When he closed his eyes he would see her.

She was sitting beneath a large tree in the late October sun. It was early evening, no longer hot, but the kind of warm that makes people stretch out like cats, offering themselves up to the rays and seeking comfort in their embrace.

The light kissed the side of her face and she leaned into it, her long neck rolled to the side, her eyes closed, mouth slightly open. She was entrancing. And she was his.

Not in any quantifiable way of course. In fact at this moment in time he thought she'd probably be anyone else's, or no one's at all. If he knew Sara, she'd probably object to the idea of being anyone's property. She wouldn't understand that it wasn't a statement of ownership, but more responsibility. No she wouldn't like that word either. He can't explain it in a politically correct way. What he feels isn't politically correct, it just...is. She was his. His to cherish. His to care for. His desire. His comfort. His love.

But that moment was long gone. The image he has in his mind has yellowed with the hue of memory. She has aged since then. Her hair less full, her smile less wide, her eyes less bright.

He sees her standing in the sun, and when her eyes open she sees him watching her. She smiles and blushes, and his heart stops. Every time. She doesn't smile at him like that anymore.

It seems strange to him that this is the moment he chose. There had been other days, other smiles. Conversations more revealing, touches more thrilling. But every time when he closes his eyes and tries to remember exactly when he fell in love with her. This is what he sees.

"Hey Grissom,"

She is standing in his doorway. He can picture her there, leaning against the doorframe as is so often her pose. She will have her arms crossed over her chest, her head cocked slightly to the side. He can picture her perfectly.

But he won't open his eyes yet. Can't bear to. Because in his picture, when he opens his eyes she is smiling at him again. Bright and wide and hopeful, like she used to. In his picture, her eyes are soft and warm, and such a deep, inviting brown, and she looks at him with affection and amusement. She looks at him like she still knows him. Like she still cares.

"Grissom, are you ok?"

When he finally does look at her, she doesn't smile. Her eyes are dull and tired, and she honestly looks like she'd rather be anywhere else. He has broken her, over the years, smashed her into pieces, and she hasn't even tried to stick them back together. Just left shards of herself all over the floor and tried not to step on them too hard.

"Migraine?" He finally realises that he still hasn't spoken.

"No. I was remembering." He leans back in his chair and gestures for her to take one of her own. He smiles softly as she perches herself on the edge of his visitor's armchair.

"Remembering what?"

"San Francisco. The summer we were introduced. We were assigned a case at USF, do you remember it?"

"The case? Not really. It was a long time ago."

"Yes I suppose it was."

He must have looked sad then, or something, she sat back into the chair and looked at him, concern showing on her face and she appeared to be thinking of the best way to talk to him. It hurt him that she felt the need to consider it.

"What made you think of it?"

"I wasn't thinking about it. I was remembering it. It's different."

"How so? If you're remembering something, you're obviously thinking about it. About what happened, about why it happened. The two are simultaneous." She looked confused. And frustrated.

"Not if you treat remembering as an active process. A purely sensory project. Visions and smells and sounds. If you look back at something without analysing it, you can make it tangible again. Like reliving it, feeling it all over again. That's what I was doing."

"And the memory you chose is a crime scene at USF God knows how many years ago?"

She was looking at him like he'd gone a bit mad. Eyebrows raised in disbelief, mouth cracked open in a half smile.

"Yes."

"Why?"

And this has him stumped. He simply doesn't know. He can't ever put his finger on what it is about this moment, this single moment in time that made him fall in love with her. He doesn't understand why he can't get it out of his mind. He can't answer her question.

He shakes his head slightly and smiles a little.

"Couldn't think of anything else." Which happens to be true. Just not in the way that he has said it.

She nods. She looks somehow disappointed. Or sad. He doesn't know. He can't tell. He used to be able to. He is so frustrated. And so tired. He leans forward and scrubs a hand over his face. He has had his eyes closed for a full minute before he realises that she must have come here for a reason. She never shows up just because anymore.

"I'm sorry Sara, did you need something from me?"

"No, I just came to drop off my report. I'm finished for tonight, Nick and Warrick and I are gonna go and grab some breakfast." She passes the report across the desk to him and nods, expectantly, waiting for him to dismiss her.

Time was she would have invited him to join them for breakfast. Not today. She had long since given up that game. And he had long since stop being relieved that she had.

"Ok Sara, I'll see you tonight. Go and get some rest."

She nods again and stands. She has made it to the door and is almost out of his office completely when he speaks again.

"Sara." She half turns, not fully committing to coming back, wanting to leave now. "I was remembering you. That day at USF, I was remembering you, not the case. You were sitting outside taking a break, and I was watching you. You were so, serene, so peaceful. I remember wondering what it would be like to be that calm. And then I was remembering you smiling at me."

He stopped then, and they stood, eyes holding eyes, neither able to look away quite yet.

"Oh."

She looked away first, ducked her head a little, stared at her shoes. And then he saw it. A smile. And a blush, hidden beneath a curtain of dark glossy hair. When her eyes met his again they were warm. And bright. And everything he remembered. And his heart stopped again.

"Well. G'night Griss."

"Goodnight Sara. Sleep well."

And with a final nod and a smile she left him. Breathless and bloodless and filled with hope.

The next day she would smile at him again. And the day after that, and the day after that. She would start to joke with him again, discuss her experiments with him, eventually she would start to invite him to breakfast again, and he would gladly accept.

There would be other moments. Other mornings with other smiles. Casual touches and lingering looks. But when asked to pick the moment when he knew that he couldn't ever live without her, he would close his eyes and see her, tired and drained, and blushing in his office doorway.