Gunshots were all he could remember – bullets shattering glass, ricocheting off armored cars and lodging into unprotected ones. That soundtrack kept playing on loop throughout his subconscious and he wasn't sure if it was recent or two and a half years old.

The only solace was Calleigh, her touch both new and familiar, complicated yet simple. He knew that had been real, in the here and now, but when he'd finally fought off the injury and medicine induced haze, she'd been gone, her touch nothing more than a ghosting caress in dreams.

Everything else was a mess of gunshots, cars, and memories that didn't make sense. He wanted Calleigh back there to tell him the truth in that way of hers – blunt, yet exactly what he needed to hear. Because right now, the thoughts and feelings that stirred within him at just the memory of her touch, of the mere mention of her name, were far too advanced for their last conversation.

The air conditioning was doing nothing to relieve his body of the heat that a forty-minute run in the scorching Florida sun had created. Shirtless and breathless, he headed straight into the kitchen to pull a glass from the cupboard. As he filled it with water from the dispenser on his fridge, his thoughts drifted to the truffles, to Calleigh and – damnit, wasn't that long run supposed to take his mind off her?

But it hadn't at all. Despite pounding music and speed and exertion, she'd forcefully crept back into his thoughts. Why had she taken off earlier than usual? Did she have plans? Had she sworn him off after he'd choked and failed to tell her what he really wanted? He couldn't blame her if she had, but he really hoped she hadn't because she was wrong. He did believe it, so strongly that at times it scared the hell out of him. Sometimes she scared the hell out of him, which was a new experience that also had him stammering and clueless.

He'd guzzled half the glass when his doorbell rang, and he'd just barely managed to kick his favorite sneakers off before he tugged the door open.

"Calleigh, hey." The surprise in his voice was evident as he looked her over. She was dressed almost as casually as him, her black blouse now removed to leave her in only a somewhat dirty white tank and her black pants scuffed with dirt and grime.

"Hey." She smiled, blinking a little in the sunlight – her sunglasses were tucked atop her head. "Sorry, is this a bad time?" she asked, taking in his appearance – all shirtless, sweaty and breathless and…really quite attractive.

"No, not at all." Grinning, he held the door open further and stepped aside. "I just got in from a run. You wanna come in?"

Fire. Playing with fire. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, discreetly taking in the way his basketball shorts hung low on perfectly defined hips. "Sure," she finally answered, because she so rarely played with fire and something told her it would be worth it this time.

"I'm just gonna…find a shirt real quick," he said awkwardly, motioning down the hall. He ducked into the laundry room at the back of his house and Calleigh couldn't help but notice the way his muscles rippled as he slipped the shirt over his torso. "So," he began as he met her in the foyer, "what happened to you?"

"Oh." Calleigh glanced down at the huge smudge on her white tank top. When she tugged at the hem, he caught the briefest glimpse of creamy skin. "A horse really liked me and decided he needed to rub his face all over me."

He laughed, brows furrowing, but she was answering before he could even ask. "I went horseback riding…with that groomer we questioned today."

"Oh." Maybe she had moved on. "Like a…horseback riding date kind of thing?"

"Not from my end," she assured, smiling. Eric couldn't help but wear his heart on his sleeve and every worry about some horse guy sweeping her off her feet was currently written all over his face. And then she scrunched her nose up in this adorable way and he was smiling all over again. "I don't know. Is it naïve to have accepted it as just a horseback riding invitation?"

Chuckling, he bit his lip, imagining this guy tripping over her every other minute when all she wanted was a gallop around the track…and maybe a little company. She was a grown, confident woman; she knew when someone was attracted to her, but she was modest enough not to assume it.

"When you look the way you do, it's a little naïve." The pointed tilt of his head and drag of his eyes over her body left few of his words without implication. "In a good way," he added, assuring her with a smile.

The corners of her lips curved upward in response and she shifted, clasping her hands in front of her. "I stopped by the lab on the way home," she hinted, detecting recognition in his eyes. Smiling, she leaned against the doorway to his kitchen, thinking of the decorative box in her car, the delicate card with simply 'Cal' scrawled across it in his handwriting. "Thank you for the truffles."

"You're welcome," he replied, and as he met her eyes he lost all those carefully constructed words that had been on the tip of his tongue earlier when her phone just kept on ringing. Now they were stuck in another one of those mutual longing glances, her green eyes holding his as she just nodded slowly.

"So," she began softly, breaking the reverie for once. "Was that your way of asking me out?" She was being teasing and playful, which they were so good at, but there was an underlying intensity in her eyes.

He grinned. No – at least it hadn't been – but he could work with this. "Yeah, actually, and you coming here was your way of saying yes…so we're on for tomorrow night."

"Oh." And there it was – the outright forwardness she'd been waiting for, that confident charm he didn't hesitate to utilize with all the other girls. She pressed her lips together to fight the broad smile that would cost her a win in this game of playful banter. "Well then I'm glad I stopped by."

