They sat on Cristina's sofa, holding containers of Chinese food, talking a bit about nothing in particular, but mostly just eating. Every few minutes Cristina would reach over with her chopsticks to grab some of his take-out and every time it made him smile.

"You certainly are eating an awful lot of my dinner for someone who claims not to like mandarin beef," he said, holding the little white box out of her reach at her most recent attempt to steal a bite. "No more unless you're going to trade. Give me some of your cashew chicken."

"Fine. Here," she said, trading boxes with him. "Yours is much better than mine." She stabbed into her new dish and took another bite.

Owen was content to sit with her thinking about nothing more than Chinese food after they long day they had. Their conversation in the supply closet had left him unsettled and worried over her for the last several hours. That, combined with meeting George's family at the hospital, had made for an exhausting afternoon. George's mother and brothers, still reeling from the tragedy of his death, were gracious with Owen, but clearly standoffish with him, influenced by the belief that Owen's mentorship and time in the Army were what had encouraged George to join in the first place. Owen was relieved that evening to get a text from Cristina telling him to come over and to bring dinner with him.

He watched her happily chomp away as if she hadn't a care in the world, sure that she couldn't be feeling as carefree as the impression she was trying to give.

"Do you want to talk about today?" He asked.

"What about today?" She responded, looking into her food rather than match his gaze.

"I don't know. Maybe about the fact that you got really drunk last night because one of your closest friends died yesterday but you still came to work and tried to act like nothing happened." He rested his chopsticks inside the container, then leaned over and put his food on the coffee table. He picked up his beer and took a drink.

Her eyes flickered up at him from under her lashes, and then back down to her food.

"Look, I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier today. But I just don't want to talk about it."

Owen sat back against the couch and watched her. She squirmed slightly, wishing he weren't paying such careful attention to her every move. "Maybe you should. It might help. It's been helping me. In therapy, I mean. I talk about stuff in therapy, and it's not easy, but I do feel better afterwards."

"Well, that's you. I don't talk about things and that works for me." Cristina shoved the chopsticks into her now empty food container and put it on the table. She unconsciously licked her lips and he thought about how good it would feel to just lean over and kiss her. He shook his head slightly, as if to get the thought out of his head and set his mind back on the conversation.

"I didn't used to talk about things, and thought that worked for me, too. But it didn't."

"Why are you doing this?" She asked. "Why are you pushing me like this? I just wanted to see you and have dinner, and you won't get off my case, today of all days." She grabbed her hair and twisted it up into a ponytail, fastening it with the band that had been around her wrist. "Just stop, will you?"

They sat at opposite ends of the sofa, contemplating each other. Owen took another sip of his beer and put it down.

"Can I ask you a question?" He asked.

Cristina waited a moment, and then nodded. He took a breath, and let it out in a long sigh.

"Do you blame me?"

Cristina's forehead crinkled in confusion. "What do you mean? Blame you for what?"

Owen shifted uncomfortably. "You know. For George. Do you blame me for George?"

Cristina tilted her head sideways, still not understanding. "For George? Why would I blame you for George?"

"Because he joined the army because of me, because of my influence on him."

Cristina's eyes widened in surprise. "Is that what you think?" She said softly. "That I think it is your fault that George joined the army and then fell under a bus?"

Owen looked up at Cristina, but stayed silent. She saw a shadow of guilt pass over him. Reaching out, she took his hand in hers, and gently squeezed it.

"George dying is not your fault," she whispered.

"He may not have ever considered joining the army if he hadn't met me."

"And he may not have ever wanted to become a trauma surgeon, either, if he hadn't met you." She scooted closer to him and put her other hand on his knee. "What's the difference if he joined the army? George was a big boy and made his own decisions. He knew what he was getting into. Joining the army didn't kill him. Joining the army had nothing to do with him falling under a bus trying to help a pretty girl."

Owen focused on Cristina's hand around his. Cristina leaned down slightly, trying to draw his attention, but he seemed to try to avoid her.

