Author's Note: So I found this in an unpublished draft. I think I wrote it last winter. Didn't think it was too shabby, so here's a little baby one-shot. Enjoy.

Mikael Blomkvist had been a niggling thought at the edge of her mind for weeks now, an invasive presence that Salander wanted gone. She'd thrown out his fucking jacket, and any other reminders of him that she may have had. She had ignored his phone calls, deleted his emails. She'd been foolish enough to let those carefully-constructed walls crack just enough to let him in, and now, she was paying the price.

Let him go back to Erika Fucking Berger. They were good together, anyway, weren't they? That was what her investigation had revealed. Mikael Blomkvist had merely been a sidetrack in her life, and she had to move on.

Still, the few moments they'd shared, when she'd allowed herself to believe that perhaps she could manage some semblance of a normal relationship, were etched into her mind, burned into her brain. A flame that wouldn't go out. Funny how that metaphor had come to mind.

A month and a half after she'd last seen him, on that cold Christmas night, he had the nerve to show up at her door. As if she would answer it.

"Lisbeth, please." She pressed a pillow over her ear. "You haven't answered my calls. I've been worried. I just want to talk."

She did not answer. This was an invasion of privacy, she felt, and he had no right to keep this up. She had a right to never see him again, if that was what she wanted.

He left, after a while. A part of her was appreciative, because it seemed he still respected her enough to leave her be.

But it seemed the universe was intent on forcing them together. Exactly the opposite of Salander's wishes, but then again, when had the world ever been fair to her? Fairness had never been an option; not with what she'd experienced. One of the rare nights she was out alone, not searching for anyone, just alone with a drink, Blomkvist found her, swung into the seat next to her before she realized who it was.

"Lisbeth." His tone was firm, his eyes pleading. "Don't run." She was already poised, ready to leap from her seat. "Please."

She settled back down, running her finger along the rim of the glass, staring at him. She said nothing.

"You have no idea how relieved I am that you're alright."

"I can manage myself just fine."

There was a flash of a smile, but he must've realized that she would find little humor in the situation, and the stoic expression on his face resumed. "I know you can. But you just disappeared. Why?"

She shrugged, not meeting his eye. Tell him how she felt, what had happened? No way. Lisbeth Salander was not one to whine. It wasn't the fact that he'd been with Berger; it was the fact that he'd lied to her. He'd said he was going to be with his daughter. Why had the lie been necessary? Had he thought she'd be jealous? Well, if that was the case, then Blomkvist was an idiot. The relationship she could deal with. The lying she could not, not if he wanted them to continue seeing each other. She had found herself not even missing the physical intimacy, but simply his company. He'd treated her not as some sort of invalid, but as a person with sincere, valid feelings.

"The investigation was over. So was the Wennerström ordeal."

"So?"

"So, I moved on." She stood, tossing the money for her drink onto the bar. "Maybe I'll see you next Christmas."

His jaw hung open as she left.

He then caught up to her outside, catching her arm. It took effort for her not to take a swing at him, one that wouldn't have missed his jaw.

"This is about Christmas? I told you—"

"I know what you told me. You lied."

His frown deepened. He didn't question how she knew; it was no use. "I'm sorry."

"That's it? You're sorry?"

He nodded, removing his hand from her arm, his movements almost apologetic as well. His breath came out in puffs of cold air as they looked at each other. "I shouldn't have lied to you. You didn't deserve that."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."