I have the immense need to bury my face into sammys tummmy FUCKKK :( like I could live right in there squishy sammy you live in my heart forever
i get you cause if fat sammy bryant was my man id be insufferable id be a Problem ok
finding sammy lounging in bed watching tv, exhausted after a long ass day at the station and all tuckered out after eating the delish dinner you made, shirtless for once because its just so hot he can't stand to cover up even if it put his chubby tummy on show, insecurities be damned
him kissing you on your forehead as you creep in next to him all calm and cool like you're not gonna jump your man, his eyes all soft and affectionate as he gathers u in his arms before he goes back to watching his lil game on tv, relaxed and unaware of your plans
ugh and he'd sound soooo flustered when you finally decide enough is enough and tackle him flat, unable to resist putting your hands on him and mouth already on his chub as your boyfriend nervously squeaks beneath you. kissing and nibbling and mouthing at his chunky round paunch, hands squeezing love handles while Sammy goes "Honey! baby c-c'mon what are y-you doin'?"
probably all giggly because hes so ticklish eheheheh oh im rubbing my hands, hes laughing n shit his chubby cheeks all pink while he squirms and tries to push u away cause you keep kissing his chub over and over ohh 🙏 Sammy Bryant when i get my hands on you it's gonna he a problem
Sammy Bryant is so fucking "oh you ache, baby? Let me help, 'cmere."
Need to lay on his tummy while he rubs my back and shoulders. :((((
Also am absolutely certain if I asked him to hold my boobs up because my back was hurting he would be more than willing 🙂↕️
oh my goodness. absolutelyyy! he adores keeping you comfy & relaxed and tries so, so hard to keep it PG… ugh my hubby </3
he is one, big teddy bear for his girl, truly. he’s so, so cozy at night too– basically makes a home on the couch as he waits for you to come back in the living room from your shower.
cozy cotton flannel pajama pants & a plain black shirt, he’s pulliing you into his lap the second you get back. sitting you in between his thighs, and his big fingers pressing your hair to one side so he can kiss the back of your neck.
he already put on your show, so he’s just happily kissing underneath your ear and dragging his hands to press into the knots in your shoulder. don’t mind if you feel him chubbing up underneath you; sammy would never do anything to disrupt your relaxation period. give him a little grind, a rough press & let him keep kissing your nape & he’s content until bedtime.
or or or (and this one, as a ddd girly, had me on my knees) you’re leaning over to clean up some of the dishes during a barbecue you both hosted. your little dress is a bit wet, and usually sammy does the dishes because it’s a total sensory overload for you. shoulders taut, you’re gritting your jaw but you just wanted to help him. and he sees this.
coming up behind you, his tummy pressed against the curve of your back, sammy’s mouth finds that spot on your neck again. “so pretty, my wifey helpin’ me out, huh?” and you giggle and feel heat on your face as you smile.
he pulls back, knowing you’re about to chide “saaaammmy….” at him– all of his buddies are still outside! but sammy takes a quick glance around your cozy home, and turns to see your stressed body & he’s made his choice.
his big hands reach over the sides of your body, cupping your breasts up with a slow lift. instantly, your head hangs low between your shoulders, a shuddering sigh easing into the hot summer air. “oh sammy, ‘s good” “yeah baby? ‘s that helpin?” and he’s sooo proud of himself, just smiling and trying desperately not to make this sexual immediately.
home depot, baseball, gardening…. you gardening. in that tight little dress you’ve got on now. bent over in the dirt, grabby hands pulling at him as he cups your breasts exactly as he does right now; rutting you further and further into the mud as you whine out, “oh my god, sammy… sammy… sammy!”
“sammy!” you smile incredulously, pausing his thrusts against your ass. he swallows, embarassed, a faint kiss to your neck in parting as he straightens up and rests your breasts back down.
“okay, yeah sorry. gotta-gonna, i need… to get away from you.. like right now.” and he’s so panicked, sneakers scuffing as he goes into the bathroom to control himself <3
summary: After Richter won't leave your side while you're sick with a stomach bug, some google searching says you might not be sick at all. And when you tell Sammy your family might be growing from three to four, he falls head over heels for you all over again.
warnings: all fluff; pregnancy, mentions of throwing up and being sick, no tammy!au, Richter is part of the fam, Sammy being the sweetest. sigh... I have a thing for big men in uniform and their troublemaker dogs.
notes: it's baby fever central over here. this was supposed to be a drabble but somehow it kept getting longer and longer lol.
