AN: I am so pleased that people are out there reading my story. I honestly didn't expect to get a single review. So, to all of you lovely, generous people, thank you for reading, reviewing and adding me/this story to an author/story alert.
Special thanks to 'MadeOfStars', 'Nedra1212' and 'Atelerix' for telling me what works - I hope I don't lose you with this next chapter – it had the potential to spiral out of all control.
Story Note: Booth is getting better and the things that came easily to him before his surgery are becoming easy again. He's not fully recovered (the man recently underwent brain surgery!) but he starts to trust that he'll find himself again.
I promised some sexual tension – not sure if what I've written works in the context of the story and its tone...but, hey, it was fun to write.
Please be aware that this chapter includes adult language and situations of a sexual nature...it's not 'M' rated stuff, but I wanted to alert you in case this isn't your thing.
If you have the time let me know what you think. Thanks again.
Silentium Amoris - Oscar Wilde
As often-times the too resplendent sun And as at dawn across the level mead But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won
A single ballad from the nightingale,
So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.
On wings impetuous some wind will come,
And with its too harsh kisses break the reed
Which was its only instrument of song,
So my too stormy passions work me wrong,
And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.
Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;
Else it were better we should part, and go,
Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,
And I to nurse the barren memory
Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.
FBI Headquarters: Hoover Building
Booth loosened his pink tie and removed the tanned leather gun holster that had rested heavily against him all day. He figured he could relax his dress code seeing as the clock on his office wall had just ticked past eight o'clock. The thick, warm, air still swirled about him but it wasn't as stifling as it had been earlier in the day. The damage was done though - the heat had wearied him and made it so that concentrating on the report in front of him was a matter of sheer determination. His once crisp white shirt felt uncomfortably damp against his skin and he tried not to think about how great it would feel to kick off his shoes and socks. Reasoning that this would perhaps stretch the flexibility of the FBI dress code an inch too far, he put the thought right out of his mind.
He focused again on the paperwork in front of him. Rios and O'Hanlon had worked hard to draw together all the current strands of known facts and open lines of inquiry pertaining to the "Jackrabbit" serial killer case. Forensic evidence was as yet unable to confirm that the injuries sustained by the four known victims were made by the same weapon or weapons or even if it was likely that the same person had inflicted those injuries but forensic psychological profiling and tried and tested FBI gut instinct indicated that they were on the trail of a serial killer.
Booth looked over the victim list again and sighed. Each name represented a horrific waste of a young life - the blunt, heartless end to all possibilities. Losing a loved one in such circumstances left a person with no time to adjust, no time to say goodbye – the person they loved was wrenched from their grasp, their orbit, and there was nothing to fill the void but time. He drew a circle around the final name on the list: "Maisy Novak (9yrs) from Kalorama, D.C.". The killer had seemingly deviated from type. Maisy was a child and seven years younger than the next youngest victim. Did this signify that the killer didn't have a type, that the earlier murders were linked only by coincidence, or was there something about Maisy in particular which had caused the sicko to take her? Was the killer only interested in girls and women or would he or she (Booth would bet the house that it was a man) branch out and target boys and men? Ted Bundy, although typically targeting females aged between 15 to 25 years, also killed a 12 year old and 13 year old girl and Donald Henry Gaskins and David Berkowitz didn't limit their rage to one sex. Booth unconsciously worked the muscle in his cheek - there was just no way of telling – hell, he considered, there could be more bodies out there that they didn't know about.
If he deferred to FBI established wisdom, the killer was a white, lower or middle class, man of above average intelligence who was likely targeting white women between the ages of 18 and 50. The women would be strangers to him. There would be a sexual element to the crimes, although this may not be obvious – nonetheless, the killer would have specific sexual interests that motivated him to select the four victims whose names stared back at Booth.
Vic # 1 = Heather Franks (19yrs) – Aberdeen, South Dakota
Vic #2 = Carrie-Ann Kennedy (17yrs) – Carson City, Nevada (body found in Chicago)
Vic #3 = Chrissy Drake (16yrs) – Anacostia, D.C.
Vic #4 = Maisy Novak (9yrs) – Kalorama, D.C.
Aside from the fact that the victims were all female, it was too soon to discern a pattern. Maisy was significantly younger than the other three victims and Carrie-Ann was the only girl abducted and then moved out of state. Heather Franks and Chrissy Drake were cheerleaders...Booth ran his hands through his hair and swore under his breath. He could stare at the report all night but the truth was that unless Bones and her team of squints uncovered something, his guys got lucky, or the killer struck again, the trail was cold.
Booth sat and stared at the page for a while longer before slamming the file shut and walking out of his office. He walked the corridor to the small communal kitchen and on the way noticed that only O'Hanlon was still working. The other desks were empty. He could be mean-spirited and cynical and put the young agent's dedication down to the fact that he was new to the job and keen to make the right impression but Booth didn't think that's what kept him behind. The man cared. He was driven to try and right wrongs and protect those that couldn't protect themselves. It was that same determination that kept Booth working into the early hours of the morning on a regular basis.
