda doesn’t answer at first. Her throat tightens.
Then—flatly—“Bishop.”
She tries to keep her face blank, but her body’s already reacting—palms slick, stomach coiled. Somewhere in her ribs, a ghost of pain stirs, old and sharp. She remembers the cement wall behind her. The wet gravel under her palms. The way he didn’t even warn her before the first fist landed.
“You following me?”
“Nah.” He grins. “Just in the neighborhood. Doing a few drop-ins. Saw you come out. Had to say hi.”
He takes a step closer. Amanda holds her ground, but barely.
“Lotta action going on right now,” he says, voice low and familiar. “Final Four’s heating up. Big swings. Good money. So why haven’t I heard from you?”
Amanda’s pulse hammers. Her jaw locks. “You know I’m out.”
“Yah?” He tilts his head, that grin sharpening at the edges. “You’re not watching the lines? Not making calls? Still trying to act like you’re smarter than everybody else?”
He steps in close enough that she can smell the clove on his breath. “C’mon, Rollins. You always liked the build-up more than the payout. Half the thrill was getting dirty first.”
He leans in just enough for her to feel it. “I can get you in something right now. Easy action. No trace.”
Amanda’s voice shakes. “Not interested.”
Bishop smiles, and this one is crueler. “You always ran cold right before you gave in. Little shiver in your skin like your body was getting ready for it.”
Amanda’s voice shakes. “Get the fuck away from me.”
He just laughs. “Careful, Rollins. You start dreaming about numbers again, don’t call me.”
She turns and walks, fast. Doesn’t run—she won’t give him that—but her hands are fists inside her coat pockets.
By the time she reaches her car, her breath is shallow and her vision’s swimming just a little. She doesn’t cry. Not here. Not with him still close enough to watch.
She drives off without even buckling her seatbelt.
Her hands ache on the wheel.
She’s shaking.
Not from fear exactly. Not just that. It’s the way adrenaline curdles after the fact. The way memory crashes through the door when you think you’ve braced for it.
She remembers the bruises. That part’s easy.
But it’s the other stuff that sticks harder.
The half-drunk nights. The backroom couches. The IOUs she signed without reading. The way her body stopped feeling like hers because everything she did—every lie, every loss—was in service of the next one. The big win. The clean slate.
The way it never came.
She blows through a yellow light and doesn’t notice until it’s already behind her.
You always liked the build-up more than the payout.
Little shiver in your skin like your body was getting ready for it.
Her breath catches.
She slaps the steering wheel once, hard. “Fuck.”
She makes a right on Canal. A left past St. Thomas’s. She reaches the bodega, the lot half-lit, the neon OPEN sign flickering in the window. She parks at an angle, kills the engine, and sits for a second. Her chest feels hollow. Her coat suddenly too warm.
She goes in fast, head down.
The guy behind the counter doesn’t look up when she walks in. Doesn’t care about her badge or her posture or the fact that her hands are still trembling.
She grabs a bottle she doesn’t think too hard about —whiskey, cheap, fast—and pays in silence. The weight of it in her hand is immediate, stupidly grounding.
When she steps outside, she doesn’t go back to the car.
She just starts walking.
Bottle in hand. Coat unbuttoned. Her breath sharp in the night air. She doesn’t know where she’s going, only that home isn’t it.
The buzzer rattles Olivia from the edge of sleep.
She sits up on the couch, the TV glowing faint blue across the room. The news is still murmuring. She wasn’t expecting anyone—not at this hour.
She walks to the intercom, presses the button. “Hello?”
A pause. Then a voice, low, hoarse.
“It’s me.”
Amanda.
Olivia buzzes her in without a second question.
She moves to the door, waits. Hears the elevator creak, the hallway footsteps. A moment later, there’s a knock—three uneven raps, like she couldn’t quite decide whether to follow through.
Olivia opens the door.
Amanda stands there, flushed and rumpled. Her hair is a little wild, coat unzipped, cheeks flushed from the cold—or something else. Her sweater is wrinkled. Her eyes look tired in a way Olivia recognizes too well.
She’s holding a paper bag by the neck like it’s heavier than it is.
“Hey,” she says, voice rough. “Sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.”
Olivia doesn’t hesitate. She steps aside.
“Come in.”
Amanda walks past her, not quite steady, but not staggering. She drops the bag on the counter without looking at it and presses both hands to her face, then drags them back through her hair.
For a few seconds, neither of them speaks.
Olivia takes half a step forward, her eyes scanning Amanda in that quiet, practiced way—looking for harm before asking.
“You hurt?”
Amanda shakes her head, slow. “No. Not like that.”