It's late afternoon. The lazy kind where the television is playing softly, something you're not really paying attention to. The windows of the house are all open, letting in the warm breeze and sunlight.
You're on the couch relaxing, trying to take it easy and hopefully rid yourself of the stomach bug that had been plaguing you the past few weeks. An off and on sickness that left you feeling lethargic and zapped of all your energy, vomiting like this was some lame rendition of the exorcist.
Your legs are propped up on the extra couch pillows, Richter laying between them. The dog's wet nose presses against your palm as you scratch his ears, snout burrowing into your side as he whines. You sigh, a tired you’ve never known settling into your aching limbs.
“We're a sorry pair today, huh,” you scratch the top of Richter’s furry head. The dog replies with a sneeze. You cringe, turning away as your stomach churns. “That’s gross buddy.”
The tv keeps playing, some romcom Sammy had rented along with the big stack of other cheesy movies he'd gotten from Blockbuster in the hopes of keeping your spirits up. He's been really worried about you lately, constantly giving you a sympathetic pout or feeling your forehead with the back of his hand to make sure you're not burning up.
It was strange.
Whatever bug you'd caught wasn't like the typical cold you've had before. It left you feeling sick and exhausted, but there was no outward symptoms besides the vomit. No fever or snot or sore throat. Just an upset stomach and an exhaustion that made you want nothing more than to curl up in Sammy’s arms and sleep the day away.
From the coffee table, your phone rings, Richter’s ears perking up as he turns to look at it. You reach over for your baby pink Nokia buzzing against the surface. The muscles in your arms ache in spite of you having done nothing much all day, fingers tingling as they brush the vibrating object.
You finally get a hold of it, leaning on your elbow as you flip the phone open, pressing the accept button. You hear the click of the line opening, Richter’s paws digging into your thigh as you shift on the couch.
“Hey,” you yawn into the phone, already knowing who's on the other end of the line.
“Hey. You doing okay?” Sammy’s soft voice crackles. You can practically picture your husband, leaning behind some filing cabinet, hiding from Nate who's probably got a hundred case files to sort through.
“I’m okay,” you hum, settling back into the couch.
“Still not feeling good?”
“Eh,” you shrug, watching Richter adjust his snout against your thigh. “It's a bit better. I managed to keep down some crackers this morning.”
“That's good,” Sammy says into the phone, not doing a good job of masking the worry in his voice. “You sure you don't want me to come home for lunch? Just to check on you?”
“No no. It's okay, really.”
“I can. I’ll bring you that chicken noodle soup from the grandma’s diner down the street.” You groan, stomach churning at the thought of the greasy diner food Sammy often frequented.
“Oh gosh, don't even mention chicken.”
“No?”
“No. Bleh,” you shiver, feeling sick just at the thought of meat. “That does not sound appealing. At. All.”
“Okay, alright.” You can hear the amused smile in his voice. You sigh, scratching Richter’s furry head again.
“How's your day been?”
“Oh,” Sammy sighs, his tone shifting more seriously. “You know. Just another day in paradise over here.”
“I’m sorry,” you frown.
“It's okay. We got a bad drug deal case we're working on right now. It's a mess.”
“That sounds awful."
“Yeah… You sure you don't want me to come home?” You smile.
“What, is Nate giving you a hard time over there?”
“Nah. But I’d happily spend the rest of the day taking care of you than going through these records.”
“Aw, Sammy,” you grin. “I love being your scapegoat.” He laughs with you.
“But really, I’m okay. Richter’s keeping me company. Won't leave me alone actually.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He practically breaks down the door when I try and pee.”
“Huh,” Sammy huffs into the line. “Weird.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Richter hadn't exactly been the chill dog he was acting like when Sammy had first brought him home.
He'd been wary of you, barking when you wore certain perfume, chewing up your favorite pair of shoes. Constantly butting against your calf in need of attention, barking defensively when given said attention.
Sammy had told you he'd get used to domestic life. That after years of always being alert, the dog was probably unsettled by the quiet and calm of your home.
The dog had definitely adjusted, practically singing a new tune not long before you first got sick.
From the other side of the line, you can hear a voice calling Sammy’s name. There's a rustling, voices muffled as Sammy covers the receiver and then a loud clang of a drawer
“Sammy?” You frown.
“Hey sweetheart, sorry. Listen, I gotta go. Nate just got a call we've been waiting for.”
