Disclaimer: The names of all characters contained here-in are the property of Jerry Bruckheimer Films, CBS, etc. No infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

Characters: Martin/Sam

Rating: R

Post-ep for The Innocents. Vague season 4 spoilers.

Soundtrack: cover art / tracklisting. LJ link

It was reckless.

There was no romance, no soft kisses or lingering touches. No exchange of quiet whispers of devotion. No admissions of love.

It was reckless and really fucking fast.

And now you are different. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be more. But you couldn’t control it, or him or even yourself. He’s breathing deeply and you are debating whether to roll out of bed and just leave. You’ve done it before. You can do it again. He would understand, wouldn’t he? He knows what all this is about, right? Somehow you hope he doesn’t, because at least then your guilt gives you an excuse to stay and you really, really want to stay.

You sigh, loudly, maybe enough to stir him from sleep. You do that sometimes just so he’ll be lingering on the brink of consciousness long enough for you to nudge yourself that much closer and in his haze, he’ll wrap an arm tightly around you until he’s fallen deep asleep again. You still can’t bring yourself to ask him to hold you. It still feels weak. And now, after the events of tonight, it feels out of place as if your relationship shouldn’t be like that anymore. But this time, your squirming and sighing fail to rouse him.

So you’re left alone in the dark with only your thoughts and the presence beside you.

It wasn’t planned. Nothing about tonight had been on your mind when you woke up the previous morning. You went through the motions like you had been for the last four months. Suit neatly laid out, cup of coffee, TV news, out the door. At work, the idea hadn’t even crossed your mind. You had noticed his walk had improved. If anything, he looked better than he had in months. But that thought slipped away and the rest of the day was focused solely on the missing girl. He gone with Elena and Jack to nab the pervert and she left to go home when you received the call from Jack. Elena had it all covered.

Now, you’re left with the consequences of every moment from that second onward. Your memory is suddenly much more vivid in its intensity.

You say goodbye to Viv who’s also on her way home, in another direction. You have no idea where Danny is. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, you flag down one of those bright yellow cabs. You hesitate for a moment before telling the driver where to take you. The directions slip off your tongue like second-nature and it’s only when you start heading north that you realize what you said. It would sound stupid to change your mind now, and plus, it would cost even more to get home.

He and you are friends now, you tell yourself. You can have a cup of coffee and sort out a good excuse as to why you’re in his neighborhood. Then you’ll walk to his apartment once you’re sure he’s home from the case and ask for a ride home in his rarely-driven Lincoln. It’s plushy and still smells like new leather. He said it was a present from his mother when he joined the Missing Persons Unit. You remember that conversation because it made you resent him just a little bit more.

But the cab gets stuck in traffic in midtown. You tap your fingers along the pleather-coated door. Why are you so impatient? It not even like you have plans. In fact, tonight is a moderately early night. Maybe it’s just the nervousness of actually having to talk to him outside work that’s getting to you. In the hospital it didn’t count, that was still like work because it was because of work. Even once he awoke from his coma, it was still almost like work. At least, you could pretend it was and ignore the shaking of your hands every time you entered the hospital room. And when Danny or Viv caught you there, sending you knowing glances that you tried to shake off as concern for him, it was just work. Everyone knew why you were there so often, even his parents. It was uncomfortable but somewhat freeing. However, since he left the hospital, you avoided personal contact with him. It would drag too many skeletons out of your already full closet.

The taxi driver honks loudly at an SUV swerving around the cars. You take a deep breath and stare out the window. At this rate you might get there by tomorrow morning.

The car lurches forward quickly, and with a growl of the engine, it veers off sharply into a side street. You briefly wonder if the driver doesn’t like you. You never said you were in a rush but it seems like he really wants this ride to be over and to have you out of his car. But despite his boldness, it still takes another 45 minutes to get uptown.

By the time you finally get to the address you specified, it is well past the time you would expect him to get home by. He’s probably upstairs right now. You take a step towards the door, your hand hesitating on the lobby door. You snatch it back quickly as if you’ve been burned.

