Softly
Kate Beckett is a wife.
It catches her unawares.
She sits on the couch, sweats soft, ponytail just starting to pull in that achy way that usually has her tugging out the elastic, but now she leaves it, her body warming at unbidden images of last time she wore her hair pulled back to bed with him.
Her feet, insulated in thick grey socks, the cotton soft, fresh from the dryer, stick out from the fleece throw, catching just enough chill to make her snuggle into the warmth of his chest.
Her left hand lifts the wine glass to her lips, the berry fruit bursting on her tongue before the dark tingle settles into the depths of her mouth. On its descent, the circle of platinum, warmed by her fourth finger, catches a stray beam from the only lamp still lit in the living room.
The Coltrane album is nearing its end, and the tips of Castle's fingers have found their way under the thick drawstring waist of her oldest, slouchiest pants.
"You wanna go to bed soon?"
The words rumble from his ribs into hers, the growth of a weekend's stubble scraping each syllable against the tender spot behind her ear, releasing the curl of want low in her belly.
"Lemme finish this."
Her half smile is only for herself.
One flick of his tongue, a well-timed note in her ear, and she would abandon her last few sips for their bedroom.
But this collection of seconds, this moment of unabashed happy after so many years and months of sad, it makes her want to wrap her arms around herself, tuck her chin to her chest, and stop time.
Kate Beckett is a daughter. Kate Beckett is a cop. Kate Beckett is a woman. She wears all these masks comfortably, puts them on as quickly as she pencils on eyeliner before dawn.
Castle slides a palm over her hip, the span of his fingers teasing from her navel to the flat cotton band of her underwear.
His voice slides along strings inside her heart, pulls out quiet, consonant tones she forgot it could sing.
"Never gonna turn down a chance to cuddle with my wife."
Being with him? It requires no mask.