"Listen" she said, forcefully, demanding his attention. "Look at me." Owen slowly raised his eyes to meet hers.

"George dying is not your fault. You didn't throw him under that bus. If you're going to start blaming yourself, you might as well blame the Chief for giving him the day off, otherwise he would have been at the hospital. Or blame Amanda for not flirting back with George when he talked to her. Or blame stupid George himself, for not driving his car instead, or for not walking more slowly so as to miss the bus, or for just wanting to do the right damn thing and help someone who needed it." Cristina reached a hand up and cupped his cheek, running her thumb along his beard. Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed him, then sat back, still close to him, and folded one leg under her.

"Is that what you thought? That because I wasn't talking to you about George that I believed him dying was your fault?" She asked.

"I don't know," he answered. "I just…I don't know. I don't know what I was thinking. I worry about you, and you don't always reveal much about your thoughts, so I try to figure it out on my own. My mind just started wandering, and…" He smiled wistfully, his sentence trailing off. "Maybe sometimes I get it wrong."

Cristina sighed, inching further towards Owen on the sofa and curling herself into the crook of his arm. She put her hand on his chest and he played with some of her curls.

After a few moments, Cristina spoke. "I'm not very good with feelings."

Owen looked down at her, waiting to see if there would be more.

"I don't like talking about feelings. It's too…" She searched for how to describe what she wanted to say. "People think I don't have feelings, that things don't affect me. But they do. Sometimes too much, so much so that I don't know what to say or do. So I don't say anything." Cristina turned her head up to look at Owen. "It's not that I don't want to talk to you about George. It's that I don't even know where to start. It's easier not to say anything. Can you understand that?"

Owen nodded, and wrapped his arms tightly around Cristina, hugging her close. She thought about how perfect this felt, snuggling into him, all safe and warm.

"I know you feel things deeply," he whispered. "That's part of why I love you so much." She smiled into his chest, and hugged him back. He continued. "Can you try to do something for me?" She looked up at him, hesitant to let this perfect moment go.

"When there are things that you aren't ready to talk about, you'll tell me, so I know to wait until you are ready. And when you're ready, you'll let me listen and love you the way you always have for me. Okay?"

Cristina nodded and slowly smiled. She felt giddy and flooded with love. She leaned back and looked into Owen's eyes.

"Is this called 'meeting you halfway'?" She asked, a teasing lilt in her voice.

He laughed, and hugged her tightly. "Yes. This is meeting me halfway."

She giggled, and put her head back down on his chest. "Okay. Just so I know. I can do that."

"Good," he answered, contentedly. They leaned against each other happily for a few minutes until Owen sat up and reached for his beer.

"Oh," he said, "and when you eat all my mandarin beef, that's an example of not meeting me halfway."

"No, you shared your mandarin beef!" Cristina declared, giving him a light shove.

"Only after you stole half of it," he muttered, looking at her out of the corner of his eye and grinning as he took a drink. He was teasing her and she knew it.

Cristina grabbed the beer out of his hand and set it on the table with a thunk. Laughing, she climbed onto his lap and straddled him, pinning him in place. She leaned down, and kissed him deeply. "What about this?" She whispered, between kisses. "Is this meeting you halfway, too? Or this?" She asked, wrapping her arms around him and running a hand through his hair as she continued to kiss him.

"Mmmm," he answered, moving his hands up her thighs to settle on her hips. "This is more than halfway," he mumbled. She laughed, and pulled away from him slightly, leaning her forehead against his.

"I love you," she whispered.

He looked up into her brown eyes.

"I know," he answered, grinning evilly at her.

She shoved him and laughed. "See?" she said, pointing at him. "See? That's why I don't tell you things!"

Owen grabbed Cristina around the waist and pulled her to him, kissing her hard.

And for just a little while, all the terrible happenings of the previous day slipped out of their minds, and left space for them to be happy and in love.