A/N: I'm spending the next nine months in the happy land of denial and fanfiction. Who's with me?

Disclaimer: If I owned Rookie Blue, we would all be issuing the bulk of Season 3 a massive 'disregard.' Story title comes from "Bend and Break" by Keane.

It turns out undercover isn't really her thing.

She plays the part just fine – not like she hasn't slipped into a role on the job before – but doing it 24/7 is exhausting. Becoming Maureen, who lives in a room above the laundromat where she works, means changing her speech, her demeanor, the way she walks. She tries to immerse herself, tries not to wonder how Sam could do it for months at a time – because starting to think about Sam means it's nearly impossible to stop.

One of several businesses owned by the Gill family (Nick is working across the city at a men's clothing store), the laundromat is more or less the redheaded stepchild of the entire operation. No one is ever around, which means Andy has no problem slipping into the office and reading files before opening up each morning, but it doesn't take long to realize that there's a reason for that. After about a month, she and her handler reach the consensus that she's in one of the only squeaky-clean outfits the Gills maintain. They're pulling her out, Stephen tells her, his voice crackling across her disposable cell; they can't risk putting her anywhere else, in case she's recognized. She'll be reassigned to headquarters or returned to her division.

Per Stephen's instructions, she slips down the fire escape at three in the morning, scaling the fence in the alley and walking four blocks to a beat-up Camry. By the time she's finished with the initial debrief, the sun is coming up. Stephen asks if she wants a ride, but she can't go home yet. Doesn't want to see the picturesque loft windows and exposed brick walls that were so important to her, not all that long ago. So she accepts his offer, but gives him directions to the only place she can think of going.

When Sam answers the bell, his eyes go from heavy-lidded with sleep to wide with surprise. He doesn't say a word, just braces himself on either side of the frame.

"They didn't give me a chance to tell anyone," she says quickly, more than half convinced he's going to slam the door in her face.

Instead, he wordlessly swings it open and jerks his head toward the house's interior, turning around and walking back in.

He's on the couch by the time she shuts the door and makes it to the living room, glancing at her expectantly.

"I would've told you," she continues. "I would have, Sam. You know how it is when they say you're going under right then. No time to let people know where you're going or grab a drink or… or listen to a voicemail." She tries to smile, but he's still giving her that look. Still hasn't said anything, and every second of silence is scaring her more.

"What happened to you?" he finally asks.

She raises an eyebrow. "What?"

He motions abstractly to his face. "You look like a vampire."

Right, that. She knows she's become pale – sort of hard to get any color when you never go outside and your diet consists mostly of delicacies native to vending machines – but she hasn't really had anyone around to point it out to her. She reaches up, fingertips brushing over her cheeks and settling in the rat's nest of a bun on top of her head. "I guess it was part of my character."

He blinks. "You sleep much?"

She shakes her head.

"Eat?"

She shrugs.

He rubs a hand over his face. "Sit down."

She obliges. As she sinks into the couch, though, he rises. "Where are you…"

He looks back at her impassively, then proceeds out of the room. She hears ceramic settle on granite, suddenly smells coffee that she realizes must have been brewing before she arrived. The universe would be doomed without the preset option, she remembers him saying before more than one morning shift.

He comes back out and puts two mugs down on the coffee table before retreating back to the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returns with a bowl in each hand. The one he places before her contains the berry granola cereal she likes; as far as she knew throughout months of dating, he doesn't. Sure enough, his bowl appears to hold Cheerios. She's way too tired to think about it in any kind of depth, but one thing is certain: when he was in the locker room, telling her about everything he'd do to show her, he apparently wasn't screwing around.

They're silent until they're both fed and caffeinated. "Is it done?" he asks eventually, setting his empty mug down.

She shakes her head. "I was in a clean front. Now they want me in headquarters, working with the operations people."

He nods slowly. "Is that what you want?"

"I don't know," she says. "I should, you know, finish the job, right?"

(She does want it, truth be told. But she wants him more.)

"Are headquarters nearby?" he asks.

She shrugs. "An hour or so away. It means staying out there for two, three months until they figure out a plan. Then… I don't know. I come back to Fifteen or find something else… it depends."

"On?"

She feels her heart lurch forward like it's trying to shove its way out through her ribs. "Did you mean it?"

He looks at her like she's sprouted another head. "Did I… I told you I meant it."

She takes a deep breath. "Right. Right, you did. Um… but do you still? Mean it?"

"If I still love you?" he posits, leaning forward. "You really have to ask?"

Inhale, exhale. Just keep that up. "Okay. Okay."

He laughs mirthlessly. "Why? Did you stop?"

She looks at him then, really looks. All of his defenses, the anger and sarcasm and stoicism are gone, and she's left staring at every vulnerability he's ever tried to hide. Knowing how easily she could break him right now with a single word – it's the kind of power she's never wanted to have.

So she reaches for his hand, gently pries it off his knee. Cranes her neck a little to make sure she's looking him in the eye. "Never."

He seems to relax a bit at that; intertwines his fingers with hers like it's automatic, involuntary.

"If you want me here, I'll tell them no," she continues softly. "It really doesn't matter that much to me, it's really just…"

He shakes his head. "Go," he tells her. "I know it matters to you. Finish what you started, I'll be here when it's done."

She thinks about protesting, knows he isn't going to hear any of it. She squeezes his hand, moves forward to rest her forehead against his. "You sure?"'

"I said you wouldn't get rid of me without a fight," he says quietly. "Already screwed that one up once; I'm not gonna do it again. I can be incredibly patient, Andy. This… you need to do this for yourself, all right?"

"I love you," she whispers.

He closes his eyes. "Love you."

When she kisses him, it's brief – too early and too late to complicate things by moving fast where they shouldn't – but holds all of the potential and promises she doesn't know how to put into words, all of the secrets she choked down and kept to herself and allowed to climb in between them.

Someday, she'll figure out how to tell him everything. Hopes he's making a similar vow to himself. But right now, she has to go.