This is stupid, you tell yourself. You’re only there to get a ride home. As a friend. There’s no reason to be this silly about it. Taking a calming breath you yank open the door and the doorman instantly recognizes you. His lips crinkle in a small smile, acknowledging your return. You press your own lips together and force a smile, making your way directly to the elevator. Once the doors swish closed, you slam your finger into the button for the 11th floor. You want to punch all the buttons, just to release some tension but that would only drag the whole ordeal out longer. Not to mention, the doorman may not ever let you into the building again if he thought you were crazy.

You catch yourself pacing right before the doors open to the familiar carpet of the 11th floor. The dim glow of the hallway lights feels almost warm on your skin and you wonder if maybe you are actually going crazy. On auto-pilot, you make your way to the end apartment. It’s then that you realize your skin is actually warmer; it isn’t just the lights.

Your hand hovers just above the smooth surface of his front door. You could just suck it up and pay for the cab fare back downtown. But then you’d look pretty stupid leaving as soon as you came, and the doorman would notice. It strikes you suddenly: Why do you care so fucking much about appearances?

Before you’re aware of it, your knuckles rap repeatedly on the wood-grain. The sound of the lock sliding back is barely audible as all you can hear is the blood rushing through your ears. Then he’s standing there, having just showered, beads of water still dripping down from his hair and wearing only a towel. You say nothing and instead resort to staring. He raises his eyebrow in questioning.

“Sam, well, this is a surprise. What’s up?”

How can he be so casual, like nothing is happening right at this very moment? You feel hotter by the second and you are fully convinced it has nothing to do with anything except the sight before you. He seems completely oblivious.

“Sam?”

“Uh, yeah.” You can’t think of what else to say but you’re becoming very aware that he is growing suspicious. If you stall any longer, it will really seem like this visit has ulterior motives. “I, um, I was just meeting a friend and there was a subway delay and I was wondering if you could give me a ride home but you’re really not ready so I’ll just go catch a cab or something.”

You know you’re rambling. And despite your conclusion, you stay rooted to the spot. He looks utterly confused at your flimsy excuse and finally shrugs when he responds. “Okay, well, I’ll see you at work then.”

You still don’t move.

“I can wait for you.”

He looks surprised at your new plan. It almost looks as if he’s slightly nervous now. Then you realize that he is still talking to you through a half-open door. It hits you: maybe someone else is there. But you don’t retract your suggestion. You mean it. On more than one level although you doubt that he’s caught onto that. He’s great at the double-entendres, but the relationship subtleties are another issue.

“Um, all right,” he mumbles and opens the door wider, allowing you access. You let out a relieved sigh that he isn’t with someone else. You habitually make your way right to the sofa and sink down into the cushions. He stands behind the closed door and stares at you; you can feel his eyes on you. You can’t look at him anymore, not when he’s like that. He takes a few strides towards the bathroom but stops in the middle of the room and continues to stare.

“Sam.”

“Yep?” you say a little too quickly and a little too loudly as you abruptly swing around to look at him.

“Is something wrong?”

No, Martin, don’t. Don’t speak like that, in that low, soft voice. It’s not fair. You know too much and you know the effect that you have.

Suddenly you have the urge to cry but you’re not even sad. It’s something about the way he asks the question that tears you to pieces, and makes you feel guilty and relieved at the same time. You just want to cry. Not about anything in particular, though. It’s just a general feeling that he can evoke in you. And for the first time since you arrived on the scene of his shooting a few months ago, you really want to cry. Mustering up some form of bravado, you shake your head and put on a smile.

“Nope. Nothing’s wrong.” Apart from the feeling that you’re being torn at the seams. He’s still standing there in just a towel, practically begging you come to him. But it’s wrong, you’re friends now. He hurt you enough the first time around and you still haven’t fully forgiven him for that.

“Okay,” he says as he lets out what sounds like a disappointed sigh.

Oh, fuck. Please no.

