Owen sat on the bed in the on-call room, exhausted, his head in his hands. It was late, maybe one o'clock, and the day had been long. He had just been finishing up a session with Dr. Wyatt when he was paged for an incoming multi-vehicle accident, the victims of which needed a variety of surgeries. But the hospital was quiet now, as sometimes happened in the middle of the night on a Tuesday.

He sat up and moved back on the bed so that he leaned against the wall. This was his favorite on-call room, so small and cozy. It was the one Cristina brought him to after his first full-blown panic attack in front of her so long ago. He remembered lying on her, her soft warmth, the faint scent of perfume, the rhythm of her breathing lulling him to sleep as she read. It had been the first time he felt truly safe and secure since he had come home from Iraq. Sometime during the night, he woke, and realized that she, too, had fallen asleep, one hand on the book she had been reading, the other gently ruffling his hair as she dozed. He remembered thinking he would do anything to stay right there, just like that, forever, not wanting the moment to end. Later, not sure how to tell her all the things he was feeling, he instead pretended to still sleep as she carefully slipped out from under him.

Even after all this time, it was still easier to pretend he was sleeping rather than talk to her. And he hated himself for giving in to what was easier, because he knew it wasn't what either of them needed.

There was a soft knock; the door opened and Cristina slipped in, closing and locking it behind her.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey."

She climbed onto the bed and sat back against the wall next to him, their shoulders touching lightly. She kicked off her shoes and let them drop to the floor. "The hospital's boring. No blood, no heart attacks, amputations. Not even a blown appendix. We should go home, wait for the next construction crane to fall or something."

He smiled, and she handed him her coffee cup. He sipped from it, and winced at the bitterness. "Is that a double? It tastes terrible," he said, handing it back to her.

"It's a triple."

"I don't know how you can drink it that strong."

"Weak coffee is a waste of time. Besides, I like it like I like my men. Tall, strong, and on the kitchen table."

He laughed, and she looked up at him, smiling. She liked making him laugh. He didn't do it often. She leaned her head against his shoulder, and they sat listening to the quiet sounds of the hospital at night.

"My session went well today," he said.

She glanced sideways at him. She had wanted to ask, but wasn't sure if she should. She wasn't good at communicating either, but she had tried, and it had been going well, until recently. He could be adept at drawing her out, but when she tried to do the same for him, he lately seemed to shut her down at every turn. She was a bit gun shy, at this point.

"Good. That's good," she answered.

He shifted and turned towards her slightly. "I was wondering," he started, looking at her dark brown eyes and the unruly halo of curls that framed her face. She watched him questioningly, and for a moment he lost himself in how beautiful she was.

"What?"

"Dr. Wyatt, she…she thought it would be helpful if you came back to therapy with me for a few sessions. Not too much, or at all, if you don't want to. She just…you had come before and it seemed to go well." Owen looked away, as if embarrassed to be asking, as if asking was pushing his luck even further. "Could you—would you come?"

Cristina wouldn't admit it to anyone, not even to Owen, but she had found the previous sessions with Dr. Wyatt to be beneficial. When he was seeing her, Owen talked more, Cristina talked more, she understood more about who he was, and, surprisingly, more about herself, as well. But his sessions had petered off as he felt better, more in control of himself and his feelings, and eventually he stopped going. As she thought about it, their problems began not long after he quit therapy. It turned out that he was not managing his emotions the way he thought he was, but suppressing them, instead.

"Yes," she answered, nodding. He looked back at her, grateful, and she nodded again, reassuringly. "I'll come."

Owen reached down, took the coffee cup from her, and set it on the bedside table. He leaned back, took her hand in his, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Cristina leaned against him again. It felt good to be silent and comfortable with one another once more. They didn't have a lot of time for quiet moments together, and recently those moments had been fraught with underlying tension.

"I'm sorry," Owen said quietly.

Cristina pulled away slightly and looked up. "For what?"

He pushed a stray curl over her ear. "For everything. For not keeping up with therapy. For thinking I was fine. Not talking to you, and then taking my anger out on you when you didn't deserve it. For Teddy. For not thinking it through before I asked her here. All of it. I'm sorry."

