Thank you guys sooo soooo much for all the reviews! I opened my email and I had like 20 emails from fan fiction, more than I've ever had about one of my stories, it was insane! Major confidence booster! Luv U guys!

Addressing some of your comments:

Some of you like the Italian, some of you find it confusing, etc. And quite honestly it's kind of confusing me as well, and it's a lot of trouble. I liked it at first but… Idk. Everyone please vote on whether or not I should continue with it!

Did I accidentally switch to Cammie and Zach? I'm sorry. I caught myself doing that at least five times. Guess I couldn't catch em all. Just to clarify, Pablo does not know their real names… Yet.

Thanks again, and on with the story!

Zach POV

Sleeping arrangements. Shit.

We had brought Pablo back to my apartment, because we couldn't very well bring him into the CIA safe house. Cammie still technically lived there, seeing as she had only just arrived this afternoon. But Pablo was under the impression that we were together, i.e. we lived together. I didn't know how to back out of that arrangement now, even though it would be uncomfortable for both of us.

My apartment is nice, but small. The main room has three walls and a large window, overlooking the hills. There's a small kitchen tucked into a corner, and a small table, a "dining room". A doorway leads to the bathroom, and a short hallway leads to an office and a bedroom. Of course there are hidden compartments under the kitchen tiles, behind walls, and inside door panels. Also a security system that I'm not going to say much about, besides that it was designed by two good friends of mine and Cammie's, (Liz and Jonas) who are currently some of the CIA's top tech people.

We just got in from the Café, and it's four in the morning. Everyone's exhausted.

"I'm staying here tonight?"

"Si. You get the couch." I told Pablo. I toss him a blanket.

"Not the floor?" He has a look of confusion on his face.

"Why would I put you on the floor?" Now it's my turn to look confused.

"That's where I usually sleep…"

"Well, if you'd prefer the floor, be my guest. I'm going to bed." I stay just long enough to see him practically collapse on the couch, and fall asleep instantly.

At least someone will be getting sleep tonight.

Cammie and I walked into the other room.

"I call the bed." she says.

"I miss the days we could share." I said in a whiny voice.

"In your dreams." she says.

"I figured." I say, smirking. I turned the lights out, and curled up on the loveseat. Then I watched the clock for five minutes.

"We need to talk."

"Now?" Cammie asks in a groggy voice.

"Sometime in the relatively near future." I say.

"Well I'm tired right now."

"So am I, so--"

"So shut the hell up and go to sleep." she says. I smirk.

"And wipe the smirk of your face Zach." Mind reader.

"I can't read your mind I just know you too well."

"Ditto," I say, and then add, "and don't roll your eyes at me." She snorts, and then we both crack up laughing.

"This is a ridiculous situation." I say when we finally stop.

"I know right? You know what would make it more ridiculous?"

"What?" I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm being set up for a trap.

"If you were out of the closet."

"WHAAAT!!!!!????" I sit bolt upright.

"Just kidding." she says.

"Bull." For the record, I walk the straight and narrow when it comes to that, thank you very much—not that I mind people who don't, but…

"You kinda deserved it."

"Did not." Bit- no.

I'm not even allowed to call her names in my sleep?

Not her. Never.

"Go to sleep."

"How come you always say that when you're losing the argument? I ask, just to be irritating.

"Shut up."

"No you shut up."

"What are we, six?" Again, laughter. But then we both close our eyes- in vain. We know neither of us will get any sleep tonight.

Cameron Morgan. Cammie. Mine, and now… what? She still gives me that feeling, like nothing else, and makes my insides turn to mush. I wonder if she still gets that. Wonder if she's been with anyone else since me. It seems obvious though, she hasn't given up on me…

And me… I've dated at least 20 girls in the past year… to keep up appearances and all. I can't remember half of their faces. They lasted all of five minutes. All like that slutty chick on the bus. Contrary to Cammie's apparent opinion of me, I didn't sleep with any of them. Would have been a waste of time.

She loves me,

She loves me not.

What are we, 6?

Her words from earlier spring back into my mind.

No. We're 23. Hence, I'm going to talk to her. Why can't we talk now dammit?

"Cammie?"

"Zach, don't--"

"I'm sorry." The words tumble out of my mouth. I can't control where they'll go.

"For what?" she asks, exasperated.

"For everything." She takes a long, deep breath.

"At least half of it was my fault."

"So?"

"So I'm sorry too." she says, although from the way her voice croaks, it's hard for her to get the words out too.

"Are we ok then?"

I sound like an idiot.

"Well, we're far from ok, but were definitely not at odds anymore."

"Good. I can work with that." I say. And then, in a barely audible whisper, she replies, "I was hoping you would."