“That's okay. Thanks for checking on me.”
“Of course. Got to make sure my girl’s doing okay.”
“I’m fine. Now go crack that case detective Bryant.” Sammy laughs.
“Alright. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
The line clicks and you shut your phone closed with a tired groan. Richter makes a noise, a low whine vibrating against your leg. He almost sounded worried, big brown eyes watching you. You smile, patting his head.
The contents of the fridge stare at you mockingly and you shut the door with a groan. Nothing sounded appetizing or even remotely appealing.
If you were being honest, you could really go for a fat slice of cherry pie with melty french vanilla icecream. Specifically the pie the wife of one of Sammy’s detective buddies brought to a function last year.
But the sugar would probably do you in further, if you were being honest.
You pout, opening up the same cabinets you'd been looking at for the past week.
The same boxes of cereal and pasta and random snacks Sammy brought home. They all rested on the shelves with mockingly bright packages and names that sounded delicious, but made you sick to even think of biting into. You huff, leaning against the counter, your already small energy levels diminishing as you stand around the kitchen.
Richter is right there at your calves, tongue lolling as he looks up at you expectantly. You smile at him, grabbing the bag of dog treats on the counter and tossing him one. He scarfs it down, lips smacking over his pointy canines, immediately going back to watching you. You snort and shake your head.
“What is with you lately Richter?”
The dog just watches you. You sigh, rubbing your forehead with frustration.
“I swear this is not what I meant when I said I was thinking about losing some weight.” Richter barks, and you nod. “Right. I’d rather run a mile than have to throw up again.”
You sigh tiredly, just wishing your stomach would settle enough to eat something. Anything. Nothing sounded good. Not between the disgusting smell the leftover steak and macaroni was giving off in the fridge and the sheer desire for that stupid cherry pie you were feeling.
You wander over to the fridge again, opening it to the same disappointment you were greeted with like the last three times. The sound of Richter’s nails against the tile follows you again and you glance at him.
“What is with you, huh? You’re acting all clingy. What am I dying…”
Your laughter trails off as you pause. Richter looks up at you, tongue still lolling happily. You stand there frozen, a sudden worry carving its way through your heart.
Something Sammy has said to you once about K-9 dogs and training their smell.
“You know they’re training dogs for all kinds of stuff too. Not just drugs.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, you know. Cancer and health stuff. Heard they’re trying to catch illness early.”
“Wow. That’s crazy. Can Richter smell that stuff?”
“Dunno. His sniffer is a little on the fritz. S’ why he retired.”
“He still knows when dinner is ready.”
“That’s just cause your cooking is great hun.”
“Aw, Sammy-”
Richter’s wet nose bumps against your shin, bringing you back to the present. Your mouth is dry when you try to swallow. The dog looks up at you, eyes big and wide.
Did he know something you didn’t?
The house feels too quiet, the desert neighborhood surrounding you less peaceful and more eerie. Suffocating at the thought something might be wrong. You crouch down beside Richter, hands fluffing the fur around his torso.
“Is there something wrong Richter?”
The dog doesn’t say anything. Of course he doesn’t, dogs don’t talk. But the worry is making you feel nauseous again, and you don’t know if you can wait for Sammy to get home to have your worries quelled.
You stand up with a quiet grunt, trudging down the hall to Sammy’s office room, the dog right at your heels again. The sunlight shines in through the big room, painting the bookcases crammed full of binders and books in soft light, illuminating the messy and crowded desk Sammy was always complaining he needed to organize.
The boxy computer the station lent him fires up with a loud hum, the equally boxy housing system whirring at your feet. You settle into Sammy’s big office chair, the leather worn and comfy, smelling like your husband’s cologne. Richter spins, settling on the floor next to you, eyes still trained on your slouched frame. Like you would disappear.
You laugh in spite of your newfound worry.
The computer screen finally blinks to life and you straighten to attention, fingers clacking against the clicky keyboard. You fire up the search engine system, the big blocky GOOGLE appearing.
Your fingers quickly begin to input questions, your eyes scanning the results as they appear.
Dogs and throwing up.
Can dogs smell you being sick?
Dogs smelling illness.
Dogs and-
You pause as you read the third result.
Dogs and pregnancy.
The chair creaks as you lean back, like the result personally offended you.
Like the thought that crossed your mind wasn’t totally and completely crazy.
No.
That wasn’t… that couldn’t be.