He turns around and moves towards the bathroom again. You’re stuck watching him walk away. He’s going to get dressed and drive you home and it will be awkward, like high school all over again. But it’ll be forgotten in time. Just like high school.

There is a period of time where you don’t know what’s happening but you’re no longer sitting on the couch. Instead you are walking briskly towards the bathroom. He must not hear you because of the thick carpet since he doesn’t turn around. Suddenly you grab his arm. The sparks fly out from his hot skin as your fingers dig in. You want to drop your hand but you can’t let go until he’s turned to face you.

There is a moment’s pause. You’re not surprised to see that he isn’t surprised. He knew you would do this. Suddenly your back hits the wall behind you and your body is pressed against his. He hasn’t kissed you yet and you’re aching to be touched more than this. He just has you trapped but he’s not doing anything more. It becomes a staring contest, each daring the other to react first. He’s already lost by pinning you. But then, maybe you lost for coming here in the first place. You gave in first.

You try to be confident but you can feel your nerves dangling precariously close to the edge. You can feel his breath on your face and neck. It almost burns.

“I don’t really need a ride home.” You hope that your voice came out sultry and strong because it doesn’t feel like it really did. He swallows hard and you almost expect a joke but he doesn’t take the bait. Your invitation is clear enough. His restraint is also obvious. You wonder if he’s going to make the first move or if it’s up to you. It’s always up to you. It always has been.

You run your tongue along your bottom lip in preparation, as his gaze remains rapt in that action.

The explosion is sudden. Without warning, that one insinuation has him running his hands over your body, in places that haven’t been touched since he last was there. The barrier of your clothes does nothing to lessen the heat of his touch or the effect that it is having on your body. Regardless, you want free of them. You squirm against his touch to rid yourself of your jacket, leaving the majority of your skin exposed in a tight white tank top, part of which has ridden up due to his hands. You respond in kind, raking your fingers up his chest, feeling the moist, clean skin gathering goose bumps under the trail of your fingernails. One finger lingers on a leftover scar but after a brief moment of hesitation, you decide to ignore that for now. At the same time, his lips crush down over yours, suffocating for a moment, before you relax and pull him closer.

It feels so fucking good after so long that you try your hardest to repress a groan of appreciation but fail miserably. You end up sounding like a lustful harlot in your wantonness. It only provokes him further as he fights with the buckle of your belt, breaking the kiss only long enough to hear you moan again. When your pants hit the floor, your skin prickles in anticipation, especially as he presses his hips into your and you feel how hard his erection is. You respond by tightening your hold. Your arms are snug around his neck, not allowing his lips to leave yours, not allowing him to leave you again.

The rest of your clothes, tangled with his towel, are lost somewhere between the hallway and his bedroom where you suddenly find yourself staring at the familiar ceiling. You try to calm your panting because it sure as hell is giving away your real thoughts. You didn’t want to seem so needy but it’s hard to restrain yourself. Then he’s on top of you, kissing you so hard that you think your lips are bruised. His grip on you is no less gentle. He was rarely this possessive the last time. But then, he never seemed as desperate before.

A thought occurs to you and you want his well-being intact after this is over. Roughly you push him off you, hard enough to actually mean it. He looks angry for a moment, as if he’s expecting you to just leave now. He thinks you’re playing another game.

Instead you push him down on top of the sheets and straddle his hips. The anger fades from his face quickly and is replaced again with pure lust. You had hoped for a little love maybe but if that’s in there anywhere, it’s not coming out tonight. His hands glide over the dip in your waist up to your breasts. You can’t resist closing your eyes as he kneads them gently, flicking a thumb over one sensitive nub. There has always been something about the way he touches you that is different than any other man you’ve known. His fingertips graze you so lightly yet ignite your skin so intensely. Maybe it’s in the way he touches you like you are the most beautiful yet arousing thing he’s ever seen. Like you’re special. You bite your tongue and raise yourself up to hover just above him, trying to concentrate on what you really want.

