It's been almost a month and I still miss you like a fucking limb.
[delete]

There were days toward the last month or so of their relationship when he had stopped coming to the precinct and she had no idea what the fuck they were. There were days when she would show up in front of his door, long after Martha had gone to sleep (and hours after both of them should have been asleep), in nothing but a trench coat, bra, and heels. It was bold and sexy and completely not them but hey, she didn't know what the fuck they were anyway so why the hell not.

She'd slam the door shut with her back, their hands would be all over each other and her coat and heels would be on the dark wood floor with in seconds. Then they'd just barely make it to the bedroom; he'd press hot, wet kisses to places with a pressure that would make her eyes roll back and her hips buck up and fuck, Castle, and it's a wonder they never woke up his mother. (Or so they thought.)

It all felt very Pretty Woman. Of course, she wasn't a prostitute, but everything was just physical, barely intimate. Then they'd retire to separate sides of the bed and the sounds of a wide awake New York and the soft hum of his air conditioner would send her into a light sleep.

Something silly would wake her up a few hours later, she'd gather her things, slip silently out of his loft, and they wouldn't talk to each other for at least another week. And even when they finally did, it wasn't exactly what she would define as talking.

That's not really what she misses though. She misses the days before; when it didn't have to be well after midnight before she could see him without completely hating herself. Not that she didn't hate herself after midnight either. But it was somewhat easier with the lights off and him inside of her. Before, there were days when she would get caught up in intensely competitive games of Scrabble or Monopoly with Martha and Alexis and he would come over with a tray of four piping hot chocolates topped with mini mountains of whipped cream and small chocolate chips. That was them.

Then Alexis would head back to campus, Martha would go to the acting studio, and she'd curl up against him with the latest Alex Cross book. They'd quarrel lightly about it, grinning the whole time, and it would end, far more often than not, with them sweaty and satisfied and still smiling with James Patterson, spine bent and pages wrinkled against the ground, long forgotten in a corner.

That's what she misses. She'd give up hot and angry in a quick, irregular heartbeat if it meant endless days of Scrabble, hot chocolate, and fighting over James Patterson.

But she fucked up board games and hot chocolate and Alex Cross, so she settled. Anyone would. Or at least that's what she tells herself. She's so close to losing him. It's like they're tied together by an invisible string that's getting so thin in the middle it could snap in an instant. Her pulling on it isn't helping and its threads keep fraying, but it's better than untying themselves completely. She thinks.

The boys ask her where he's been, and she gets uncomfortable. They feel like they haven't seen him in months, she mumbles something along the lines of how would I know? They look at her as if something's wrong, and she turns to hide in the break room. She buries her face in a steaming espresso mug that's filled to the brim with dark, strong caffeine that will hopefully help her drag through the day, and watches through the thin slits between the window blinds as Ryan tries out the most awful Castle impression she thinks she's ever seen.

Then, about three days after the last day, he didn't answer the door. She sunk to the ground outside the door to his loft in her trench coat, bra, and heels and waited for over an hour, hoping that he'd come home from a late night drug store run or something and pin her up against the wall.

But he didn't. She tries to figure out whether or not her metaphorical string snapped, or if he'd simply untied himself. She supposes she can't blame him if he did.

And she's so ready to type up the memory; to write a paragraph detailing the days of board games and cocoa. Not to mention what they'd do with the whipped cream afterwards. She imagines her mood improving as delivered turns to read at and her stomach turns because she can almost see the three small dots in the bottom corner of the screen.

He'd reply with something along the lines of how he felt the same way, how he needed her like he needed his right hand and she'd show up and they'd go slow and loving and she'd be far more satisfied that hot and angry has ever and will ever leave her.

Then she thinks about typing up something a little shorter, a little angrier, something that relates to them just a little more recently. But then she remembers that that's not actually them. And that she doesn't miss him like a fucking limb, she misses him far more than that.

And then there's also the reality of things: her phone remains abandoned in the corner. She opens a case file she stole from the precinct and prays that the busy work will numb the pain. It's a shitty reality.

He probably has his read receipts off now anyways.

a/n: I'm trying not to abandon this, I swear.