You glance down at Richter who’d become very interested in sniffing at one of Sammy’s ties he’d left draped over the chair’s arm. You blink and click on the search bar again, your searches beginning to change. The hope settling in next to your fear becomes almost as overwhelming as the sick feeling still etched into the walls of your stomach.
Can dogs smell pregnancy?
The question was absurd considering you hadn’t even touched the possibility at all these past few weeks. Although now that the door had opened, it seemed almost the perfect explanation.
You rarely got sick in a normal year and never as bad as the past few weeks had been. Hormone pills weren’t exactly your favorite form of protection and Sammy had a bad habit of reassuring you he was the ‘gun drawing’ champ. Of course, you knew in the back of your head your less than consistent protection methods weren’t exactly full proof.
And maybe.
Just maybe.
There was a teeny tiny part of you that didn’t mind.
You and Sammy had talked about starting a family.
Plenty of times.
You’d watch diaper advertisements with a big smile or pass by little onesies in the store with longing glances. Sammy was always talking about the kids involved in his cases, how he often felt paternal over their situations. It was one of the first topics that had risen during those early stages of dating. There was no doubt that a baby was something you both wanted.
But you? Pregnant right now?
“I can’t be pregnant,” you laugh as you stare at the screen. “I mean that’s- that’s…”
You trail off, looking down at Richter. The dog is staring up at you again. Looking slightly bored as he chews on Sammy’s tie idly.
“It’s crazy Richter. I mean, don’t pregnant women get sick later in pregnancy. And doesn’t everything else get… bigger?” You gesture questioningly to your body. Still the same as it had been.
There was only one way to really tell. If you were spiraling or not.
You push away from the desk after shutting down Sammy’s computer, padding down the hall towards the bathroom. Richter barks, scrambling up onto his paws and following you.
He pushes through the ajar door as you begin rummaging through the toiletry basket beneath the sink, looking for the familiar pink box. The dog sits unashamedly at the door as you hurriedly toss the toilet lid open and make quick work of the pregnancy stick in your hand.
You set the test down on the counter and step back, waiting. It’s the longest three minutes of your life. The clock ticks mockingly slow, your eyes glued to the moving hands as you sit back on the toilet.
“It won’t be positive. It can’t.”
Richter’s tail flops against the bath mat as he sits patiently. Your leg bounces against the porcelain lid.
“I mean,” you chuckle, “It’s flu season. I probably just have a really bad case, y’know.” You look down at the dog. He doesn’t look all that impressed with your reasoning. You sigh and lean over to ruffle the scruff of his neck.
“What if it is positive Ricky? What am I gonna do?” Richter licks the palm of your hand, whining. “I know, I know. Sammy and I have talked about kids. We both want them. But he’s been so busy lately. And the economy is kinda in shambles right now and to bring a baby into all this…”
You trail off with a defeated sigh.
“I just don’t know.” Richter licks your forearm, like he’s trying to help. You smile, glancing up at the clock.
“Wel… it’s time.”
You stand and nervously look at the test, reaching out for it with shaky hands. The stick feels heavier than before. Like just knowing it now carried the results for your future made all the difference.
You swallow thickly, flipping it over-
Your heart sinks as you stare at it.
One pink line.
Your brows furrow, mouth pulling into a frown as you reach for the box, checking the instructions again.
“But I thought…” you trail off, the words lost as you stare at the test.
The negative test.
Richter stares up at you, waiting for you to say something else. But you don’t.
You’re not sure what you’re feeling right now. You should feel some semblance of relief. Weren’t you just saying a baby wasn’t exactly the best plan right now? Weren’t you just sick with the worry of what bringing a baby into the world right now would mean?
But something in your heart pulls, twisting into something resembling disappointment. The small and not so secret part of you that really did want a baby. In spite of all the trials it would bring and the aches and pains. You had actually been waiting to see that positive-
Richter whines, making you blink back to reality.
“I’m sorry boy. I just… I really thought....”
You shake your head, stuffing the test into the box and tossing it in the trashcan with a quiet clang. A chill runs down your back and you shiver, sighing as you realize how tired you felt, the sickness you were still dealing with not relenting.
“Come on Richter,” you gesture towards the living room, trying to pretend like you were fine. “Let’s go back and watch some tv.”
Everything was fine. It was fine.
A negative test was a good thing. Right?
You were just sick with the flu. Richter was finally adjusted to being a member of the Bryant household.
There was no baby.
