It's the third time I yawn in the last minutes. Maybe I should've taken the day off, but there's no such thing in the Five-0. It can be a bit concerning taking for what happened yesterday, but it's not because of that. It's just because I could barely sleep.

You know, I've become one of those "late at night staring at the ceiling" kind of people.

If I really start looking at it, I've become a pocketful of cliché. Name it. One of those "sighing deeply when he's not looking" kind of people. One of those "sarcastically and jokingly saying what I actually mean" kind of people. One of those "automatically smiling when he comes in and then having to find a way to hide it and pretend you didn't even notice he had arrived" kind of people.

I found myself right now singing romantic songs inside my car while the rain pours outside, and the streets shine. In my defense, the only thing I have in here to listen to is a Bon Jovi album, so I don't have much choice but to sing romantic songs.

I'm one of those "in love with my best friend" kind of people.

I don't know since when, or if it has always sort of been this way. I just know that I am. I started to realize that there was physical attraction, and that maybe I wanted to kiss him as much as I wanted to punch him. Soon I just accepted that I really just want to kiss him, that was the main point, and occasional punches were considered, because, I mean, Steve.

It's been raining for three days in Pineappleland and this gets really inconvenient when you kind of don't want to touch your partner very much, or when you don't want to see him taking his clothes off.

Because the problem is, I do want to. I want to touch him. I want to see him taking his clothes off. I just can't. I cannot do it and I cannot want it.

Yesterday, we weren't using bulletproof vests. It was supposed to be just a visit to the witness for a couple of questions, but there we were: We had run to the grove behind the house, chasing people among the bushes and the trees and the heavy curtain of water pouring.

The situation was the most dramatic possible. The suspect had hit me in the head with a shovel and the other two men were exchanging fire with Steve and Kono. I'm not getting into the details – it was just one more case.

With my head pounding, I push myself to take my face off the mud and, rolling on my back, I stare at the rainy sky as it drowns me. There are still the sounds of the shooting echoing in my head and I can't tell where. I drag myself back the fastest I can and rest my back in one of the nearest trees, sitting down and trying my best to see something of what was going on. I hear Steve calling my name, but I am about to faint and there is blood running to my neck, dying the water near me in shades of rose. Everything is fading from the edges and a sudden sickness takes me over.

Steve runs in the middle of the crossfire. "He went to the bungalow!" I try to yell, but I really have no idea how it came out. It wouldn't matter – Steve isn't going after the suspect, he is coming towards me. He falls heavily to his knees, his cargo pants sliding in the mud until he is beside me.

"Danny?" He places one hand on my nape and holds my neck, what I noticed later that it was to keep it in place in case I had broken something. "Don't sleep, Danny, hey, stay with me!"

"Yes, yes, I'm…" I babble something like that. "I'm awake."

He takes his T-shirt off and use it to stanch the bleeding in my head.

"I'm fine, I just need to…" I close my eyes. I honestly didn't think I was going to pass out, but Steve holds my face as if making me look at him. Funny how I just mused about how good his T-shirt must smell and what a pity it would be to have it stained with blood. I must have been slightly delirious.

"Hey, don't, here." He snaps his fingers in front of me twice. "What's the name of your daughter?"

"Do I have a daughter?"

"What?" He just answered, not startled, but more as if he was sure he got it wrong.

That was a joke. A stupid one, I know. I get uneasy when Steve is too close too suddenly. However, I meant to tell him already not to worry. The next part, I swear it wasn't my intention. I felt dizzy and looked down, trying to sit down better, and I couldn't clarify it. I bet it seemed like I was wobbling or about to fall to the sides, because Steve held me.

He puts one arm around my torso and the other hand holds his T-shirt, i.e., my head.

Is it even possible to explain how close he was?

"The paramedics are coming, just look at me."

No way that I would look up with him being that close. No fucking way that I could raise my head.

That situation was turning into a huge joke for me, as if it was mocking everything I have been running from by putting them all twisted inside one dire situation. Everything was too terribly convenient, but in the most inconvenient way possible. First he takes his T-shirt off, then he seizes me against his chest. It was like the next step would be him giving me a mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, then taking my clothes off to check for wounds. Then we'd be lost in the woods and we'd hug for warmth. If you don't go gay, the gay comes to you.

I bet the adrenalin was what drove me out of the imminent unconsciousness.

"What now? The name, Danny."

I could forget anything in that situation even if I were completely intact and with all my blood inside my body. My head resting in Steve's shoulder and the sight of one second of his chest going up and down vigorously.

I could raise my head and our mouths would be one inch away. It could be even an accident. I didn't even need to make a move, I'd just let it happen.

All the times we were alone, I just hoped for a mistake. For a chance to slip. For this to happen, for us to happen. For a chance for it all to go downhill so I wouldn't have any other choice rather than jumping into it.

And it was another thing that I couldn't want.

I raise my hand to hold his wrist and I push myself out of his embrace. He is still near me, since his hand is still holding the T-shirt, so I don't align our faces. I just look at him from under my eyebrows.

"I was kidding, Steve. It's Grace Williams, Gracie, monkey, the most important thing of my life."

