Look...I'm writing again. Okay. So, this came pretty much out of nowhere; I just had that one line in my head that I couldn't let go, so I built a little story around it. Sorry it's not longer. School's been pretty hectic and painful, to be quite honest, so I've kinda been keeping it low-key for now with my writing. I have dozens of documents open with unfinished stories, but they're (sorta) coming along.

Hopefully enjoy this little piece.

"It's never too late to start over." -Lynee Gentry

She hadn't meant to do it.

She really, honestly, truly hadn't meant to do it.

But he had been standing there with those broken eyes that led way to an even more shattered soul, opening up to her in a way that she had never known before.

Before. It was such a funny time — before, that is. Before secrets slipped into open mouths; before he had left them for the man who had raised him (abused him, she knows, but that's an entirely different story). Years ago, a time that seemed like an empty dream. It lingered in the back of her mind, occasionally flickering back into consciousness whenever a certain keyword clicked.

His mouth was parted and there was cold sweat dripping from his temples, his hands gripping the edge of the couch — the empty space between them — as if it was a lifeline, digging his fingernails into the worn fabric that so few had sat on before. His eyes were flickering back and forth between her and the dark window set in the wall behind them; even in the quiet, he was nervous.

Really, it had been a mistake. It wasn't as if she had planned it.

But one second she was sitting across from him, legs carefully folded underneath her, and the next she's across the couch, his hand burning patterns across her lower back while her fingers slip into his pitch-black hair with her lips carefully ghosting over his.

It was a mistake.

But as she kissed him, slowly and gently, it's everything she's ever remembered it being after all those years ago; she can't really think at the moment as his fingers dip into the waistband of her cotton shorts, stroking the slightest bit of skin there. A flash of heat flickers in her middle and she barely shivers as it spreads across the rest of her being.

His skin feels unnaturally hot as she presses herself closer to him, knees on either side of his hips, pressing closely. He's leaning back almost, bracing himself with one elbow against the soft cushion atop the furniture; his teeth carefully nip on her lower lip and she fights down the gasp that comes with it.

They really shouldn't be doing this. Not in the commons room of the Playground, where anyone could see them. This really should be done properly; in another place, tucked away in the corners of the safe house. Or maybe not even there. She doesn't really know. She can't think at the moment.

He breaks away for just a sharp moment, eyes darting up to meet hers. "Skye," he whispers, locking her gaze. She doesn't look away — doesn't move apart from him. "What — what're we doing?"

She leans down to kiss him again, brushing her thumbs over his cheeks; she ignores the barely visible tears stains that she feels there. "I have no idea," she murmurs between kisses. "And I, mister, do not partially care."

"Skye," he says again, this time a bit louder. "Stop."

She pulls back, eyes narrowing. "Don't you want this?"

"Yes," he rushes to say. "God, yes, Skye, more than anything — but this isn't right. This isn't the time."

There's a lump forming in the back of her throat, and she swallows thickly. "I see," she replies cooly. "I'm sorry, then."

She barely stepping off the couch when there's a sudden motion, his fingers latching around her wrist. He's shaking his head as she jerks back to look at him. He looks sad almost; if she didn't know any better (but she does; at least, she hopes she does) she'd say that his expression was nearly one fear. Fear of losing her.

"Skye." His mouth forms her name perfectly, but the rest of the words that follow somehow come awkwardly. He squirms on the couch, throwing his head back in something she's come to recognize as frustration. "I just — Skye, just please—"

"What," she snaps. She feels the tireless seeping through her bones, and honestly just wants to go back to her room now and sleep this incident off. "Grant, just speak."

"Stay," he whispers. It's so quiet that she can barely hear it, but she does; she freezes, eyes darting to meet his in indecision.

But then she nods before she can change her mind, and he's pulling her back down towards him. She settles by his side; tense and nearly touching, but not quite. It isn't until he's pulling a blanket on top of them that she fully relaxes, melting at his touch and resting her head on his shoulder.

She doesn't remember when she falls asleep. But there's flickers of memory when she wakes in the morning; his soft voice, pressing light kisses to her hairline. What she remembers most though, is how soft her hands felt in his. How safe she felt with him.

She had felt safe.

That had never happened before.

It's exciting, she thinks, as she folds the blanket in her arms. He was still sleeping, hands and legs thrown hazardously around the sofa. For such a stoic guy, he was a rather messy sleeper.

It's the start of something new, she knows. Something fresh.

And this time, it's not going to be screwed up. She's going to make sure of that.

I'm kinda hoping something like this will happen in season 2, but we probably won't get anymore SkyeWard until season 3 only because we need Grant's redemption first. I mean a girl can hope, but this pairing still has mountains to climb before they can get anywhere with their relationship.