But as you lay on the couch again, the dog settled against you comfortingly, your heart broke a little at the thought.
The house is dark as he quietly sneaks into the living room, the messy evidence of the day’s battle with your illness still strewn about the house. Sammy doesn’t even really have the heart to pick any of it up, the ache in his back pulling his mind towards his bed, the low rumbling of his empty stomach guiding him to the kitchen.
Sammy sets down his briefcase and coat, kicking off his shoes before he beelines it to the fridge. He pulls out the first container of leftovers he lays his eyes on, grabbing a piece of silverware from the dish rack.
He shovels a few bites of cold mac and cheese into his face while he stares blankly at the tiled backsplash. It’s so quiet in the house, rightly so for it being close to ten.
Although Sammy is surprised Richter hasn’t come running.
A little high strung and wary of any visitors, the dog is always the first one to check out who’s coming through the door. Sammy can see from his position against the kitchen counter that Richter is not in his dog bed like usual. The plush and cozy bed is empty, save for the chewed and abused rabbit toy you’d bought for him. The one with the leg chewed clean off.
Sammy’s too tired to dwell over it. He tosses the container back into the fridge, throwing back an alka seltzer tablet before he pads down the hall towards the bedroom.
The hardwood floor creaks beneath his weight, the soft moonlight illuminating through the half closed door. Sammy nudges the door open slowly, standing in the doorway for a moment as he loosens his tie, watching the rise and fall of your chest.
You were tucked cozily under the covers, Richter curled up against your backside. Sammy can’t help but smile at the sight, even if his heart hurt knowing you weren’t feeling good.
You barely move when he pads into the room, the soft smell of chamomile tea long gone cold filling the room, Richter’s soft snores making everything feel together. Stitched like a homey portrait; a scene of perfect domesticity, it made Sammy’s heart ache even more.
Because every night he got to come home to something soft and wonderful and so unlike the violence and horror his job threw at him day after day.
All the awful things LA tried so hard to hide, the awful aftermath of fights gone wrong, kids who didn’t know actions had consequences, people who just wanted to find a way out only to fall into the wrong hands.
But here.
Here in his bedroom, with a closet filled to the brim with your pretty skirts and his collection of mediocre suits, the bed with mismatched sheets and a cozy chair the two of you had found at an estate sale not too long ago.
Here, everything was as it should be.
Warm. Quiet. A kind of peace that couldn’t be tucked into concrete apartment complexes or busy freeways.
It was the heart of everything that Sammy loved about this place.
You.
Sammy smiles tiredly as he slips his belt off, setting it carefully on his nightstand so the holster didn’t clatter. He nudges Richter, trying to get the dog to wake, sighing when Richter just turns away from him, snuggling closer against you.
“Richter,” Sammy whispers, slipping the straps of his suspenders off his shoulders. “Hey, come on bud. No dog on the furniture, that’st he rule.”
Richter just puffs at the reminder, eyes glowing in the dark. Sammy makes a face, trying to tug at the dog’s collar. Sammy, as much as he loved the dog, had a hard rule about the animal sleeping in bed with the two of you. It was his job to keep you company at night, not the dogs.
But tonight, Richter didn’t budge.
In fact he growled lowly at Sammy, turning over further into you.
“Rick…” Sammy sighs. You mumble groggily into your pillow at the sound, your hand coming up to brush a strand of hair caught in your mouth.
“Sammy?” You whisper tiredly. Sammy’s face softens as the mattress dips beneath his weight, his hand reaching out to brush the hair away from your face.
“Hi baby. Didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers.
“S’ alright,” you blink, leaning into the kiss he presses against your cheek.
“You feeling okay?” Sammy asks. It was a casual question. Almost routine after you being sick for so long.
“Yeah. I’m okay.” There’s a pause in your voice. Almost imperceptible, but Sammy catches it. He frowns, noting the way the soft lines of your face almost look sad in the dark.
“You sure?” He asks, thumb brushing along your hairline comfortingly. You give him a smile, opening your arms wide in a silent request as you speak.
“I promise. Just missed you.” Sammy obliges, lowering himself into your arms, being careful to not crush you beneath his big frame.
“Yeah? I missed you too pretty girl.”
You hum, the sound vibrating against his chest. Sammy chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You turn your head away from him, eyes closed as you hum quietly again.
Peacefully. The content sound of everything being as it should be.
“You need a shower,” you whisper.
“Wow. That’s your best greeting?”