Olivia nods once, but doesn’t move. Her eyes stay on Amanda—steady, careful. “Tell me what happened.”
Amanda exhales shakily and leans against the counter, but her hand slips a little as she does. She catches herself with a palm flat to the edge, steadies. Her eyes flick toward the paper bag, then away.
“I ran into someone.”
Olivia’s gaze sharpens. “Who?”
“Bishop.”
The name lands with nothing behind it. Olivia blinks. “Should I know that name?”
Amanda presses her fingers to her temples, winces slightly. “No. Probably not.”
Olivia waits.
Amanda’s voice drops, unsteady. “He was… a middleman. Bookie. Low-level, local. I was in deep, back then. He collected on people who didn’t pay fast enough.”
She pauses, blinking like she’s trying to stay focused.
“He beat the shit out of me in a parking lot behind a pawn shop. It was twelve years ago. I didn’t report it. I paid him what I owed and crawled out.”
Olivia’s face hardens—not at Amanda, never at her. Just at the weight of it.
“Tonight,” Amanda says, her voice fraying at the edges, “he was outside the precinct. Like he was waiting for me. Like he could smell it.”
Olivia’s voice is quiet, but steel-edged. “Did he touch you?”
Amanda shakes her head again—too fast this time. She sways slightly. “No. Just talked. But it was enough. He knew what to say. Knew what to push.”
She trails off. “I didn’t want to go home after. I just—”
She gestures vaguely toward the bag on the counter. “I got this instead.”
Olivia glances at it but doesn’t reach for it.
“You’ve been drinking,” Olivia says softly. It’s a statement, not a question.
Amanda nods. “A little.”
Olivia walks over, slow. Close enough now to see it up close—the sheen of sweat at Amanda’s hairline, the faint sway in her shoulders.
She raises her hand and hovers over Amanda’s arm. “You okay if I touch you?”
Amanda nods again, slower this time.
Olivia places one hand gently on Amanda’s arm and squeezes briefly before guiding her to the couch.
They sit.
Amanda lowers herself down slowly, but not quite smoothly—her balance just off enough to make it feel like the floor could tilt if she let it. She leans forward to shrug off her coat, but her arm catches in the sleeve.
“Hang on,” Olivia murmurs, crouching beside her.
Amanda tries again, fumbling with the fabric, but her coordination’s off. Her fingers aren’t doing what she wants them to. Olivia gently takes over, tugging the coat free one sleeve at a time.
“There,” she says softly, folding it over the back of the couch.
Amanda slumps back against the cushions, eyes closed for a second like just sitting still takes effort.
“I’m gonna get you some water,” Olivia says. “Don’t move.”
She doesn’t. Just nods faintly.
The sounds from the kitchen are quiet—cup, faucet, the soft clink of ice. Familiar domestic noises that make the air feel a little less sharp.
When Olivia returns, she hands Amanda the glass. Amanda takes it with both hands, careful now.
“Thanks,” she says, barely above a whisper.
Olivia sits beside her and waits.
Amanda drinks slowly. Her hands still tremble.
They sit like that for a moment, quiet but not empty.
Olivia doesn’t rush it.
She just watches for another beat. Then says, soft but certain:
“You did the right thing coming here.”
Amanda’s throat works. She doesn’t look up, but her fingers tighten slightly around the glass.
“I mean that,” Olivia adds. “You could’ve kept walking. Gone anywhere. Instead you came here.”
Amanda swallows. Her voice is hoarse when she answers.
“I almost didn’t.”
“I know.”
Another pause. Amanda closes her eyes.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“I’ve seen you worse,” Olivia says gently.
Amanda exhales, and there’s something like a laugh in it—but it’s brittle.
“Yeah. Guess you have.”
Olivia turns slightly toward her. Still not crowding. Just there.
“You’re not in trouble,” she says. “You’re not weak. You’re not broken. You’re just tired. And hurting. And doing your best.”
Amanda nods, slowly. The glass rests against her thigh now, water sloshing gently.
“You can fall apart here if you need to,” Olivia finishes. “You’re safe.”
Amanda doesn’t respond right away.
But she shifts slightly.
And then she leans—just barely—until her shoulder brushes Olivia’s.
Olivia lets the moment settle. Then, without a word, she reaches out and gently takes the glass from Amanda’s hands.
Amanda lets it go easily.
Olivia sets it down on the coffee table in front of them, careful not to spill, then settles back beside her—closer now, her presence a steady line at Amanda’s side.
Amanda exhales slowly, her head tipping against Olivia’s shoulder. The warmth of it—the steadiness—makes her eyes sting.
“I’m so tired,” she murmurs.
