The rest of this thing has been relaxing in my drafts for *mumbles how long*, but the good news is that now it's really, actually completed. So for those of you who subscribed on the chance that I'd expand it, here you go! Here's some more. Turns out the rating does go up with this chapter, so heads up. Nothing extreme, but enough so that FF requires I raise the M flag.

There's also a final chapter after this one to cap everything off, and it'll be up on Wednesday. :)

Their room is clean and dry. Mostly because she makes him take his shoes off at the threshold, in an attempt to confine the filth they track in to the concrete just inside the door. He's forced himself to continue to do this religiously in her absence, for her sake. He wanted the space to be acceptable to her whenever she got back. Seeing that she's already set the example, he tucks his laces inside his boots to keep them free of the mud and lines his pair up besides hers, half-grinning at their size difference.

She's already in the next room, down to her underwear and still peeling off layers of sodden clothing. Her top quickly follows the waterlogged cargo pants in a weeping pile on the floor, then she sifts through their limited pile of spare clothes for a fresh t-shirt, emerging with one of his, he notes. At least, it used to be his. The line of ownership has become blurred over time because she swipes it at every opportunity. She can have it though, if she wants it. Of course she can. It's hers. Hell, if he had a dozen over-sized, perfectly worn-in shirts, he'd gladly give all of them to her. He'd give her anything.

Approaching from behind, it's his hands on the bare skin of her back that pause her actions, and he can feel her tense infinitesimally before softening under his touch. She still does that occasionally, even now. It's as if there's a split second where she's unsure whether to let someone close, where she's deciding whether her guard should be raised or lowered. It doesn't happen nearly as much as it used to, and when it does it's mostly out of habit. But she lets him close now, relaxing, leaning into him—she always lets him.

Leaning down, he brushes his lips across the juncture of her neck and shoulder. "Nuh-uh..." He husks into the skin there, moving his nose from side to side in a silent objection. "You're always taking my stuff."

"You like it when I wear your shirts," she says smugly.

"Don't know what gave you that idea."

"You like seeing me in them," continuing as if she hadn't heard, "and how they smell like me afterwards..."

He shakes his head likes she's gone crazy, smirking into her shoulder. "Lies."

"And stripping them off me."

"Yeah...cause they're mine."

"Oh, so that's what's going through your head in the moment," she epiphanizes, humoring him. "Thanks so much for clarifying—"

"The point is, you aren't gonna need it," he murmurs into her neck.

When she angles her head back to look at him, her full brows are raised in a show of defiance. "Says who, soldier?"

"Don't tell me you haven't missed me," he teases, slowly nuzzling the soft skin below her jaw while tugging her closer against his hips. "Or that you weren't thinking about me while you were gone." He feels her breath hitch, and her next words, however flippant, aren't convincing in the least.

"All I've been thinking about is a hot shower and deodorant, Reese."

He raises an eyebrow of his own, still trying to smother the grin that wants to surface, even though she's not looking. "Alright." He can play her game.

Slowly he runs his warm palms down her sides, raising goosebumps on the still-damp flesh. When he reaches her hips, his broad hands curl around them to the tops of her thighs, hovering at the waistband of her plain black underwear. "So what you're saying is..." Gently, he cups her through the soaked fabric, hearing her suck in a breath in response. "You're just soaked through from the rain," continuing to lightly move against her. "That's all this is."

She snorts inelegantly. "Bite me," she quips the familiar phrase, somewhat breathlessly, before gasping in reaction to his unexpected obedience.

The pink crescent outline of his teeth stands out on the creamy skin of her neck, and he pauses to admire it before laving his tongue over the mark soothingly.

When she turns towards him again he knows he's won this round. Her hooded gaze sufficiently negates any further excuses she might invent to tease him. Not that she bothers. It drops to his chest appreciatively, then travels upwards again, her fingers trailing lazily in its wake until she recaptures his eyes.

God in heaven. How is she here. How is she right here, in front of him, looking at him like that.

"Sarah..."

"I am gonna take a shower," she insists.

"Fine. M'not stopping you."

Reaching up, she rests her forearms on his shoulders, clasping them loosely behind his neck. "...I mean, it's a decent-sized shower."

"Been in it before," he nods conversationally.

She draws her bottom lip between her teeth and presses a bit closer. "I might need you to wash my back."

"You forget how to again?"

"My arms are really sore."

"Mm. The hot water'll help with that."

"Reese."

"Sarah." He snatches the shirt from her and tosses it aside as if the sight of it offends him. "You still won't be needing that," he states, pulling her with him into the bathroom.