“I’m tired Sammy,” you chuckle. “It’s been a long day.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs into your hairline. “Me too.”
“Well hurry up then,” you push him away, your hand lacking any real force. Sammy just shakes his head and peels himself away from you, giving Richter a resigned pat to the side.
The shower is cool against Sammy’s broad frame, refreshing after the hot LA sun. The water runs off of his freckled face and shoulders, washing away the grime and grim tension of the day’s events.
Sammy is hanging his towel on the rack, dried and changed into an old academy shirt and a clean pair of boxer shorts, when he accidentally knocks his watch off the sink. It falls in the space between the toilet, bouncing off the little trash can there.
Sammy grumbles, too tired to deal with it. But he does. It’s his only watch, the one you’d spent way too much money on as a gift for his 30th birthday.
Sammy crouches down, water droplet still dripping off his damp hair as he reaches for the watch. He pauses, his eye catching something in the trash.
A familiar looking box.
He pulls it out by the ripped cardboard flap, the flimsy material pressed between his index and middle finger.
It’s a pregnancy test box.
Of course it was, he’d recognize the magenta and pink box anywhere. It was hard to miss in your mostly drab bathroom. Sammy frowns, forgetting the watch for a moment as he fully pulls out the box, curiosity getting the better of him.
He can’t help but rifle through it, looking for the used test. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you to tell him these kinds of things. Of course he did.
But Sammy had a bad habit of sticking his nose into places it didn’t belong. Nate says it’s what made him a good detective. Curiosity helped find answers.
Save lives.
In this case, curiosity revealed that Sammy Bryant was about to be a father.
Sammy stares at the test, squinting at the double pink lines.
The second one was faint, barely glinting beneath the light. But it was there. Any semblance of being tired is zapped as he blinks at those two lines, his mouth falling agape in shock. You were pregnant?
Something clicks in Sammy’s mind. The sickness you’d been fighting. The way Richter had been acting. Like pieces of a puzzle finally laid into a full picture.
Sammy shakes his head, sitting back on his haunches.
But… you hadn’t said anything.
You hadn’t even given him a hint that something else might be happening. That you might be hiding this perfect little secret. In fact, you had almost seemed… sad.
Were you sad? Did you not want this?
Something tightens in Sammy’s chest, a hint of doubt. Maybe he should just ask you about it. The station’s couples counselor always says ‘communication is key’, and Sammy knows even the hardest conversations are part of maintaining a healthy relationship.
Sammy sits on the bathroom floor for a while, thinking, thumb tapping against his lip, leg bouncing nervously.
Nervous. He shouldn’t be nervous.
Who was Sammy kidding? He was practically buzzing at the idea of being a father.
Sammy finally grabs his watch, standing with the test and padding back down the hall to your bedroom. You let out a soft noise when Sammy gently prods your shoulder, head lulling against his forearm.
“What took you so long?” You mumble quietly, not opening your eyes.
“Honey… can we talk?” You crack your lashes open, blearily staring into the dark at him.
“Wha-” Sammy holds out the test.
He knows you can’t see it, eyes straining to focus in the dark. He reaches over for the lamp, giving you a quick apology as he flips the switch on, the room bathed in a soft orange glow. You moan, covering your eyes.
“Samuel-”
“I know, I know.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. But this is kinda important honey.”
You blink, sitting up in bed. Richter isn’t pleased as your legs jostle him, the dog puffing as he rolls over to Sammy’s side of the bed, legs splayed out over the comforter. You squint at Sammy, your hair mussed from sleep, licking your lips as you half glare at him.
“What’s so important?”
“This.” Sammy holds out the test for you.
“Oh,” you say, something sad crossing your face. “I was gonna tell you tomorrow.”
Sammy scoffs, a mixed sound of amusement and disbelief as you take the test from him.
“Tomorrow? You were gonna wait that long?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not like it’s gonna change anything.”
“Not gonna change… WHAT?!” Sammy half hisses, confusion written across his face. “What do you mean this isn’t gonna change anything. Of course it does.”
You frown, making a strange face.
“Sammy… what on earth are you talking about? It was a negative test, of course I wasn’t going to tell you about it at 11 at night.”
Oh.
You had taken the test earlier and it had been negative.
Oh.
Sammy bursts into bright laughter, the sound echoing off the walls. You don’t look even half as amused as him and Sammy doesn’t blame you at all. Not even when you try to push him away when he cups your face and presses a wet kiss to your face.