Olivia doesn’t answer, just gives her hand a soft squeeze.
Amanda’s voice drops even lower. “And I’m drunk.”
Olivia nods, her cheek brushing lightly against Amanda’s hair. “I know.”
“Let’s just stay here a few more minutes. Then I’ll help you get into bed, okay?”
Amanda nods against her shoulder. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.
Her fingers are still curled around Olivia’s, the grip looser now but no less certain.
“I don’t want to think right now,” Amanda says after a while. “I just want to stop.”
“You don’t have to do anything else tonight,” Olivia murmurs. “Just rest.”
Amanda’s eyes are already half closed.
They stay like that a little longer, the seconds stretching soft and steady, until Olivia gently shifts and says, “Alright. Come on.”
She doesn’t ask again. Just helps Amanda to her feet—quiet, unhurried.
Amanda wakes the next morning and for a minute she doesn’t move.
Her mouth is dry. Her head aches in that low, cotton-packed way — not pounding, but heavy, slow. The blanket’s twisted around her legs. One sock’s half off.
She blinks at the ceiling, and then the night starts to come back in pieces.
The bottle.
The sidewalk.
The knock on Olivia’s door.
She groans quietly and presses her hand to her forehead.
Across the room, Olivia stands at the dresser, pulling out a blouse, slacks already folded over one arm. Her hair’s still damp from the shower.
“Sorry if I woke you,” she says without turning. Her voice is soft, almost careful.
Amanda clears her throat, wincing a little at the sound. “No. It’s fine.”
Olivia glances back, giving her a quick once-over—not checking, not interrogating. Just seeing.
Amanda pushes herself upright, her body stiff with something deeper than sleep. “God,” she mutters. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
Amanda gestures vaguely, then drops her hand. “For… all of it. Showing up like that. The drinking. …your sheets are gonna smell like an ash tray.”
Olivia sets the blouse down on the bed, turns to face her fully now.
“You think that’s the part I’m worried about?”
Amanda gives a weak laugh. “No, but… it’s the only part I can joke about right now.”
Olivia doesn’t smile, exactly, but her expression softens. “You don’t have to apologize. You showed up. You didn’t disappear. You let someone help you. That’s not a failure.”
Amanda shakes her head and looks away. “You should’ve kicked me to the couch.”
“I wasn’t going to do that.”
Amanda looks down at the sheets, embarrassed again. “Still. I trashed your clean bed.”
Olivia shrugs. “Then I’ll wash it.”
Amanda huffs something close to a laugh. “You make everything sound simple.”
Olivia meets her eyes. “Some things are.”
She crosses to the bed and sits beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight. She’s still in her t-shirt and pajama pants, one bare foot tucked under the other.
She rests her hand lightly on Amanda’s leg—just above the knee.
“What do you need?” she asks softly.
She swallows. Her voice is hoarse again. “I don’t know.”
Olivia waits. Rubs her knee gently.
Amanda looks at her. Really looks. The calm behind her eyes. The patience there, like Olivia would sit on this bed all day if that’s what it took.
“I think I need a shower,” Amanda says finally.
“And maybe… a meeting,” she adds softly.
Olivia nods once. “Alright.”
Olivia gives her leg a soft squeeze, then stands.
“I’ll grab you a towel.”
Amanda looks up at her. “You have to be at work. I don’t want to make you late.”
Olivia gives her a look—gentle, sure—and squeezes her leg again.
“I’ll go in late.”
Amanda starts to protest, but Olivia cuts her off with quiet finality.
“You’re not a disruption, Amanda. You’re important to me.”
Amanda blinks hard, nods once.
“You take your time,” Olivia says. “We’ll figure out the rest after.”
The bullpen hums with the usual post-lunch energy — keyboards clacking, phones ringing, low conversation cutting through the static of NYPD radio chatter. Bruno argues with Velasco about whether a lead from TARU is worth pursuing. The board in the corner still shows the busted brackets.
But Olivia’s office is quieter. Dimmer.
She sits at her desk, a file open in front of her, one hand on a pen she hasn’t moved in minutes. The blinds are slanted just enough to throw streaks of light across the surface of the desk, the kind that look warmer than they feel.
Her eyes drift—not to the case file, but to the faint scuff mark near the edge of the desk. Something she usually wouldn't notice. Her focus keeps sliding off the page, her thoughts moving without permission.
She thinks of Amanda sitting beside her on the couch.
The hoarse way she said, “And maybe… a meeting.”
The way her hands trembled around the water glass.
She thinks of the old folding chairs. The quiet room. The smell of burnt coffee and paper cups. The way Amanda had walked in with her chin up but her shoulders drawn tight.