"Me too." The distance between them lessened as he took a few steps closer, and soon his fingers were brushing hers at her side. He lifted her hand, admiring the delicate weight of it in his, the softness of her creamy skin. His thumbs slid down her palm, touching, admiring as his eyes flickered back to hers.

She'd thought that after eight years of friendship the crossing of boundaries, the liberating of their long since tempered down attraction for one another, would be at the very least a bit strange. But this…this was wonderfully maddening, his thumbs now almost lightly massaging her as they worked down to her wrist, their eyes still locked.

And then his hand turned against hers, loosely weaving their fingers together as he held them at her side. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Suddenly she remembered she needed to breathe, so she inhaled deeply and smiled. "See you tomorrow."

And then she was there – really there, not just in foggy memories and subconscious dreams but in the doorway to his room. Dark denim jeans clung to her legs while a simple white v-neck top hugged her curves, and all together the beautifully casual combination had him questioning reality again.

She was waiting, conflicted as though she was trying to gauge his reaction. As her eyes drifted between his injuries and his dull eyes, he thought he caught a flash of something in her features. Guilt?

"Cal," he uttered, shifting in an attempt to sit up so he could see her better.

That was enough to bring her forward, to make her come right up to his bedside and place a soothing hand on his shoulder. "Don't, just rest." She swallowed hard, eyes watering as she pulled her hand away from his warm body. Her eyes flitted over him nervously and, despite everything, his lips curved upward just the slightest bit, misreading her hesitance as the awkward ebb and flow of all this emotion and attraction they'd been dancing around for years.

He noticed something more, though, and as she shook her head and fought tears he again sensed the notion that he was missing something.

She didn't know what to do, didn't know where they went from here. Deep down, she knew she'd been in the right to question him. And she knew, without a doubt, that she'd been right to shoot at that car. It had come barreling out of a crime scene in the midst of flying bullets, and it had been headed straight for her and Ryan. She couldn't have known it would swerve at the last minute, and she couldn't have known that the "suspects" inside were not a threat – or were they?

Eric's involvement was still a mystery, and until he told her the truth she didn't truly know if she could trust him again – not in the field, as a friend, and definitely not in her heart or her bed. Still, the part of her that had trusted him implicitly for so long felt to blame. In the field, she'd been a threat to him, too. It was possible that she'd inadvertently caused some of his injuries, that she'd made him disoriented enough to lose control of the car. She'd shot at him. She'd shot at Eric.

"I'm sorry." Taking a step back, she shook her head, wondering how he could stand to just be here with her right now. A brush with death couldn't just sweep away all the anger, confusion, and accusation she'd seen in his eyes as he drove away from her.

"Cal," he said again, softer this time. His eyes held hers and he laid his hand flat against the hospital sheets, palm upward, waiting for hers.

"I don't know where to go from here," she admitted, and despite all the blame, despite all the trust issues, she moved close to take his hand in hers again.

"I need you to do something for me." His eyes searched hers, lacking clarity but full of purpose, and her hand instinctively tightened around his, their fingers interlocking.

"What?"

"My mom," he began, swallowing with difficulty at the dryness in his throat. "She said I was in an accident, coming from a scene." He paused, watching her and knowing by the intimate way her fingers threaded with his that in some way his feelings had gotten the chance to soar far past longing glances and loaded comments.

A flash of bare skin, her warm body arching against his as their threaded fingers pushed into the mattress.

Taking a moment, he blinked, first unable to look at her and then unable to look away. Memory, or dream? He'd dreamed about her before, and there was nothing like a drug-induced near coma for seventeen hours to make the mind run wild…

Ignoring it, his thumb brushed over her skin imploringly. "I keep hearing bullets. I don't know if it's from before, when I was shot, or… I don't know."

She watched him with disbelief, his eyes flitting over their hands as though searching for invisible puzzle pieces to put together.

"I trust you, Calleigh." He looked at her again, eyes open and accepting yet confused. "I need you to tell me what happened."

She hadn't been able to help the disheartened sigh that came from deep within her chest, and suddenly her gaze was on him as though she were looking at a stranger. "You don't remember?"

Focusing on the ceiling, he tried to think back to yesterday, but it felt like time had shifted on him. Everything was out of place, even them, and all he could remember were those gunshots. "No," he finally answered. "I don't remember coming to any scene, or…" Losing his train of thought, he furrowed his brows in confusion and the aching in his head grew sharper. "I don't remember what happened."

"You were there with Sharova." She was a little too blunt, a little callous, but the realization that Eric might not have answers to her many questions – and the department's many questions – terrified her. She needed answers. "You fled the scene with him."