“Sam-”
“Honey, I think you need to check the test again.”
You pause, frowning.
You glance down at the test, squinting. Sammy watches, his smile brightening further the moment he knows you see it. Your eyes widen slightly, your hands quickly bringing the test beneath the light.
And there they were. Two pink lines.
“But…” you trail off, mouth searching for the words. “It wasn’t- these weren’t there before.”
Sammy grins, his hand reaching out to rest against your thigh.
“I think you’re pregnant, baby.” You don’t say anything, just stare at the lines. Sammy tries to catch your eye, but you refuse to look at him. He thinks you might be in shock. “Honey?”
Sammy shakes your thigh gently, finally drawing your attention.
“I don’t… I don’t even know what to say.” He frowns.
“Do you not want to-”
“No,” you interject before he can even finish the sentence. “No, of course I want a baby. I really do. It’s just- earlier when it was negative I thought something was wrong with me.”
“Oh, honey.” Sammy pulls you into his arms, your legs curling beneath you as you settle against him. “You’re okay. We’ll be okay.”
You look down at the test and then back up at him.
“What if it's a false positive? Those can happen.”
“They can?” He frowns.
“I mean, it wasn’t positive before. Maybe-”
“Well, just take another test. There’s no harm in that, is there?”
“Sammy,” you tilt your head. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
Sammy smiles and kisses you softly.
“I’m always looking on the bright side of things honey. If it really truly is negative, then maybe it’s time we start trying.”
“Really?” Your eyes brighten.
“Really,” Sammy nods as he tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “I think it’s time for a baby.”
You smile brightly. You still look tired and exhausted from being sick all day. But you’re eyes are sparkling. And Sammy doesn’t think he’s ever loved you more than he does right now. At the prospect of you carrying his child.
Richter’s snout pokes between the space of your bodies and Sammy throws him a glare. The dog pushes him away from you, pressing his furry body against your torso. Sammy pouts.
“Although I really don’t think it’s negative, sweetheart.”
You laugh.
“I think he’s just nosey. Always needs to be a part of things, huh,” you scratch Richter’s ears fondly.
You stand in the front of the fridge, the door open as you stare.
But you’re not staring into the lit insides, the cold air seeping through the fabric of your dress. Your eyes are directed upward, glued to the ultrasound photo pinned to the metal surface by a giftshop magnet.
A baby.
Three positive tests and a doctor's appointment to confirm it.
Sammy reaches out to squeeze your hand on the fridge door, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he passes by you.
“You’re gonna waste the electricity just standing there baby.”
You hum in question, not really listening. Too busy thinking about the future baby Bryant and not enough about the cold bowl of cherries had come over to grab.
“What was that?” You ask dreamily.
“I said-”
Sammy turns back to you, going to repeat his statement. But he pauses, taking in how beautiful you look standing there. The slight glow you had, the pure and excited thrill that washes over him as he looks at you.
You were pregnant. He was going to be a dad.
You turn to look at Sammy, reaching into the fridge for the bowl of juicy, red fruit.
Sammy Bryant would later—much later—try to rewrite this moment in his head.
In his version, he leans casually against the patrol car, arms crossed, voice low and confident. He says something clever, something charming. You laugh, of course you laugh, and then you say yes without hesitation, because why wouldn’t you?
In reality?
“Uh—hey. You, uh… you busy? I mean—not like right now, I know we’re on shift, that’d be—bad, yeah, no, I meant later. After. Not after-after, just like… after work. If you’re not—busy.”
He stops. Stares at you. Blinks.
His brain completely abandons him.
You blink back, trying—really trying—not to smile too widely, because Sammy Bryant, your training officer, the man who can handle suspects twice his size without breaking a sweat, is currently unraveling in front of you.
His ears are red. Not just a little. Fully red.
You tilt your head. “Sammy… are you asking me out?”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for five full minutes.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s—that’s what I’m doing. Real bad, apparently.”
You can’t help it. You laugh. Not at him—never at him—but because it’s so… him. So honest. So painfully unpolished.
And somehow that makes your chest feel warm.
“Okay,” you say, softer now. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Sammy freezes.
“…Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause. A long one.
Then he nods—quick, sharp, like he’s sealing it in. “Okay. Good. Good, that’s—good.”
He turns like he’s about to walk away.
Then turns back.
“Dinner? Or—coffee? Or—whatever, I’m flexible, I can—eat, drink, both, not—at the same time, I mean—”
“Sammy.”
