She knows it's him at the door. There's no one else it could be. She had told him, not through words but through her actions that she needed to be alone. She seeks space, a chance to catch her breath, to think, to feel.

He doesn't understand. She didn't imagine that he would. Where she desires solace he seeks company. They shouldn't fit, but they do; that's their problem. Two halves of one whole. Recently it has become increasingly difficult to establish where she begins and he ends. They're polar opposites and at the same time, the perfect match. It's wrong and she knows it. They're fighting a losing battle; she only prays that she doesn't fall first.

As she reaches for the chain she can feel it – her chest is tight, her lungs constrict and she struggles to inhale. His presence is suffocating. He consumes her and she's not sure that there is a feeling as terrifying as how she feels when she's around him. She has never needed anyone, yet she is dependent on him.

He has changed her.

As much as she needs him, she hates him. She hates his inability to leave her, to let her get through this on her own. And yet she doesn't hate him at all, and that's what is destroying her.

She needs his comfort, but she wants to crawl in to him, to mould her body to every crevice of his but there are rules and she is more than aware of them. She can't do it; he's not hers to hold and so she prays for space.

What she wants and what she needs are not the same thing and she will be damned if she becomesthat woman.

She reaches for the lock and briefly their eyes meet through the peep hole. It still amazes her, they can be physically separated and yet one always manages to find the other.

He has always needed companionship. He doesn't welcome his own company and unlike her he has never truly been alone. Like the silence, solitude breaks him. There is too much to consider, too much to dwell on and so he has always preferred company.

He feels like he has been waiting in her doorway for an eternity when it clicks open. The door slowly retreats from him and the sense of relief that he had hoped for does not materialize when he sees her.

He had heard her, in the silence he had listened to her cries and yet seeing the pain that has been etched into every line of her face is that much worse. Her pain becomes his. He is smothered by it, consuming him and dragging him ever closer to the precipice. The need to hold her is almost unbearable; he wonders how he has controlled himself, how in twelve years he has held her only twice. His arms had offered her comfort when Sonya died and shown thanks when she had saved the life of his wife and youngest child.

He can't reach for her, he has no claim to her and he's almost certain that if he holds her now he won't be able to let go.

He's not that man and more importantly he will not make her thatwoman.

They have always prided themselves on their innate ability to read each other. With a single glance they can decipher what the other is thinking, what their next move will be. In the realm of work little has changed, yet in the course of a single afternoon their personal relationship has shifted once more. Neither truly know where they stand; each struggles to understand what the other needs or wants.

It's dangerous now.

They remain in the doorway, a silent standoff. Their eyes dance over each other but never quite meet; it's strange and verging on uncomfortable. Neither can comprehend the most recent shift in dynamic. He had given her a ride home earlier this afternoon, but that was necessity and his being here now is not and that's what is different.

He had comforted her – held her in the church hallway soothed her – and offered his support. He had been the poster boy for what a partner should be, but he is here, now, in her doorway.

And it is so far removed from the role of partners.

Without a sound, he slips past her into her sitting room. She closes the door and falls into step behind him. He perches on the sofa, and she knows that if she puts herself in such close proximity to him it will be her undoing, so she opts for the bay window.

Neither speaks as they sit. No looks are shared, no tears are cried.

They have never needed words before, yet now it is everything unsaid that causes the chasm between them to grow ever wider.

He watches her. She is curled up, her body pressed tight against the window pane. She looks small and fragile and he hates that. He hates that it makes his hands itch to touch her, to hold her, to protect her. He shifts and leans forward, his head rests in his hands. He feels it now, she is too much for him yet he will never have enough.

She feels like she has been staring out the window for hours, rationally she knows it is more like minutes but his presence is too much. It unsettles her and she hates that. Elliot's gaze burns into her skin, she hasn't looked at him but she knows. She can feel his eyes moving over her, analyzing her every breath, her every move.

She hates that what was once easy has now become a struggle.

Silence, noise, solace, companionship; it's all up in the air now.

And then she speaks…