It’s not long before you’ve guided him inside you. His eyes are pressed shut, his jaw clenched as you see the muscles twitching in his neck. If you weren’t so intent on seeing his reaction, you know you’d be the same way. He’s holding back now, grabbing your waist so firmly it nearly hurts but refusing to do anything else. Why hold back now? you think. Your back is probably bruised from being shoved against the wall and you can see small welts on his arms where your nails dug a little too deep. But there is something about this intensity that is easing your uncertainty.

“Oh fuck, Sam,” he growls underneath you. He has never really been one to swear during sex and it causes an involuntary clench of your inner muscles around him. He groans again. You want to give up this torture.

Leaning down closer to him, you move, sliding, and you suck in a sharp breath. It has been too long and the way he feels inside you is better than ever before. He thrusts up to meet you, his back arching slightly to get closer to you, and pulling your hips back down. After that brief hesitation, you begin to fuck him like before. Riding him forcefully, grinding your clit into his pelvic bone as he tries to hold on.

Suddenly the pace increases dramatically and you come back down harder and harder. He is close and you can see his body tense. Quickly and almost roughly he shoves a thumb between the two of you as you move above him.

That’s all it takes and for moment you think you might have died. You clench as hard as you can and moan out nonsensical sounds of appreciation. He finally lets go and pounds up into you. A few strokes later, he’s met with his own release.

You open your eyes, still resting on him, letting your body finish riding out the last of your internal spasms. His eyes are glazed over and he trying desperately to keep a dopey, satisfied smile off his face. You let a small smile slip out in return. With much warning, he pulls you down and kisses you solidly, as it to say that he doesn’t want it to just end like that. Your kiss spells reassurance and you roll off him.

You both lay staring at the ceiling as you let your breath slow. You turn your head to the side. His smile is gone, replaced with an unreadable expression.

“You okay?” you ask, worrying about his hips and abdomen. The shooting isn’t that easy to forget. He looks at you with surprise.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbles, looking at you with concern. “You?” He winces slightly signaling that he’s not really fine, but he reaches out for you anyway. You accept the offer and curl up alongside him.

The feeling was forgotten to you, but it’s not completely foreign. This is the same Martin as before except this time he’s a little more suspicious of you, a little more jaded. He’s a little more closed off from you. Without any further conversation, he’s asleep, unconsciously pulling away from you. And you’re left with just your thoughts.

And so that’s where you are now: lying beside, but not with, him. It’s hurting you for some reason. And you really, truly think that the best thing to do would be to run away as fast as possible. You maneuver around so you’re underneath his blankets; the chill of the late autumn night is seeping into your bones now that the heat has evaporated. The blankets create the illusion of capture, one more nudge to help you stay. It’s hard to fight your nervous, insecure nature and every little thing helps. His arms around you would help more, you admit to yourself. Not because it would be possessive, but because it would be reassuring that he wants to see you there when he wakes up.

With that thought on your mind, you slowly drift off into dreams.

Sunlight peeks in through a crack in the curtain. That sliver just happens to be positioned exactly over your eyes and you squint for a minute as you open them. Looking around, there’s something unfamiliar. Your heart leaps for the split-second before you realize whose bed you’re in this time. Rolling over you see him, still fast asleep. Sometime during the night, he joined you underneath the sheets. You allow yourself a brief moment to look him over. Familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. The digital clock glows on the other side of him. You really need to leave soon if you want to get to work on time. It would just be embarrassing to show up in creased and dirty clothes.

Although you could really go for a replay of what happened last night as well.

You crawl out of bed and collect your dirty clothes from the floor of the hallway, slowly making your way to the bathroom. Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror. You’re not sure what you’re seeing anymore because you feel different. You’re not sure if it’s your brain playing tricks on you, but you think you look a little different too.

Looking down at the sink, there is a pink toothbrush beside the green one. It’s yours. From before. He still has it. Looking around, you search for other pieces of you. Your shampoo is still in the shower. Of course, it looks like it hasn’t been touched forever, but it’s still there. It should be disturbing, that he kept all these tokens but you know how many little things of his you still have hanging around your apartment.