His breathing quickened at the thought, mind racing and struggling to comprehend just what had happened in the days before he'd woken up in this hospital bed. But there was nothing. He remembered looking into his father, confirming the truth with his mother. He remembered working a difficult case with Calleigh, having dinner with his family, leaving Calleigh the truffles and making plans with her… He remembered the feel of her hand in his, soft and distinct, and he remembered coming to work the next day feeling much lighter, but he remembered nothing more about his father.

"No, he has a hit on me," Eric told her, wishing the words sounded more certain. "I've been trying to track him down." And then his eyes narrowed on her, suspicious but more concerned, because he'd been trying to keep her safe. "How do you know about Sharova?"

And then her world fell out from under her. Because they'd talked about this, they'd argued for a week about the father he didn't know, and in all her doubts about trust and motive she hadn't even considered he might not be able to confirm or quell them. She'd expected answers if he woke, and when he had she was ready to get them.

"Eric," she began shakily, uncurling her fingers from his. "What's the last thing you remember?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes in frustration as he tried to think back. It was like trying to find a file without any of the necessary information, though. He had snippets of places and people, but he couldn't put any of them in context. The last solid thing that came to him was Calleigh, her showing up at his place, holding her hand in his, falling asleep easily that night and waking the next morning to go to work… After that it faded, became hazy at the edges as time just sort of dropped off.

"I don't know." He tried harder, desperately searching for that day to come back to him. "I remember coming to work the day after you came to my place to thank me for the truffles… You and Ryan took the early call-out and the house caught fire. I remember worrying about you because you tried to be a hero and get the body out." Shaking his head, he exhaled heavily. "That's it. I don't remember anything else about my father. I don't remember…" Trailing off, he found her gaze again and waited for some help. This was much different than last time, when certain events and people escaped him. This time, it seemed he'd lost an entire chunk of time, and he had no idea what important events had been lost.

For an entirely different reason now, her eyes watered and she had to place a hand back on the bed to steady herself. Four months ago. That last thing he remembered was from four months ago. Panic swelled within her and the only thing that tore her from it was the feel of his warm, familiar fingers circling her wrist. His tired eyes were practically pleading with her and she tilted her head, sympathetic yet guarded.

"That was four months ago," she finally told him, watching with a pained expression as panic overtook him, too. She breathed in deeply, clinging to hope but expecting hell. "You don't remember Sharova helping you?" No reaction; he was at a loss. Her façade crumbled and she pressed her lips together tightly in a desperate attempt to ward off tears. And then, in the softest voice he'd ever heard from her, she asked, "Do you remember us?"

It hit him again.

Her smile beneath his lips, creamy legs tangled with his, the feel of her hair slipping through his fingers…

And that was it – as elusive as a dream. He had snippets, or dreams, but nothing else. How could he tell her that she felt like home to him, when he couldn't even remember a single thing they'd done together? That thought terrified him and sent his mind reeling for any recollection of them, of her. The absence he found there was devastating.

"I don't think so," he reluctantly admitted, hating the way her features fell. Undeterred, his fingers traced hers in the only contact he could have given the distance she was keeping.

Four months. Four months he'd lost of his life, of their lives, apparently. Somewhere, deep down, he knew something had changed between them. Her touch resonated too deeply, too intimately, for things to have stayed anywhere close to platonic. And now both his heart and his mind literally ached for those four months. Because, even with the specific details missing, he knew what he'd felt for her, what they'd been to each other.

"This is gonna sound crazy, but I know how I feel about you. I remember you…that we were together, how I felt about you, that I was in love with you…" He stopped abruptly, the amazed but terrified look in her eyes telling him they hadn't quite said that yet.

But she knew. God, she knew, and the last place she ever wanted to hear it was in a hospital, when she didn't even know if she could trust him anymore. Everything had changed, and a part of her wondered if he had, too.

She couldn't go there right now, couldn't talk about them and everything he'd lost, but she took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on his. "It doesn't sound crazy," she assured him, thinking of the past four months. More crazy was how quickly she'd trusted and fallen, how fast the notion of home had come to involve him despite their separate houses as a much-needed boundary. After how the past few weeks had played out, maybe that had all been a mistake. "But a lot has happened, Eric."

"You can tell me," he urged, fingers grasping at her as she pulled away. He was aching for those details, for the memories of them; she could see it in his eyes, so much different than the expression they'd held just a day ago.

Calleigh shook her head, thinking of the anger, the betrayal, in his eyes when he'd swerved away in that car. If he knew – if he remembered – then he might not even want her here right now. She hadn't trusted him, and that mistrust may have been well placed considering the circumstances. She would never know for sure now, not unless these past few weeks would come magically waltzing back into his conscious collection of memories.

It would be easier for him to hate her for this than to remember what they'd lost, to remember that betrayal and suspicion.

"I'm sorry." Her voice was a soft whisper and she shook her head, wiping a lone tear from her cheek with the tips of her fingers. "I'm glad you're okay, but I can't do this."

With that, she was gone, taking his memories and his heart with her. And now he was the one with unanswered questions.