Another year had passed and Mac Taylor would have liked to say he'd healed, that he'd been able to move on, but that would be a lie. Mac Taylor did his best not to lie.

It still hurt, a deep ache with in his heart that would strike at random times, overwhelming him with its strength and purity. He'd been shot, taken shrapnel to his chest, but nothing felt quite like this. He could handle physical pain, but the emotional pain was beyond his comprehension.

To NYPD and the Crime Lab, he was still Mac Taylor, the dependable, stoic leader that they all looked to for guidance. But when he reluctantly left the lab and went back to his quiet apartment, he was someone they wouldn't recognize. His evening companion had become a bottle of Irish whiskey. It wasn't like he drank the entire bottle – no just one or two, to help him fall asleep.

His nights at Ground Zero weren't as frequent as they had been the first year. Work was crazy, the lab overwhelmed, and getting there just wasn't as easy as it used to be.

As he walked to the ceremony seating he saw the familiar faces of other survivors. They greeted each other with a nod, a small wave, a sad smile. It was a bit easier this year. The wounds healed a bit more, life resuming. But he could see in their faces that they'd aged. He wondered if he looked the same to them.

His eyes roamed the crowd. He tried not to admit to himself that he was looking for her, but he was. He'd thought of her often during the year, her face coming to mind at random moments. They'd had a night, shared their grief in a physical way, then went their separate ways.

He was disappointed when he didn't spot her dark hair, her large brown eyes. Maybe, she wouldn't come this year. Maybe her life had moved on. Maybe he shouldn't be so concerned, the voice in his head raged.

The feel of a hand on his arm caused him to turn quickly. It was her. Stephanie.

"Hi, Mac," she smiled.

"Stephanie," he returned, with a smile of his own.

"How have you been?"

"Good, you?"

She nodded, "Good."

He nodded, his mind refusing to come up with anything further to say.

A moment of silence passed before she softly laughed, "This is only mildly awkward, huh?"

He smiled, feeling the tension break. "Only mildly. Why don't we get a seat?"

XXXXX

They sat next to each other, towards the end of a row. Not a word was exchanged between them, each lost in their own thoughts. He knew she was there, to his left, and it gave him some strange sense of comfort, although he wasn't quite sure why.

When the ceremony ended, shortly after noon, he finally looked at her. She wore a pair of dark sunglasses, but he could still see the tear tracks on her cheeks that she was trying to blot with a tissue.

"What do you say we get some lunch?" he offered, feeling a tug of nerves.

She looked up at him, a smile forming. "And a cold drink? Preferably of the alcoholic variety?"

He returned the smile, "I think that would be a good idea." He offered her his arm, "Come on."

This time, they walked towards Battery Park. She told him she wanted to be near the water. From when she was a child, growing up in southern New Jersey she explained, being near the water always soothed her soul.

They stopped into 2 West in the Ritz Carlton for lunch and a drink. The food was good, the drinks cold and strong, and the view of the water amazing. As they sat, they talked about the changes they'd witnessed in the past year, in the country, in the city, and finally in their own lives.

Stephanie, a kindergarten teacher, had gone on about how the children in her classes had kept her sane and given her a reason to keep functioning. Her son, who was in his last year of a business degree at Columbia had enlisted in the Navy, putting his education on hold. He was currently stationed in Kings Bay Georgia, training to be an engineer on a submarine. She was fiercely proud of him, but admitted that she wasn't ready to lose another person she loved to terrorists.

She seemed stronger, healthier, and her eyes weren't as haunted as they appeared last September. He'd found her attractive last year, but this year, she was even more so.

She prompted him to talk about his life and he talked about the lab. He supposed that it was his life now that Claire was gone.

"Besides the lab," she said when he stopped to take a drink of his Jamison's, "What do you do with your life?"

He stopped; the glass paused at his lips, trying to come up with something to say.

"Mac," she softly said, concern evident in her voice, "Please tell me you do more than work."