She watched the furrow of his brow, the way his clear blue eyes looked back at her sadly. She opened her mouth to speak. "It's…" She meant to say it was okay. But it wasn't. None of it was okay.

"It's not okay," he said, reading her mind. He could tell she was struggling; it was the least he could do to try to set her at ease and make her understand that he knew that his choices and decisions had hurt her, and them. "But I want to make it better. I'm trying to make it better. To be better, for both of us."

"I know you are," she said, squeezing his hand.

He looked down at her hand enfolded in both of his. It was so small and delicate, especially compared to his large, rough, calloused hands. "I want to tell you something," he said, rubbing his thumb into her palm, nervously. "I hope it's not too much for you, but I need you to know it." He looked back at her, feeling anxious.

"Okay," she replied. He looked so serious, so unhappy. She turned slightly to face him, giving him her full attention. She could feel her heart beating wildly, and she wondered what other revelations he could tell her, what they could do to the meager power she had over her feelings for him. She was so desperately in love with him; sometimes she almost couldn't stand herself for not being able to control the depth of her feelings and the vulnerability he made her see in herself.

He took a deep breath, as if to clear all other thoughts, and began.

"Cristina, I didn't come back to Seattle because it was where I am from. I could have gone anywhere. Maybe I should have gone somewhere else, somewhere where I wasn't so close to my mother and my family that I could torture myself daily with their nearness and my inability to be the way I was before, to be the person that they knew. But the truth is, I came back here to Seattle for you."

Cristina blinked, not sure if she understood correctly. Owen continued, his words tumbling out quickly, as if he were worried that if he didn't get his feelings all out at once, they might disappear altogether.

"The night I met you when I was on leave, when I kissed you for the first time, I knew then that I had to come back and find you. Those last few months that I was in Iraq, sometimes a word you said that night, or a look you gave me, would pop into my head, and I couldn't forget you, even if I tried. Then later, when I got discharged from the army, I came here because of you. For you. Somehow, I felt like coming here to find you was the closest thing I had to coming home. When I dreamed of home, you were that dream. I didn't say anything, because I knew I wasn't healthy and I didn't want to lay that burden on you. But from the night we met until the time I returned, you were all I thought of. I had to come back to you, and hope that you would allow me into your life. I've been in love with you, Cristina, since the day I met you."

Owen watched Cristina as she absorbed what he had just told her.

"I know how ridiculous that sounds," he whispered, "but it's the truth. It really is. And I want to be truthful with you, and with myself. About everything."

Cristina nodded without meeting his gaze. It was a lot to take in all at once. Owen waited silently. He watched as she ran a hand through her hair and tucked it back behind her ears. Finally, she looked up at him.

"Since the day you met me, huh?"

He nodded in agreement. "Since the day I met you. You and your icicle and your scared interns."

"I am not scary," she declared. He knew that would get a rise out of her, and he smiled. Cristina smiled back, and Owen leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. When their lips parted, he whispered softly into her mouth.

"I love you, Cristina Yang."

She smiled and kissed him lightly again. "I know," she whispered back. "Since the day you met me."

They kissed once more, and when they pulled away, Cristina tried to stifle a yawn.

"How can you possibly be tired, drinking triple shots of espresso?" Owen asked, amused.

"Caffeine doesn't do anything for me. I just like the taste." She yawned again, and twisted Owen's arm to look at his watch. She glanced at him with a sly smile. "Do you have time for a nap?"

Owen looked at the time, and then pulled off his pager and tossed it on the table. Things had been quiet for a while, and he knew someone would call if he were needed. He stood, pulled the covers up, and waited while Cristina snuggled in. When she was comfortable, he lay down beside her and tucked the covers around them. There wasn't much room in the narrow twin bed, and Cristina wriggled back to spoon. Owen wrapped his arms around her, and after a time, their breath grew shallower as they started to relax.

Not long after, Owen heard Cristina mumbling.

"What did you say?" He asked.

"You came back for me," she whispered.

"MmmHmm," he answered. "I did."

"I was hoping you would," she replied dreamily, as she drifted off.

Owen thought of the first night they had spent together in this room. He pulled her closer, smiling. He swore to himself he would no longer pretend with her about anything. And with this in his mind, he slept.