Picking up the toothbrush, you begin to brush your teeth, following your morning routine. It’s only after you’ve washed your face that you realize you’re still naked. You’re going to shower when you get back to your apartment. There’s no point in putting on dirty clothes on a clean body. You tie your blonde hair up in a messy bun atop your head. You slip the tank top over your head and reach for your pants.

Then you notice the neatly folded clothes on the hamper. A small t-shirt and that pair of sweatpants you always stole.

He did this. The toothbrush, the shampoo, the clothes. He laid them out sometime last night after you had fallen asleep. A smile creeps onto your face at his thoughtfulness. Pulling on the sweatpants, you wonder about him. You didn’t expect him to be like this, especially after everything that had happened between the two of you and your less-than-romantic reunion.

“Hey.” His voice is low and soft as he stands in the doorway.

“Hey,” you respond quietly, unsure what else to say. He enters the washroom too, clad in a t-shirt and boxers. But he doesn’t touch you, or give you a good morning kiss like so many other times.

“I wasn’t sure if you left already,” he offered as an explanation. You shake your head as if it was a ridiculous idea, laughing lightly. He moves past you to brush his teeth. Trying to shake off the sense of déjà vu, you gather your clothes and look at him closer.

“Martin…” your voice trails off as you’re suddenly aware that you don’t know what else to say right away as your thoughts slip away. He glances at you curiously, pausing in brushing his teeth. You want to say thank you but the words stick in your throat. Instead you smile. He takes it and returns to his task as you leave the room.

When he returns to the bedroom, you’re sitting on the edge of his bed, twisting and weaving your fingers nervously. Once again, unlike before, he doesn’t sit beside you. He just stands across the room, afraid to come any closer. He awaits your next statement, thinking he knows what you’re about to say. You are about to speak when he starts first.

“It’s okay. Just go.” Immediately his back is turned to you and you’re left whirling from the demand. Again, he makes you want to cry, but this time it’s different. This time it’s because he has hurt you already.

“No.” It’s his turn to whip around and stare at you.

“No?” he asks, and his voice holds a lilt of hope.

“No. Not yet.” You stand up and walk over to him. You never expected last night but now you have it and there’s nothing you can do to take it back. So you just go with it. “Morning,” you say softly and lay a quick kiss on his lips before leaving the room to make some coffee. It’s the only contact you’ve had all morning and he didn’t return the gesture. You can hear him getting the shower ready as you cross the living room.

You jump when there’s a knock at the door. At 6:30 in the morning? You guess it’s probably the paperboy or something equally banal and glance towards the hallway.

“Martin?” There is a muffled reply. “Door! Want me --”

“Yeah, please.”

Without looking through the peephole, you open it a crack before the chain catches. The person on the other side immediately shocks you. You quickly unchain the door and open it wider but don’t step aside.

For her part, Elena appears just as surprised to see you standing in Martin’s door. You can’t form a sentence, your mind running through all the possible reasons that she’s at the door this early, fully dressed thankfully. A twinge of jealousy is stirred up inside you.

“Hey Elena,” you say cautiously.

“Hi Samantha.” She is just as unsure about the situation. “Um, is Martin around?”

“He’s busy,” you snap, a little harder than you intended. To rectify the situation, you open the door fully. “Come on in, he should be out soon.”

She enters, dodging your intense glare and wanders to the sitting room. In an effort to explain her presence, she begins talking.

“I was just in the area, coming from the Bronx, thought I’d stop by and see if Martin needs a ride to work. I know it’s a little early but my daughter had to go to her grandmother’s very early today so I decided to get an early start as well.” She paused. “Plenty of room for one more.”

You study the other woman. After years of investigative work, you know how to tell if someone is lying. Elena is not only genuinely surprised to see you, she seems honest in her explanation. And if Martin had been with anyone else, he wouldn’t have been so laissez-faire about you just rummaging around and answering doors. Relaxing noticeably, you wander over in the direction of the kitchen.

