All activities seem to have one purpose: finding a way out of the cylinder.

She moves robotically when they get back to her apartment late that afternoon. Puts her keys in the decorative bowl on the front table, drapes her coat over the couch, reaches into the refrigerator for a bottle of wine, pours two glasses. They're all things he's seen her do before, but today they're different. Today she looks like she actually has to think about them, as if she's doing them for the first time, and he can't move because he's afraid at any second she's going to collapse on the floor and start sobbing.

His Kate, though, is always a surprise. She looks up from the glasses, arches an eyebrow. "Castle? You forget how to breathe?"

His Kate knows him well too. He exhales sharply. He didn't realize he'd been holding it in. "Sorry," he mutters.

She smiles. No joy, but it's still genuine. "You want to talk about it?"

That's too much. "Damn it, Kate."

Her smile fades. The wine bottle is still in her hand, tipped to the side but not enough that anything is spilling out. She frowns, her eyebrows gathering. "What?"

"Nothing," he says, catching himself. "Nothing." Because if this is how she wants to deal, and she needs him to act normal, and she needs to act normal, then okay, he can do that. Or at least die trying.

"Castle," she says. There's a warning in her tone, and he doesn't understand why, but she suddenly looks afraid.

"Kate, it's fine."

"I don't—"

"It's just been a big day, but I can—"

"I don't want you to—"

"You should do what you need to do."

She doesn't say anything to that. She sets the wine bottle down on the counter with a thump. Swallows hard, her elegant throat constricting. Her eyes are wet. Shit. He made her cry.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Her voice is so soft, so frail and fragile and everything that Kate Beckett rarely is, that he can't stop himself from moving toward her.

"Kate, honey, you can do—"

"Don't honey me," she orders, but it lacks all of its usual authority, and her eyes are brimming now.

He ignores her. "You can do whatever you want."

She grips the sides of the counter, looks down. He follows her gaze, sees her knuckles are white. "Aren't I supposed to feel free?" she whispers.

He curls his hands into fists so he won't touch her. "You're not supposed to feel anything. There aren't any rules for this sort of thing."

"Maybe there should be."

"Maybe." He searches desperately for something else. "We could make them," he blurts out.

She barks out a laugh, swipes at her eyes.

"No, I'm serious," he continues. "We can write them down and then people will know what to do when…"

He trails off. Immediately feels like an ass. She looks up at him, gives him a watery smile.

"When they catch the man who arranged their mother's murder? Or when they lie to their partner for a year because they're too emotionally damaged to deal with the truth?"

He lifts a shoulder. "Maybe we could be more vague about it so it applies to various situations?"

She shakes her head, her smile widening. "Castle."

"I'm sorry."

She brushes the pads of her fingers over one of his closed fists. "Don't."

"Don't apologize?"

"That too. But don't not touch me, either," she says, moving her fingertips to the inside of his wrist and then down toward his palm. He holds his breath. She can always read his mind. He looks down, opens his hand up, watches as her fingers trail over his palm.

"I don't really know what I'm supposed to do either," he confesses.

She turns her body toward him, laces her fingers with his. He looks up at her. She's watching him from underneath her long, dark eyelashes, one of those looks that reminds him of how much of an idiot he is for thinking he could capture her with words and limit her to a page number.

She bites her lip. "We're kind of a mess, huh?"

He smiles. "Haven't we always been?"

"Yes."

He brushes her hair away from her face with the hand that isn't holding hers. "A beautiful mess, though."