He offered a sheepish smile and a shrug, then took a long drink. As he swallowed, he felt her hand on his. He looked up at her and she spoke.

"You can't do that…" she went on, her voice soft, "You can't close down…"

"I'm busy," he dismissed. "We're understaffed, under budgeted…"

"And it beats going home to that empty apartment full of memories," she concluded for him.

He shrugged again, taking another drink and wishing she would stop looking at him with pity and concern. "I don't really have time for a social life right now."

"Mac…"

"Can we talk about something else?" he simply said, finishing his drink and motioning to the bartender to refill it.

Stephanie chuckled, "I can see we're going to get trashed again this year."

"I am," he firmly said, "You're welcome to join me."

Stephanie drained the rest of her drink and set her empty glass next to Mac's. "I hate to see a good looking guy drink alone."

He allowed her a small smile and squeezed her hand.

XXXXX

Dinner time arrived and the tables in the restaurant filled up quickly. Mac and Stephanie held court at the far end of the bar, seeming not to notice the people around them.

To anyone watching, they could be good friends or a couple on a date. Her feet rested on the bottom rung of his bar stool, his arm was draped across the back of hers. They sat close, but not overly so.

"Damn," Stephanie said, finishing her drink. "I either need to eat or stop drinking."

"We can order some food," Mac smiled, knowing full well that he was drunk. "Should we get a bar menu?"

"I have a better idea," Stephanie said, placing her hand on his leg. "Why don't we get a room service menu?"

He raised a brow. "Room service?"

"Come on, Mac. We don't need to sit in this bar any longer, but neither one of us is in any shape to go home."

"So you want to get a room?"

She nodded, "Don't you?"

"I didn't…I hadn't…" he ran his hand over his face and cursed the Irish whiskey that ran through his blood stream. Forcing his brain to think clearly, he said, "I didn't want to assume."

"You're a good guy, Mac Taylor," she said, placing her hand to his cheek. "Someday, there will be another woman who touches your heart and she'll be damn lucky." She leaned forward and kissed him softly, "But tonight, I think we both need this."

He returned her kiss, prolonging it for a moment before pulling back and studying her face. The desire that smoldered in her eyes sent a jolt through him and any thoughts of walking away evaporated.

"Let's get a room," he agreed.

XXXXX

He lay across the snow white sheets, her arm and leg draped across him, her head resting on his chest, while his hand traced random patterns on the soft skin of her arm. When he stole a glance down at her face, he found her eyes fixed on the large window, with its view of the Statue of Liberty.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

"I'm good, you?"

"The same," he replied, kissing the top of her head. "I think it's my turn to thank you for helping me to feel," he quietly said.

She pulled her eyes from Lady Liberty and looked up at him. "I'm glad to hear that."

"It's easier," he went on, his tongue looser than he would like. "To just shut it off and work through it."

"Of course it is," she agreed, "But it takes a toll on you. You can't curl up and die because Claire did, Mac."

Her words stung, but he knew she meant no harm with them. "Sometimes, I wish I could," he admitted.

She shook her head, "I seriously doubt she'd appreciate hearing you say that."

"I do too," he sighed.

"Then stop it," she simply said. "You're allowed to hurt. You're allowed to be angry, but damnit, you need to live."

"And what makes you so wise?" he asked, careful to keep his tone light.

"I've heard the same words from some very good friends and a damn bright 22 year old that looks a lot like his dad," she smiled, her eyes filling with tears.

"You're lucky to have him," Mac replied. "And yes, I've heard the same thing from some good friends. I just stopped listening."

"Listen to them, okay? Promise me?" she seriously asked. "Next year, I want to see you smile more, okay?"

"Next year," he repeated. "I was hoping…"

She cut him off with a shake of her head, "Neither one of us is ready for that yet, Mac. We weren't last year and we're not now."

He gave her a true smile, "Maybe next year…."

"Maybe next year," she echoed, kissing him softy. "Maybe next year."