Lisbon is a gentle soul. I've always known her kindness, her sweet gooey center, but it's never been turned directly on me like this. She's always covered it with her bark. Things are different now. We're together. She knows how shattered I am inside, and she treats me with care. I worship her for this and everything she is. I make sure she knows it every day. There is no healing but Teresa.

After taking our rented vintage Caddie on a long, scenic ride in the country, stopping for burgers and ice cream at the Dairy Queen outside the city limits, we head back to her house in dusky light. I guess I can say "home," now that I'm getting a key. It seems a shame not to ride all night, make love under the stars somewhere before I have to return the car in the morning. I love an open-air ride in dark countryside, especially with Teresa, the happiest woman I know these days. I want to keep that going. But, there's work in the morning. No doubt someone or several someones will supply us with a bloody corpse or two.

When we come inside, she pads to the bathroom to change into something comfortable. Sometimes it's something alluring as sirens, and I hear her song.

But tonight, it's a sleep tee that drapes enticingly innocent from her nipples and carefully mismatched socks on her tiny feet. I love when she wears socks and I can peel them off to attend to her feet, bare. Soon she would be on her back, sighing, her legs parted in relaxation. I always want to make love to her then and she always wants me to. At varying times, one of us holds back or maybe we have to get something else done. Feet are a special pleasure and deserve a special scintillating place. Neither of us wants it to become commonplace or boring. She's learning how to drive me crazy, making love to my feet, too. She says she loves them, calls them beautiful, creamy pink and blocky. Such clever feet.

Actually, there isn't any way for her to dress that I can't find a way to enjoy. It seems the same with her about what I wear. I think we fantasize endlessly.

Inside the kitchen, making tea and coffee, the unease from our conversation about having a plan creeps back to me. Maybe there's something in the way she said, "So do I," that shows stiff upper lip more than happy agreement. Maybe she was just relieved I didn't have a secret master plan. For a moment I thought I had broken her heart, thinking that maybe she believed I was telling her I saw no future with her. This haunts me. She must be as scared as I am if that was her first thought.

Teresa loves it when I go first. It's been a small revelation how it soothes me, too. Just get it out there. And that's besides the purr it puts in her, snuggling up to me afterwards. "I think I scared you, today."

Her first instinct is to be quiet with me. Wait for more. She faces me with those lovely green eyes and an alert concern.

"I, I thought you really wanted me to have a plan for you, for us."

She smiles a little and her eyes turn down briefly before she looks at me again, her shoulders drawn in a little.

"It . . . well, it scared me a bit." I have no idea how I look to her right now.

Her mouth is small and vulnerable, like it was when she turned to me after Pike left the bullpen earlier. "I can see why it would. That would be a pretty confusing message to get."

Something in me relaxes. My shoulders fall from linebacker status with the unwinding breath that almost hisses from my chest. She understands. I was confused at first. It was almost painful as I struggled with what it meant to not take control of her life but to have a plan for her, for us, for our lives. Without talking to her. I'm glad I'd never even thought of it.

"At first I thought you meant . . . you had no interest in a future with me. That you were . . . here for comfort and love—which is good. I'm not saying that . . ."

It's my turn to quietly wait for her. My soft smile and little nod encourage her.

"B-b . . . but that you had no intention of taking it further with me. My, my heart nearly stopped, Patrick. I, well, uh, I realized I do want more sometime. It feels right, you know?"

I love her for using my language.

Teresa chews the side of her lower lip and cocks her head at me. She's worried that I might not want what she wants. "Yes. I know. Me, too. I just hadn't though of it before Pike mentioned it. Then . . . I panicked. The FBI lobby wasn't the best place to have that conversation, but my mind, my feelings . . . everything was just churning to get it out . . . to find you and hold on." When I pause to look at her, her mouth is softly open, lower lip moist and cherry red from being chewed. Putting my fingers against her cheek, I slide them to the back of her neck and try to soothe her lip by tenderly caressing it with my thumb. Teresa brings out every tenderness in me.

"Oh," she sighs. "I'm so glad it feels right to both of us."

"But . . . something . . . in the way you said, "So do I," about wanting to find our way by feel made me think you aren't really sure about that. Maybe you're giving in to my way of thinking."

"I do want to give in to you on this, Patrick. If we can feel our way . . . well, I'd say you've been feeling your way pretty good. I'm very happy because we get closer and closer all the time. I know it's uncomfortable sometimes—for both of us."

"I guess we just didn't finish the conversation . . ."

"And now we have, thanks to you. I love you very much, you know."

"I feel the same way."

We kiss and she presses into me to make it last. When she steps away, she takes my hand and leads me to "our" bedroom. I'm nowhere near used to thinking of this as my home, but Teresa has invited me into it, permanently, and my home is her, no matter where that is. And she's making her home with me, wherever that turns out to be. It's right. I follow her to our soft bed.

She undresses and sits on the edge of the mattress, waiting for me to come to her when I shed my own clothing. Her arms are open. When I sit, she pulls me into them, laying my head under her chin and rocking slow as a gentle breeze, her sounds just as soothing.

She's seen my frightened, shaky side today. She calls me her sweet Baby Jane in such moments, now.

It's a mother's touch that pulls my head to her breast, her cool hand on my forehead, then roving through my hair as I sigh and kiss and hold her tighter. "My sweet Teresa."

When she kisses into my hair and hums something sweet into the moment, all my shaky, guilty thoughts slip away somewhere I hope I will never find them. She makes me let them go, knowing they will come back to me but always fewer and always weaker.

I'm not sure when we turn to passion, it's so elemental to the moment. It must have happened in a kiss because my mouth is juicy and hot with her taste and we are both gasping as I make a conscious effort to pull away and breathe. The scent of her skin drives me to her breasts and soon she is moaning under me, her hips suggestive in their restlessness. Her nipples stab my tongue.

Everywhere she touches lights a new fire. And then I am inside her, listening to her keening satisfaction, her graceful limbs pulling me, holding me fast, positioning me for the deepest part of her. I'm joined with the female animal that possesses Teresa in this act, calling the feral male in me until I wet her wet, spraying my life into her life. I love her where there is no space and time and she floats there with me until we fall asleep.