The soap is her favorite so far. They never know what soap they'll be issued, bar or liquid, floral or fruity. It's just luck of the draw, really. This one is a citrus-scented body wash that was already partially empty when they first got it. He had used it sparingly while she'd been gone so there would be some left for her. The smell is fresh and soothing, the tiny bubbles almost hypnotically iridescent as he massages them into her shoulders, then pushes the pads of his thumbs in gentle circles down her triceps. She hums gratefully in response and gradually relaxes under his touch, her body softening, settling.

Eventually she turns around and returns the favor. As she runs her hands over him, spreading the suds across his chest and stomach, she can feel his low rumble of pleasure beneath her fingers. Then she reaches lower, and the distinctly needy sound that escapes his lips is entirely out of his control.

The next moments are a thick haze of warm lips and tongues, of possessive touches and a give-and-take that builds slowly but surely to a deep and steady burn. Can it really be only a few days since he's been with her? It's been forever. He's never letting her leave again; leaving is stupid and out of the question. Being apart from her is pointless. He can't breathe without her. Hell, he doesn't want to breathe without her, and maybe that's morbid, but it feels true, and she's true, and she's here. With him.

It isn't until Sarah's knees nearly buckle—half from previous exhaustion and half from the present sensation of his mouth working between her thighs—that he finally pulls away. He shuts off the water, almost cold by now, and accepts the towel she hands him. Instead of keeping it he uses it on her, running it gently over the curves of her breasts, her stomach, her sweet, round ass. He gives it a firm squeeze, relishing how she completely fills his hands, making her chuckle.

She ends up wearing his shirt after all—he slips it over her head himself. Gathering up her wet things from the floor, he begins to hang them over the towel bar by the sink so they won't sour. Washing them can wait till tomorrow. He's squeezing out her vest when she captures him in a hug from behind, pressing a pillow-soft kiss between his shoulder blades.

Without breaking the hug, he turns around to face her, and the top of her head barely comes up to his shoulder. It doesn't even, actually. She's so damn tiny and perfect, juxtaposed with his mass. She fits him just right, feels just right under his hands, in his arms. Looking down at her now, her hair is beginning to air dry, with little curls framing her face, and her enormous eyes have him again, trapped in their beam. Eyes that currently aren't narrowed shrewdly or calculatedly blank, but affectionate and open. Wide open for him, letting him see her. Seeing him.

"Brought something back for you," she almost whispers, resting her chin on his still-bare chest as she peers up at him.

Absently, he reaches out to twirl one of her curls around a fingertip. "Like a present?"

She nods against him. "Sort of." She steps away momentarily to unzip the front pocket of her backpack. "Found it when we were clearing this storefront. Someone had been there before us and everything was ransacked. Stuff everywhere, all turned over and piled up. These were all over the floor."

Striding over, he takes the stiff piece of paper from her and sinks down onto the bed, where she curls up beside him.

It's a picture. Not a photograph—he knows the difference—but glossy and thick. The background shows the coast, with clean blue, foam-capped waves breaking on a shore ringed in rocky cliffs. Superimposed on the ocean view are chunky, colorful letters, each one filled in with a smaller scene. A tall, sloping bridge. A building with roofs that curl up at the edges. A curvy blonde in a fancy dress. A forest of tall, red trees. The letters spell out, Greetings from CALIFORNIA, The Golden State!

For a minute or two he just sits there, lost in thought. "Things used to be like this," he finally says, still staring. "...Hard to believe."

"It was beautiful. Hard to believe that's where we are." She stares at it too, then sort of laughs. "Just doesn't look like that."

He just grunts softly in response, lost again in the technicolor of this relic from the world's past. The golden state. He can hardly imagine what that would be like.

Not until the card is abruptly pulled away from him does his attention snap back to her, trying to identify the look on her face.

Her brows are pulling together, the corners of her lips pulling down. "I shouldn't have brought this. It was...stupid…" She mutters.

"No, no, stop. I like it." She thinks he doesn't. She's overthinking it. And maybe she's not liking it as much as she did at first. Gently, insistently, he takes it back from her, and using one of his knives from the table, pins it to the wall beside the bed. "Something bright to look at." Then he cups her face in his big hands, dwarfing her features. He runs the pad of one calloused thumb over the furrow between her brows, smoothing it out after a couple passes, and just gazes at her until she rolls her eyes.

"We are where we are," he says. "I'm here. You're here." She's everything. He shrugs, like it's no big deal. "I can live with that." She's all that matters.

She shakes her head, but she's not disagreeing, and in another beat or two she's smiling wryly back at him. "We are where we are."