“Maybe. Did you want some coffee or something? I’m just about to put it on.”

Elena smiles, relieved that you accepted her honest explanation. “Sure, thanks.”

Returning a few moments later, you sit on the sofa and she takes a chair. There is an awkward silence for a moment. The shower stops running after a few minutes. Elena leans forward, obviously dying to ask. “So, I would never have guessed...” she trails off.

You shrug, trying to act like you and he had always been together, trying to act as if you weren’t just there because you had one hell of a fuck last night. And you partly give yourself away as a flush sneaks up your cheeks and you grow warm. Elena gives you a small smile and you laugh uncomfortably, still blushing.

“You must be very happy.”

The statement catches you off-guard and you stare at her for a second. Before you can respond, you hear Martin padding out into the living room.

“Elena?”

“Hello. Came by to offer you a ride,” she explains. He glances at you curiously and you smirk slightly. He smiles at the offer. He is still in his t-shirt and boxers as he towels off his hair. You suddenly wish that Elena would leave right now. You can feel a subtle warmth spreading slowly through your body. He catches your gaze but quickly looks away. You can hear the coffee gurgling away in the kitchen. Reluctantly, you rise and see to it, leaving Martin and Elena alone in the living room.

When you return, he’s sitting in the place you just vacated. It’s an awkward situation but you offer her a mug of coffee and then hand one to him. Suddenly, you feel sick to your stomach. The aroma irritates your nostrils and the tension in the room is weighing you down. There is so much left unsaid between you and him and it won’t be said before work today if she stays. You really need to talk to him. He sips his drink slowly and you become aware that they are exchanging pleasant conversation with each other. It’s only you who feels awkward, lost in your own world. Doesn’t he feel anything?

You had asked that question of him four months ago. He was so callous in his final declaration to you. He never apologized for doing it so bluntly and in the middle of the workplace, leaving you to be chastised by Jack. You hated him for a while because of that.

Finally, your brain tunes into the actual conversation. He tells her that he’ll just catch the subway in because he’s still going to be a while. She looks at you, questioning, still offering you a ride.

You should take it. You really need to get home before work. But you can’t leave your relationship hanging in the air either.

“I...um,” is all you manage to say. She smiles, knowing what you need to do. Nodding, she stands. Martin sees her to the door.

“Catch you guys later,” she calls and you hear the door click shut behind her. You thought the tension would dissipate when she left but it’s thicker than ever. He stares at you, taking a seat beside you again on the sofa. Neither of you says anything for an exaggerated minute. You swallow nervously, wanting him to say something, to convince you that last night wasn’t a mistake because at this point, it’s sure feeling like one.

“Why did you come here?” he finally asks, not coldly but not as kindly as you would have liked.

You shrug. It’s honest. “I don’t know. Why did you let me in?” It’s not just one of your faults. If there’s blame, it can fall on two sets of shoulders.

“You took my mind off the case,” he admits. Biting your lip, you look down at the carpet. Just a distraction. Like you are for him. Now you wish you had taken that ride with Elena. Fielding her probing questions would have been so much easier than this. This is honesty and it hurts far too much. He offers nothing more and takes another sip of his coffee.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, your voice teetering precariously on the verge of breaking. He looks confused and you instantly regret the insinuation. He places his mug down on the table, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers tented.

“Sam,” his voice is too soft and you want to run again. “You know we haven’t really talked for a long time.”

You don’t say anything. You’re afraid that if you do it may turn into an argument. You don’t know why you’d think that but it’s a gut feeling. Somehow, especially near the end, all you two ended up doing was fighting about everything. It didn’t matter if it was insignificant or not, you found a way to make it into an argument. That’s your greatest fear about the current conversation. If you stay silent, maybe he’ll say something reassuring.