Some things, I suppose, just don't change. And probably never will.

I love her.

Warning! No POV!

P.s. Business man and Bookworm are two different, currently un named characters.

Air circulation and the pressure in the airplane cabin made hearing hard. But still if one listened, one could hear the faint tapping on a laptop keyboard coming from the middle of the plane. A few heads turned, to look at the man sitting in the aisle seat of row fifteen, but then turned back to their books, magazines, conversations, etc. He was un-interesting; another business man unable to afford first class seating. The bedraggled tweed suit he wore had seen better days, and his thick black rimmed glasses barely clung to his straight, sharp, nose. His dark, salt and pepper hair was cropped short, and he had a five o'clock shadow.

But one man did not look over at the obnoxious typing noise. He was sitting directly behind the business man, reading a very large book—more of a tome. A woman had the aisle seat of the same row, and her small daughter sat in the middle, fidgeting. Her blond pigtails kept whapping the bookworm in the face, and it irritated him so much that he shot a malevolent glare at the girl. She smiled back at him, the large grin making her look like a Cheshire cat.

"What book is that?" she asked. The man said the first thing that came to the top of his head, which happened to be,

"Killing-- er—how to kill someone with a gun. All about the wounds and such. Terribly grizly stuff." That was mistake number one. He could hardly mask the truth now.

"Is it interesting?" she asked.

"Yes, yes, very." he wanted to end the conversation before he made another mistake.

"Why?"

"Because it is."

"Why?"

"Its nice information to have."

"Its nice to know how to kill people?"

"Erm—No—the books also about what gunshot wounds do. I'm reading about this for school- I'm a med student." That was mistake number two for the bookworm, stuttering on facts that he would know as well as his own name. The businessman shut down his laptop, while the girl continued babbling to Bookworm.

"They make doctors learn about how to kill people? I didn't know that. I thought doctors learned about how to save people. That's why I want to be a doctor. Once, there was this girl at my school, and she had her appendix taken out. And she said she was gonna die if she didn't have it out, because the doctors said so. So they had to cut it out with a butcher knife, she said, and then once they had the appendix out they had the magical faeries come sew her up again. And then this other time there was this boy in my class who forgot to take his retainer out during lunch and so he started chocking on it, and all this blood came out and…"

Meanwhile, the business man carried his briefcase down the aisle towards the bathroom.

"S'cuse me, sorry—oh oops watch it!" he said, hitting people's various body parts with the briefcase as he tripped over the occasional stray foot. In the process, the ugly glasses fell off his nose and crunched as he stepped on him. But he just kept walking, and bumbling into people, without apparently noticing the lack of his glasses. Mistake number one for him.

He continued down the aisle and entered the bathroom. Bookworm looked over his shoulder, and then found an excuse to get away from the girl. He followed the business man, book in hand, and then disappeared from view, waiting behind the bathroom in the flight attendant area. He opened his book to page 100. Absolute classic-- a hole was cut in the x-ray proof pages of the book, concealing a gun. He pulled it out and waited, hiding it behind his jacket, and standing in front of the bathroom. But that was exactly when he made mistake number three. He was in front of the wrong stall.

Behind him, the business man stepped out of the stall—but now he had a clean shaven face, a black suit and tie, and a backpack on his back along with the brief case in his hand. In the other hand he held a wad of toilet paper, which as Bookworm spun around, Business man stuffed down the other's throat. Bookworm staggered, and then fell on the floor, dropping both gun and book as he chocked. The business man stepped to the back of the airplane, opened the door, and walked out into the night sky, managing to grab a small bottle of whiskey as he went.

As he fell, he chugged back the whiskey in the bottle, coughed once, and then popped his chute. A cell phone rang in his pocket; he pulled it out and answered.

"Hello. Joe Solomon here." someone said something on the other line, and then Mr. Solomon replied,

"No, I'm not drunk. Yet, that is." there was some more incoherent babbling, and then

"Yes, I always have something to drink before jumping out of a plane."

"No, I don't plan on passing out." The one sided conversation continued.

"Yes, I understand the mission. I'm no spring chicken, as you should well know."

"Yes, I'll try to bring them home safe. They don't need babying! Relax. They're fine." he rolled his eyes at the other party's next sentence.

"Knowing your daughter, I don't think she'd be with any 'indecent men'. Especially with Goode around. Honestly, how much can a mother worry?" she said something else, and then he said

"Hold on—I'll call you back once I've landed." He was coming close to the beach now, 20 feet away, then 15, and then he took of the chute, and dropped the last 10 feet, landing lightly on the sandy shore. The parachute sank slowly into the water and then dissolved. Mr. Solomon snapped open his phone as he walked away.

"Can you hear me now?"