“Yeah?”
“Dinner’s good.”
Another nod. Too fast. Too relieved. “Dinner. Yeah. Good.”
And then he does walk away—straight into the side mirror of the patrol car.
It becomes a thing after that.
Not the walking-into-objects thing (though… that does happen again). The you and Sammy thing.
Except Sammy doesn’t suddenly become smooth overnight.
If anything, it gets worse.
Example one: The Door Incident.
You’re heading into a diner after shift. Sammy rushes ahead to open the door for you—which is sweet, really, very sweet.
Except he misjudges the distance, grabs the handle too fast, and the door swings back and nearly hits him in the face.
He catches it at the last second, mutters, “Jesus—” under his breath, then holds it open like nothing happened.
You walk past him, biting back a smile.
“Thank you,” you say, gentle.
“Yeah. Yeah, no problem. I meant to—y’know. Reflexes.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Example two: The Compliment Attempt.
You show up in something slightly different—nothing major, just a new jacket, your hair sitting a little softer around your face.
Sammy notices immediately.
Of course he does.
He spends the first ten minutes trying not to say anything, because every time he thinks about it, his brain goes completely blank except for: she looks really pretty.
Eventually, he blurts—
“You look—uh—different. Not bad different. Good different. Like—like you always look good, but this is like… also good. More good. Not more than before—just… good in a different—”
You’re staring at him now, eyebrows raised, lips pressed together.
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m gonna stop talking.”
You grin. “You’re doing great.”
“I’m really not.”
“I think you are.”
He peeks at you through his fingers, and there’s something soft there—something a little disbelieving.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Example three: The Almost-Hand-Hold.
This one nearly kills him.
You’re walking side by side after a long shift, the city quieter than usual, the tension of the day finally easing.
Your hands brush.
Just barely.
Sammy feels it like a damn electric shock.
He glances down. Then at you. Then back down.
His fingers twitch.
Just grab her hand, his brain says. It’s not that hard.
Except apparently it is.
He moves his hand closer. Then pulls it back. Then tries again.
It becomes this awkward, stuttering dance of almost-touching and not-quite.
You notice.
Of course you notice.
So you take pity on him.
You just slip your hand into his.
Easy. Simple. Done.
Sammy stops walking.
Actually stops.
You turn, a little concerned. “You okay?”
He’s staring at your joined hands like he’s never seen anything like it before.
“…Yeah,” he says slowly. “Yeah, I’m good.”
His grip tightens—careful, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he’s not gentle enough.
He clears his throat. “I was—I was gonna do that.”
“I know.”
“I just—y’know—timing.”
“Terrible timing,” you tease.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. That tracks.”
But he doesn’t let go.
Not the whole way back to the car.
The thing is—Sammy knows he’s not smooth.
He knows he fumbles, that he says the wrong thing, that his confidence disappears the second it comes to you.
But he also knows this:
You never make him feel stupid for it.
You don’t rush him. Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t pull away.
You meet him where he is.
And that does something to him. Something steady and deep and a little terrifying.
One night, much later, you’re sitting on his couch.
It’s quiet. Comfortable.
Your legs are tucked under you, his arm resting along the back of the couch, just barely brushing your shoulders.
He’s been thinking about something for a while—you can tell by the way he keeps glancing at you, then away.
“Hey,” he says finally.
“Hey.”
He hesitates. Then—
“I’m… not great at this.”
You tilt your head. “At what?”
“This. Us. Talking. Not talking. All of it.”
You smile a little. “You’re doing okay.”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean—I want to be. For you.” His voice softens. “You deserve someone who’s… smoother than this.”
There it is. The real thing underneath all the fumbling.
You shift closer.
“Sammy.”
He looks at you.
“You think I said yes because you were smooth?”
A pause.
“…No?”
You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his—like you did that first time.
“I said yes because you were honest. Because you were nervous. Because you didn’t pretend to be something you’re not.”
His brow furrows slightly, like he’s trying to understand something bigger than he expected.
“You don’t need game,” you continue softly. “You just need to be you.”
Silence settles between you.
Not heavy. Not awkward.
Just… full.
Sammy looks down at your hands. Then back at your face.
“…I can do that,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
He exhales, something in him loosening.
Then, after a second—
“I still wanna get better at the door thing, though.”
You laugh, leaning into him. “Yeah, maybe work on that.”
His arm comes around you properly this time, pulling you in close—hesitant for half a second, then sure.
