AN: I was pretty overwhelmed by the response to this fic and all your comments and messages- they mean the world to me. I hadn't planned on updating this so soon, but I didn't really have a choice after all your kind reviews so I hope you enjoy where this is headed. It's probably gonna be longer than three chapters now. As always, please let me know your thoughts. Cheers!

She's staring at him in disbelief, frozen, unsure what to do next.

She wants to punch him, she wants to scream at him, she wants to tell him how much she's missed him, that there were nights when she couldn't forget his face, when she didn't know how to fall asleep without one of his ridiculous stories, and how dare he leave her alone like this, how could he, and doesn't he know, doesn't he understand, she's not strong enough, she wants to...

She wants to touch him. Wants confirmation that this is real.

And so her hand reaches out on its own accord, searches for his heartbeat and finds it, the steady rhythm, strong but elevated, he must be nervous and it's all too much, and his expression is so gentle and warm, just like she has memorized it, and then she steps closer and pulls him towards her, holds on to him like she's done before, moments before she had to watch him leave.

And he can't breathe. Because he has anticipated every possible scenario, has braced himself for her scorn, for her hatred, for a closed door, but never this. And she's so beautiful and feels like home. She still feels like home.

Red, she whispers, and it's merely a breath of air on his neck, soft and sweet, but it pulls him from his thoughts and he realizes that he hasn't moved, that he hasn't responded, and so his arms finally tighten around her and he closes his eyes, focuses on the details, the scent of her hair, the solid pressure of her palm against his back, her fingertips, all of it. He can't remember how he ever managed to let her go.

He takes his time, withdraws from her embrace slowly, simply to get a better look at her, cups her cheek and tenderly moves his thumb back and forth along her temple, says her name over and over again and she only now realizes how much she has missed the sound of it. There are so many stories he wants to tell her, excuses and apologies, but they can wait and things have changed, he can sense it, the way she's looking at him as if he'll vanish again in the blink of an eye, as if she can't bear the thought of it.

"Come in, please," she finally tells him and only then does he notice he hasn't even crossed the threshold yet. Somewhat hesitantly he steps forward and into the apartment and she closes the door behind him, offers to take his coat and hat and he hands them to her, a faint smile on his lips, silently thanking her. He looks as good as she's ever seen him, the elegant three-piece suit, impeccable and familiar, and she feels self-conscious suddenly, the lack of make-up, her hair tied together in a messy bun. She knows he doesn't mind, he never has, but she feels unprepared and this is surreal and she doesn't quite know how to proceed.

"I made tea. Would you like some?" A simple enough question and she has to start somewhere. He's standing in the middle of her living room as if he belongs there, hands in his pockets, his eyes wandering over picture frames and bookshelves, until he finally turns around and nods.

"Tea sounds wonderful, thank you."

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right there." It's too casual and this is a million things but certainly not that, and yet there's no protocol she can follow and she's trying so hard not to fall apart. She hasn't seen him in over a year and now he's in her home, now she's serving him tea and how on earth is she supposed to deal with that?

She walks over and hands him the mug, sits down next to him, a substantial gap between them because she doesn't trust herself and if she starts touching him again she might not be able to stop.

"It's good to see you, Red." It's an understatement, of course, but this is not the time for declarations. She can't allow herself to be as happy as she wants to be. She's afraid she'll drown in it, the relief, the joy, the gratitude, and she doesn't want to appear weak and desperate in front of him, no matter how prevalent these emotions are, no matter how many times she's endured them in the past months. She's become skilled at coping, at accepting his absence, and she doesn't know how long this will last. Maybe he'll leave again tomorrow. Or even tonight. Maybe she won't see him again for another year. Perhaps longer. She wonders if she could make him stay by admitting her feelings. She wonders if it would be fair, if that one fateful whisper still rings true. She's kept all of his letters and he never got a response from her.

"It's good to see you too, Lizzie." It's restorative, cathartic, overwhelming, and good, yes, he supposes that works as well. There were times when all of this would have seemed utterly absurd, a life beyond the FBI and his list, two old friends spending time together on a snowy Sunday night, or something of the kind. The apartment reflects her interests and passions beautifully, he thinks, it's comfortable, inviting, charming, and the tea calms him, though he wouldn't mind something stronger either. There's a pause, a silence that isn't awkward but far from relaxed, and he can't seem to find the right words, he just wants to take her in for a moment. He knows this must appear strange to her, the way he showed up on her doorstep without any kind of warning, but he wanted to surprise her, wanted to catch her off guard for the mere sake of watching her reaction. He wanted something truthful, something genuine. Something to encourage him to go on with his proposition. Ask what he came here to ask.

"So what brings you to New York?" There's an avalanche of questions waiting to be released, all of them lingering on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't want to push him away. She wants to savor this, his presence, his warmth.

"I'm not here on business, if that's what you're wondering. I'm here for more personal reasons. A vacation, if you will."

"So you're telling me the Concierge of Crime is on vacation in New York and just felt like stopping by?" She doesn't know what to make of any of this and her tone is too irritated, she doesn't mean it, she just doesn't quite understand.

"Not exactly."

"Well? What are your plans then?"

"I was wondering if I could stay."

"You mean in New York?"

"I mean here, with you." His voice lacks confidence suddenly and his eyes shy away from her, focus on the cup in his hands before he continues, his gaze kind and hopeful. "I'd like to stay here with you, Lizzie. If you'll let me."

"Red, I'm not sure this is up to your standards. Why would you want to stay at my apartment when you could stay in a suite at the Plaza?"

He turns then so he can look at her, really look at her, and he wants to reach out so badly but thinks better of it, there'll be time for that, too, he hopes. Time is all he has to offer now.

"Because I want to explain the reasons for my prolonged absence. Because I want to know how you've been, what plans you have, if you have finally become a morning person." His smile is affectionate and almost painfully endearing. Honest. "Because I have missed you, Lizzie. Because I have missed you terribly."