The coffee burns a path down her throat, soothing her frozen insides. It's good, an impeccably made grande skim latte with two pumps of sugar-free vanilla.

But it's not right. The barista had carefully handed her the cup, barely paying to her, the smile he shoots her impersonal, commercial. There's no spark as their fingers accidentally brush, no dangerously tender looks, no secret smiles as they both look away.

She's hopeless.

It's the middle of a freezing New York winter day, she's on her way to another body drop with the heat of her coffee warming her hand and she can't help it.

She misses him.

She's been spoiled by him, his quiet attentions that have doubled since her shooting, since she told him, albeit indirectly, that she was working towards being in a relationship with him. She doesn't even remember the last time she's made herself coffee without him reaching from behind for the cup in her hand, expertly handling the machine that seems to obey his touch exclusively. It's their ritual and an unspoken exchange between them. He delivers her favoured morning beverage and she gives him…

Nothing. She gives him nothing but some days, all she wants is to cup her hands around his as he hands her the precinct mug she likes to drink from, softly pull him closer to her into a thankful kiss that she imagines would leave him dazed and breathless. Him and her. She would be dazed and breathless too.

She catches herself daydreaming about the touch of his lips and colour rises to her cheeks as she shakes out of it. She reflexively hides it under the fall of her hair and she bites down the smile lighting up her face, looks over to her side, expecting her writer's inquisitive glances. But he's not there.

No, he's on the other side of the continent on a mandatory weekend signing in Los Angeles, which wouldn't be so dramatic were it not for the fact that it fell right on the day of her birthday. And it's ridiculous, she knows it, she knows it, but since becoming her partner, he'd always show up at the precinct on the day with flowers and a card, and the offer to go out for drinks afterwards.

She doesn't need the flowers and the thoughtful cards, she doesn't need the drinks with Lanie and the boys that invariably ends up with the two of them sharing a booth well past midnight, after Ryan excuses himself to go home to his wife and Lanie and Esposito share a cab for yet another booty call.

She just wants his lattes, foam art and all, and him by her side, distracting her while she does paperwork, making up theories of government conspiracy that drive her crazy. It's quiet when he's not there, and she doesn't want quiet, she wants him, loud and boisterous, until she can't pretend to be annoyed with him, until the smile she sends his way is so luminous and open he fumbles over his words, a clumsy stutter, a little bit bewitched.

She sighs, takes a swig of her imperfect coffee and crosses the yellow tape to meet her next victim.

The detective's bag is heavy on her shoulder and she drops it unceremoniously next to her desk with a suffering groan. After an afternoon of chasing leads and suspects with a penchant for running, her body feels battered, every muscle crying out in protest when she flops unto her chair. She hates it, how her body betrays her after long grueling days at work, even six months into physical therapy. Her instructor had told her to be patient, to measure out her victories day by day, but patience never really was her strong suit and she's desperate to feel whole again, despite the scars that now mar the flesh between her breasts, the taut skin over her ribs.

She lets her head rest against the palm of her hand for a few seconds, closes her eyes, wishing away the tension knotting the back her neck. She's in the midst of massaging her temples when the ping of the elevator catches her attention. The man, or rather boy, who gets off still has an apron on, wearing the eagerness and energy of youth on his face.

"Delivery for Katherine Beckett?" he tosses in the general direction of the bullpen, holding a steaming travel mug of coffee in his hands.

LT direct him to her desk, thank god, avoiding her and her tired body a trip to the lift and back. The young man hands her the delivery slip to sign, and he's off as soon as she gives it back to him, leaving her and the mug alone. She hesitates, turns it around slowly, mindful to not slosh the scalding brown liquid inside of it, to reveal the black sharpie letter decorating it.

To the extraordinary KB, happy birthday.

She dials Castle's number before she thinks better of it and inhales sharply when he answers.

"You brought me coffee, Castle!"

He chuckles, a low rumble that sends butterflies flying around in her stomach. "How could I leave you without your morning fix while I'm away?"

"You know I can make my own, right? I do have hands, you know?"

There's a silence and she pictures him by her side with a patient smile adorning his face, the one he gets when he hits the wall of her stubbornness.

"Happy birthday, Kate." The tone is no longer teasing, but unbearably tender. "I'll see you Monday."

He hangs up and she brings her phone back down to the table, absent-mindedly caressing the screen of it.

She's not ready yet, can't tell him the words that weigh heavy on the tip of her tongue, those three little words. I love you. But they float around in her mind as she takes a sip of the coffee, moans in delight as the rich bursts of flavour hit her mouth. It's not him, but it's enough to tide her over until he comes back and everything goes back to normal, when it's him again handing her the travel mug like the good morning kiss they both like to share.

A/N : Hope you enjoyed! And if you did, a review is always lovely.