A/N: So I swore that I wouldn't write anything until after next week's episode, but Grace and Rigsby's grab ass routine in the office needs to be addressed. Grace's POV. Props to Sesamina for hooking me up with some much needed eye drugs. If I owned the Mentalist, grannies everywhere would flatline at its filthy content.

Loom

He needs to stop. Oh God, he really, really needs to stop doing that. All of it. The soft presses of his fingers on my shoulder. The brushes of our hands. The knowing little looks across the bullpen. And the looming. Jesus, he really needs to stop with the looming.

I can't sit at my desk typing up research or be in the kitchen making tea, then suddenly feel a warm, intense wall looming at my back anymore. My fingers freeze. My lips grin without my permission. My shoulders automatically lean back into the warmth. I go limp. I go silly. I go instantly wet. He whispers to me. "Hey," and suddenly I feel his lips against my cheek. His aftershave invades my space. My precious, professional space. I can only see his mouth from this angle. His teeth flash in a boyish smile.

Suddenly I'm a woman. A small, wanted woman. The wall is responsible. Never in all my 5'9" years have I had a man who dwarfed me so completely. Who walked up and suddenly made me like a quivering little girl. He puts his hands on my hips from behind. Even in a momentary touch, he's lining me up against him. His body knows what it wants, even if this is hardly the time or place. But he allows it that one infraction: hold me in place. Remind me who I belong to. Burn me with a touch that—were it not for our present location—would lead what comes after alignment.

And I want it.

Oh God, do I want it. That's the problem. I can't be this woman at work. I can't turn to putty every time I feel that warm wall against my back. It shouldn't be there in the first place. Neither should kisses on my cheek that light a gasoline fire straight through my chest and lower body. Jesus, what has gotten into him? He's a rule guy. A cautious man. He likes order and obeys authority without question. The fact that he's with me proves how much he loves me. He would never risk the precious rules for mere attraction. Not my baby.

So I get him breaking the rules for us. But now he's playing with fire and I can't help but let him. Honestly, why am I letting him? Yeah, I can claim to be the strong one and say that—aside from that kiss in the office—I haven't touched him openly at work. I can claim that, of the two of us, I'm at least trying to keep it a secret.

But am I?

Why am I letting him touch me? Why do I my fingers freeze? Why do I smile? And for the love of God, why do I lean back into that delicious, growling wall of serious trouble? Do I want to get caught? Do I want to get fired? Will I scream and wail and cry the day Lisbon walks in and catches us writhing all over each other next to the coffee maker? Will I rue the day that we ever decided to be so stupid?

Of course I will. I'll scream bloody murder at our stupidity and apparent professional death wish. I'll rail that we weren't careful. That we could have had both and now we've needlessly lost something dear. And he will agree. His big, sweet eyes will go round with panic and he'll instantly renounce his total lack of control up to that point. But it will be too late. Far too late.

One of us will get spanked.

One of us will get booted.

Neither of us wants either. We're good little kids. We want so much to be approved of. We're the A students. We thrive on our superior's good opinion.

But he won't stop touching me. And I won't stop letting him. His eyes will continue to pin me down. His hands will continue to brush accidentally on purpose. His lips will trip on my cheek. And the wall will continue to loom.

I fear so.

I hope so.