"Yeah, you got that something; I think you'll understand. When I feel that something, I wanna hold your hand."

A/N: Post-3.03 fluff, inspired by some ridiculously cute hallway hand-holding. (EDIT: Title changed in light of similarity/proximity to another great read!)

DISCLAIMER: I own neither Rookie Blue nor the lyrics of The Beatles.

The first time she thought it was a fluke.

Waiting on the taxi cab, they had stood on the drafty landing of JD's building. An involuntary shudder rocked her frame, and she rolled up on her toes, pressing her face into his neck and leaning into his bare chest. His fingers grasped her wrist loosely before his palm slid south, twining their hands together.

In the next moment, Sam pressed her against the doorframe, mouth moving with a languidness that time could not afford. She had smiled against his lips, body filled with warmth despite the chill in the air. She left with memories of mussed hair, dark, sleepy eyes, and the searing brand of his mouth as he brushed his thumb across the back of her hand.

The second time it happened, Sam didn't give her time to react. Meeting her at the entrance to JD's apartment, he laced their fingers together before tugging her up the stairs. The gesture was unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome, and when he had greeted her properly, he dropped her hand in favor of turning on the fireplace.

She wondered then if it was a 'JD' thing, going so far as to tease him the following morning. He holds my hand... Brings me juice to bed... And he actually calls me.

The third time they were en route to the Barn, the morning after her reinstatement. That was her first clue; confirmation that it wasn't merely a part Sam was playing. Keeping his eyes fixed on the road, he took his right hand off the steering wheel and threaded their fingers together. Only when they stopped at his place for a change of clothes did he release her hand.

When he came back out with two travel mugs of coffee, he offered her one with a silent smile. Their hands were occupied for the duration of the ride, fingers grasping the warm, stainless handles of the mugs. The drive was leisurely, and they took slow, unhurried sips of their coffee at red lights. They entered the division separately; no mention of hands, no further movement on his part.

The fourth time they were in a carryout restaurant. A week of nightshifts had inspired zero culinary aspirations, so they agreed on Thai in lieu of prepping the leafy greens and chicken in her near-empty refrigerator.

Fighting a yawn, Sam leaned heavily against the restaurant wall, shoulder and head resting on the peeling, red paint. One hand slipped into his jeans pocket as they waited for their order; the other stretched toward her. Eyes drifting shut, he smiled without conscious effort, the corners of his mouth pulling as his warm skin touched hers.

The fifth time it happened they were lying in bed together, eyes trained on the ceiling. It was the night of the Wyatt debacle, the aftermath of a loaded conversation in the viewing room, "Six months ago..." and "What's the rush?" She had fallen asleep on the sofa, head pillowed on his lap until he gently shook her awake. When they made it to her bed, their bodies were close, not touching, but he reached for her hand wordlessly. She squeezed his fingers in acknowledgment, a soft smile on her lips.

You and me, she repeated to herself, It's different.

She lost track after that, party to casual touches at the Penny, on the way to work, while they made dinner side-by-side in the kitchen. Each was its own moment, and she couldn't decide which she preferred - The intentionality of his firm grip or the habit it soon formed.

Now, she finds herself lost in thought as they approach his truck in the division parking lot. His hand finding hers is a silent reassurance. Today's shift was the longest and most stressful in recent history, and she can't put her relief to words, knowing that Dov's bullet was a good shoot.

Instead, she focuses on their joined hands, the satisfaction and contentment of heading home with someone who knows and understands. Cares. She's grateful for Sam, for his steadfastness and support. Hallway teasing aside, neither optimism nor experience can overshadow what's developed in a few short weeks.

Her body hums with energy, heart beating just a little faster as she glances toward their clasped hands. She wonders if the thrill will cease, that little shiver that works its way up her spine when his skin brushes hers. The tingly rush of blood in her fingers. The smile that immediately follows.

She hopes not. She likes it, truth be told.

She remembers back to their first shift together and his infamous words: I am not your boyfriend, and I will not be holding your hand. She briefly entertains the idea of repeating that line to him now, ultimately deciding against it. He'll have some smartass remark, and if they're going to label this...

Well, like he said: No rush.

She wouldn't have pegged him as the hand-holding type. Then again, she wouldn't have pegged him as the carry-to-bed, eyes-fixed-on-her-face, stroke-her-back-in-the-afterglow type, either.

Suppressing a smile, she tightens her grip on his hand. If she had to guess, there's a lot she doesn't know about Sam Swarek. She's only scratched the surface.

Still, the clues are pretty promising: That vaguely pleased half-smile. The seriousness of his eyes. Stopping for ice cream and stroking her hair and this implicit trust in the field. It's not even that she wants to establish routine for the sake of having routine. This thing with Sam breeds familiarity and feelings, and it's like they're making up for lost time, nearly two years and an enforced suspension later. She's grateful for their preexisting friendship, and if this 'partners' thing is any indication...

Whoa. Slow your roll, girl.

She shakes her head at herself chidingly. Shouldn't these kinds of thoughts terrify her? Send her running for the hills? It's early. God, is it early...

But it's also Sam.

"You alright there, McNally?" he teases, interrupting her reverie. Unlocking the truck, he disentangles their hands, swinging the passenger door open. "You look a little preoccupied."

She clears her throat, refocusing her attentions as she slides into the cab of his truck. "Just picturing that amazing meal you're going to cook," she quips easily. Sinking into the cushioned interior, she props her feet on the dashboard and issues a blinding smile. "Your place, your kitchen, your job to feed me."

"Yeah?" he prompts, eyebrows raised. "Or what? You gonna go all bad cop on me; is that right?"

She rolls her eyes, wrinkling her nose as she considers his words. "Is that what experience tells you?"

He shakes his head as he slams the door. Circling the hood of the truck, he slips into the driver's seat and reclaims her hand.

"Nah, just what I'm hoping for," he corrects with a slow, lazy grin. "Color me optimistic."

There's something solid about his grip, familiar posturing and the rough pad of his thumb sweeping across her knuckles. She presses her lips in a tight line, suppressing a laugh at his provocation. Sam thrives on driving her crazy one moment, and... Well. Driving her crazy the next.

"So... Thai okay tonight?" he asks, swiftly changing the subject. He shifts into reverse, neck craned to check the space behind him. "We haven't had it in a while, and if we call now, we can pick it up from that little carryout place by my house."

He swivels his head toward her, grinning. "I'll wow you with my culinary prowess another night, I promise."

She pauses, dropping her gaze to their linked hands as her mind replays earlier memories.

"Sounds perfect," she agrees, squeezing his hand. Her next words are an afterthought, quiet and sure. "No rush."