He narrows his eyes and glares at me, enraged.

"You were kidding? Do you think head trauma is funny, Daniel?" His voice was not only reprehensive, it was furious. "Are you brain damaged already?"

"Come on, Steve, I'm fine, relax." My attempts to stay cool sounded ridiculous even for myself. I sit down by myself, still dizzy, and hold the fabric beside my head, putting my hand on Steve's merely by accident. Just there I noticed that the shooting was over. I must not have been as well as I thought.

I wasn't well at all.

Steve was so pissed that he just got up and gave his back, leaving me there. I thought he was just overreacting, but it was also actually telling; he didn't want to feel foolish for worrying too much about me. Steve McGarrett could never make a scene.

Some confused paramedics ran into him, shirtless, when he reached the path amid the trees, walking fast and frowning. He hasn't actually left me before he could see that someone was coming for me.

It's better off this way, I thought.

Yes, that happened yesterday, and I'm driving now. Come on, it wasn't even top ten Worst Injuries I Suffered But In The Next Day I Was Already Walking. I even had my skull scanned and I'm as good as new.

And… why would I stay home? To stare more at the ceiling? To sing more songs? To miss work?

To miss him?

Long story short, I was in the hospital when I got to see him again. I was sitting down inside a room waiting. I smile wide when I see him, and I can't pretend I didn't. Leaning on the doorway, crossing his arms, and we stare at each other.

"They told me they'll need to shave a spot in your head around the wound to do the stitches. I just came here to watch."

I lower my head to show the six stitches to him. "Here. It's done. You already missed me crying and mourning the fallen hair for thirty minutes."

"Damn."

We laughed weakly, until it was all silent again.

"The brothers are in custody. We caught them."

"Who did you say Book'em when I wasn't there by your side?"

"I wouldn't hurt you this way anymore. The term of endearment is yours exclusive."

"I want this in a contract."

"You seriously have to work your trust issues."

You have no idea, I think. In the next moment, I dropped my shoulders and sighed.

"Steve, I'm sorry. If it were you fallen there, I'd be twice as worried."

First he smiles at me, and there's tenderness in his eyes. Then he shrugs.

"If I had fallen, it would be twice as big a loss." He smirks. "But I wouldn't even twitch with this little scratch you have in there."

"Oh, excuse me, Hellraiser." I say. "Surely you would be walking with a shovel through your skull."

He is chuckling quietly, his eyes focused in something near my calves, really as if he hasn't heard a word I said.

"What?"

"Your feet don't touch the floor. That's so cute."

I already know he's right, but I look down anyway.

"Come on, this is high!" I point at the floor with my hand. "Yours don't, too."

He gets in the room and sits down beside me. His boots still touch the floor.

"You're tiptoeing!" I say, my lips already trembling in a smirk.

We laugh again, and in the end he smiles, looking at me. When he looks at the door and the corridor through it, I'm the one who turns the head in his direction.

Sometimes I wonder what I'm missing. Sometimes, Steve… you look at me in a way that makes me wonder if you feel the same. This is the kind of thing that makes me lose my sleep sometimes.

I'm in love with you.

Sometimes you just scramble everything inside my head, and I can't make coherent decisions. Sometimes when I thought I'm sure, you make me forget it. Sometimes you put your arm around my shoulders and I'm torn to shreds.

Yes, I'm in love with you, but you are always one step ahead. Always one inch out of my reach. And you never lose. And I, I'll go on just right. I'll keep on pretending everything is fine until I believe it. I'll shield myself until I'm bulletproof.

There, you turned to me and we stared at each other. We do it a lot. There is something hidden in that, something I will never really read, but that I interpret my way.

The fact that I love you is clear for both of us, I guess. And I can really believe you love me, too. Only not in the same way I do.

I'm driving to a crime scene now, and it's raining. If I could ask anything of you when I get there, Steve, it would be that you are there by the HPD cars, standing stoic and badass under the rain, with your hands in your waist and your James Bond eyes. Today I just want you to scold me because I shouldn't be driving, taking the keys off of my hand. I want to yell at you not to enter in my car drenched to the bone the way you are.

In the end, I don't want you naked, I don't want you against my body, I just want you near. I want to be your partner, I want to fight beside you, I want to fight with you, and never let it end.

I could be with you until we retire. Or until you leave for something else, or if we go different ways. This I can take. What I can't take is one day realize that I am wishing it was over.

This sort of love is a high, blind bet. What I have is way too precious for me to gamble it in a roulette. The slightest chance to lose means that I may wish that you were the one that got away. It may ever break my heart so irreversibly that I would wish I had never met you, or the opposite.

And, let's face it, the chances aren't that slight.

I'm in love with you, but being in love is for teenagers.

I'd never make a move and risk it. I'd never let you know that you take my breath away.

I will always interpret your eyes as the end of the rainbow, that I should never try to reach.

I am one of those "I just want to be by your side" kind of people.

If it still hurts, at least now you are still the one who runs towards me to stanch the bleeding. When we come to terms, I can take it for granted that there will always be a seat next to you for me.