When did you become so soft? When did you allow him to affect you like this? He did something to you that day he left you at the office all those months ago. Why do you constantly feel the need for reassurance? Sure, you’ve always been weak that way, always grasping for him, or Jack, or anyone really, but pushing away at the same time. You just don’t want to be left alone again. This year, since the shooting, you know you’ve been different. Softer, yes. But forcibly happy and strong as well. If you could tell him this, you would first have to admit to yourself that you are different and most of all, that you really, really need him.

And not just as a distraction.

But he doesn’t say anything more. He is waiting for you. Earlier you had told him you would wait for him. That’s exactly what you plan to do.

There’s nothing you can think to really say. He sure isn’t giving you much to work with. You don’t remember it being this weird before. Before you would fight, but at least you’d still be talking. Now you only share silence. This whole exchange is wearing down your patience and you reluctantly stand up. You can’t be late for work because you were too busy sitting in his apartment not speaking to him. He looks up at you, surprised.

“I’ve got to get home before work,” you mutter and walk towards the bedroom to gather your belongings. You turn just before you reach the hallway. “I’ve really missed you, you know.” Finally you’ve said it. It’s taken four months of wistful longing for you to gather the courage. It’s not quite an ‘I love you’ but it’s as close as you can get, for the moment. He doesn’t turn around to face you but you can see the sag in his shoulders and he bows his head into his hands.

Letting out a small sigh, you make your way to the bedroom and pick up everything you’ve left. Stopping by the bathroom, you scan the area for anything you’ve forgotten. You leave your toothbrush there again. When you appear in the living room again, he’s no longer on the sofa. There’s no sound from the kitchen either. He pokes his head around the alcove in the front hall, your jacket in his hand. There seems to be an unspoken agreement that last night was just for last night.

But when he helps you put you jacket on, he’s still touching you in that distinctive way, like he never wants to stop, sensual and adoring. His hands linger a little longer than necessary on your waist after he’s slid them down your back. It provoked a shiver that you pray he didn’t notice. He drops his grip quickly.

You try not to peek up at him as you reach for the doorknob.

This is not the way it’s supposed to be.

The door opens and you turn finally to look at him. You raise your eyes to his, pleading for some sign because if he does this to you again, he just might take top seat on your list of men who have hurt and used you. And he doesn’t disappoint. His jaw is set in a strong clench, his eyes trying very hard to be just as stony.

But you see the flicker pass over his blue gaze. He’s doing this to prove a point he doesn’t even want to prove anymore. He sees your rapid understanding and suddenly the air around you changes, becoming charged with a new kind of tension. His hands reach out tentatively at first, brushing along your waist.

Maybe he was afraid to touch you before, not angry or playing games.

He nudges you slightly closer, and noticing your willingness, his hold strengthens. His hands glide along your waist, fingers softly digging in, still closer. Then you’re in his arms and he just embraces you. For a moment, you don’t react. Your arms are still at your sides under you slide them up, holding him just as tightly, gripping the loose fabric of his t-shirt in your fists. He breathes in deeply and you could swear there was just the slightest hint of a ragged breath as the air rakes across your neck. You twist so that you can place tender kisses along the line of his jaw.

“I’ll drive you home,” he says softly, pulling back a little bit. You nod in response, trying not to be distracted by his lips. You know kissing him right now would make you both late for work. At this rate, you might already be, unless the bureau has magically changed its policy overnight and you can wear sweatpants on the job. That seems doubtful.

His hands come up to cup your face and you fight the urge to close your eyes. Instead your stare meets his.

“You are everything,” he murmurs.

It breaks your heart and puts it back together it at the same time and you know that this time it will be different. Unable to resist any longer, you brush your lips across his, almost chastely but still exciting.

You push him away with a cheeky smile. “You’ve got to get dressed if you want to be on time,” you snicker and close the door. You still haven’t discussed any of the long-term issues that really should be addressed. And it definitely would be a good idea to attempt that soon. But instead, you watch him walk to his bedroom and then you sit down again on the sofa to wait for him. It doesn’t matter right now.

Taking a sip of the lukewarm coffee, you smile to yourself at last.

End.