You don’t have to wait, Amanda had said.
Olivia didn’t answer.
She just stayed.
Now, back at the precinct, the room feels too loud and too far away from where her mind still sits. She’s not worried exactly. Amanda’s safe. She showered. She asked for help. She sat through the meeting. She chose to sit through the meeting.
But still, Olivia’s jaw tics.
There’s a difference between knowing someone is okay and feeling it.
And right now, Olivia doesn’t feel it yet.
She pushes back from her desk and heads into the squad room, empty mug in hand, needing a reason to look at Amanda without making it obvious.
The chatter hums around her — Velasco pulling case logs from the printer, Silva at the whiteboard crossing off something in green. The clack of the coffee pot struggling to reheat itself.
And then Amanda —
Sitting at her desk.
Her posture’s a little hunched, but not guarded. She’s sorting through paperwork in slow, measured movements, a half-drunk iced tea sweating beside her elbow.
Olivia doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.
Amanda looks up like she felt her watching. Their eyes meet.
Amanda lifts the corner of her mouth. Not a smile exactly — more like a flicker of acknowledgment. I’m here.
Olivia nods once and turns toward the coffee machine.
She doesn’t need the refill.
She just needed that.
Behind her, Bruno’s voice rises over the clatter of keys. “Alright. Final game’s tonight. I’m making wings. You losers are all invited unless your bracket's too busted to show your face.”
Velasco throws a pen at him. “You’re literally in dead last.”
Bruno shrugs. “I make good wings.”
A few more voices join in — laughing, groaning, mock debate about sauce ratios and screen sizes.
Olivia takes her time pouring half a cup, then crosses back toward Amanda’s desk and casually slides into the chair beside it. She doesn’t ask permission. Just sits, blowing steam off the top of her coffee like they’ve done this a hundred times.
Amanda glances at her sideways, amused. “Since when do you work the bullpen?”
“Just borrowing the chair,” Olivia says, then adds, without looking at her, “You don’t have to go to Bruno’s thing tonight.”
Amanda hums. “Thought I was holding it together better than that.”
Olivia shrugs. “You are. I just see you. That’s kind of the deal, isn’t it?”
Amanda’s mouth curves into a soft smile but she doesn’t respond right away.
“Come to my place instead,” Olivia says. Same tone. No pressure. “We’ll order something. Ignore the game. Or not. Whatever you want.”
Amanda doesn’t answer right away.
Then: “You got any more of that salted caramel ice cream?”
Olivia finally lets herself smile. “You know I do.”
The TV flickers softly across the room, casting the familiar low glow of a late-night wind-down. Some chaotic reality show plays — glossy beach scenes, dramatic confessionals, contestants arguing over someone’s Instagram likes.
Amanda’s curled sideways on one end of the couch, feet bare, a throw blanket half-tangled around her legs. Olivia lounges on the other end, a popcorn bowl balanced on her thigh. Her laptop abandoned beside her.
Olivia shifts slightly, tilting the bowl toward Amanda in a silent offer. Amanda reaches for a handful, then drops one kernel back in like it’s a gesture of diplomacy.
Olivia smirks then squints at the screen. “Wait — I thought the blonde was named Chrissy.”
Amanda doesn’t even look up. “They’re all named Chrissy.”
Olivia hums, unimpressed. “Mmhmm. Sure.”
Her phone buzzes on the table. She leans forward and checks it.
BRUNO [Group Text]: Officially lost. Wings were great. Bracket was trash. Please respect my privacy at this time.
Amanda huffs a laugh. “You think he actually thought he was gonna win?”
Olivia picks up her mug. “I think he wanted an excuse to fry three dozen wings.”
Amanda smiles, small but real. She stretches her legs, then leans her head against the back of the couch. She looks over at Olivia, slower this time.
“I’ve decided I’m gonna start going to regular meetings again.”
Olivia doesn’t react right away. Just meets her gaze and holds it.
“Yeah?” she says, soft.
Amanda nods. “Not every day. But… consistently. Not just when it gets bad.”
Olivia sets her mug aside and turns toward her. “Listen, I know it makes you squirm when I say it, but I’m proud of you. You know that, right?”
Amanda lets out a breath—half a laugh, half something else—and looks down for a second, then back up. The smile’s still there, a little crooked but steady.
“And if you ever need a ride,” Olivia adds, gentler now, “just say the word. I’m here.”
Amanda meets her eyes again—really meets them—and something in her eases.
“Thanks,” she says quietly. “I know.”
They sit like that a little longer.
And then—
“You think you’ll ever just let me crash and burn in peace?”
Olivia doesn’t hesitate. “Nope.”