[The amount of romantic fics for Numb3rs is depressing. So I thought I'd add. Note: I'm only on season two, so I don't know what's going to happen.]
There were so many words that should've been said the moment he climbed into her car. Words, meaningful words, words that expressed what each of them felt and what each of them wanted. Words like happy and beautiful and love. But none of them escaped from his lips, his lips that kept them chained to the throat.
Through his mess of curls, Charlie watched Amita as she drove. He couldn't even express how much he wanted to tell her that he'd never seen someone drive so gracefully, that he'd never seen someone's hands trace the circumference of the wheel so elegantly, as if it was something deserving of love and not a plain steering wheel.
He yearned to tell her how glad he was that it was him coming with her, not anyone else. He'd seen how upset she was after visiting the Indian girl. He'd also felt it too, even after he turned his back to her emotions and had attempted to continue his equation. It had radiated through the air, and through her lips, touching and caressing his skin until he stopped thinking about anything but Amita.
Charlie's voice fought to surface, to talk about their kiss, to release I think I love you into the silent air. He could feel his larynx begging to create sound, but it would ruin the moment.
Because there was a moment forming in the hush of the car. Sure, there was nothing spoken between them for a long while, but it was there, in the air. The air almost tasted sweet, even though there was nothing actually there. It almost reminded of him strawberries and watermelon. Charlie could feel his heart pounding, and one look in Amita's eyes as she turned her head told him that she was feeling the exact same thing. She quickly flicked her eyes toward the road, and he went back to staring out the window.
But she'd felt it too, felt the tension and… attraction. The beautiful thing that passed between them.
Finally, after shifting a few times in her seat, Amita chose to break the silence. "Charlie, you didn't have to come with me, you know." He was so caught up in her voice, the narcotic caution that traced her tone, that he almost missed what she said.
Blinking and turning to look at her—why was she breaking the silence when it felt so good?—he said, "Amita, I wanted to come. You know that."
"Yes, I do know that," she said weakly. "I just feel guilty, taking you from your math."
The math that had caused so many complications in their history. At first, he was her teacher; then, he was that failed date where they couldn't talk about anything but work. His obsession with math was something he would need to apologize for later, when it was the right moment. The apology was composed in his mind within a second, but instead, he said, "I don't mind. Really, I don't."
"Really?" she asked, carelessly looking away from the road to look at him, her face revealing so much more than her voice. It was only a little more than a glance, but in those seconds, he knew. He knew that she wanted to whisper I think I love you too, and that she didn't think anymore. She knew.
He knew too.
The words would come later, when he apologized for his addiction to numbers. He knew they would. Just like he knew their lips would meet again. Now wasn't the moment either of them wanted, so they would wait.
"Really." I know I love you.