Reaching the kitchen, he tapped the back of his hand against the glass coffee pot and then deciding that it was still just warm enough, he emptied the last of the stale coffee into his mug. He stared longingly at the vending machine to his right – any kind of cold soda would rock his world but the machine was bust. A paranoid man might conclude that the vending machine was in league with the broken air conditioning system. Booth drank the tepid, metallic, liquid down in a few gulps and then filled the mug with water from the faucet. He drank the mug dry and refilled it twice more before his thirst abated. Now that he was no longer thirsty, he realised that he was ravenous. Rows of potato chips and cookies taunted him through the glass front of the vending machine and he turned away and headed back to his office before he did something he'd regret.
The rain came then. It pounded mercilessly against the windows; he felt the crackle of electricity in the air and the temperature, if anything seemed to ratchet up a degree or two. Booth couldn't bear it any longer and he abandoned his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. He looked at his watch: it was 8:23 and he wondered if Bones had left the Jeffersonian yet.
Of course he'd apologised - sort of. He called Bones a few minutes after Angela had left his office. He made small talk before telling her that he needed to run by her the latest development in the case. He hadn't actually said the words "I'm sorry" but he knew that she understood what his call meant. It was their way. They didn't need to say the words when all it took was one of them to make the first move. He called her. He made the first move. Once the initial tension ebbed away, he had even managed to make her laugh at one of his asinine jokes. When she'd laughed, he pictured her falling back in her office chair, head cast back, eyes shining with laughter and he started to laugh, too. When Bones found something really amusing she laughed with her whole being, she surrendered her body to it and Booth wished he was there to see her let go. When the laughter subsided she told him that she would drop by his office on her way home later that evening. He knew he was forgiven.
It was perhaps twenty minutes later when Booth sensed that he was being watched. He looked up from his computer to see Bones standing in the doorway.
"I come bearing gifts." She grinned, holding up two plastic bags.
"What did you bring me?" He smiled, his train of thought derailed in an instant. She had fixed her long hair into a ponytail and the few strands of hair which were too short to fasten fell in soft, wavy wisps and framed her beautiful face. He swallowed - his mouth suddenly dry again.
"All kinds of good things." She smiled and moved away from the doorframe, into his office. She shrugged out of her white coat and carefully hung it on the coat rack, careful not to touch the soaking wet outer layer.
"Sounds intriguing." He smiled back, raising an eyebrow.
"Tell me what you want more than anything else in the world right now?"
He resisted telling her the obvious – that he wanted to lift her onto his desk and hold her, breathe her in, until the world spun unnoticed all around them.
"Okay. I'd have to go with a cold soda, a Klondike Bar and some Wong Foo's – though not necessarily in that order."
Brennan walked over to him and deposited the two bags onto one of the chairs in front of his desk. She sat down in the other and began to sort through the contents of the bags. Booth knew without her telling him that she'd brought Thai food and his stomach lurched hungrily as the amazingly gorgeous smells wafted in his direction.
"Okay, so I can satisfy two of your wishes." She pulled out an assortment of cartons from one of the bags and presented him with chopsticks. "I also have soda." He took the ice-cold Pepsi from her and opened it. He drank a few greedy gulps before setting the can down and looking at the cartons.
"Go on. Eat. No doubt you've not eaten anything since lunchtime."
"Try this morning." He said opening the carton nearest to him and flinching a little as the steam escaped from within and burned the pad of his thumb.
"You need to take care of yourself better, Booth."
"Hmm! Look who's talking. Aren't you the same woman who regularly works long into the night without a break?" Booth said munching on a mouthful of Pad See Ew.
"Fine. I'll give you that. But I eat."
"Only cause Angela makes you." He challenged and brushed away a drizzle of oyster sauce that tickled his chin. "So, he said reaching for a tofu filled lettuce wrap, what else did you bring?"
"Given the air conditioning situation, I thought you might like ice cream but they were out of Klondike Bars and so I got cherry popsicles instead. I hope you like those...I wasn't sure."
"Wow. Thanks, Bones! We better eat up before they melt. It's still like a zillion degrees in here."
"You're being sarcastic." She stated and he smiled at her need to voice the obvious. "Besides, they won't melt."
"They won't?" Booth questioned as he took another healthy bite of his lettuce wrap.
"No. I came prepared." Brennan placed a light blue cooler on his desk and then reached for a tofu wrap.
"Bones, tell me you don't use that for transporting or storing body parts!" He stopped chewing and looked at her, part horrified and part amused.
"Relax, Booth. It's my cooler. I had it in the trunk of my car and I can promise that the scariest thing that's been in it is my home-made vegetable chilli."
"Just asking..." He watched her take a mouthful of her wrap and then looked away, concentrating hard on the clock on the wall and the persistent drumming of the rain as she licked some chilli oil from the base of her index finger. Since when couldn't he eat a simple meal with her without reading something sensual or sexual into her every gesture? He flicked his attention back to her and cursed his own lousy timing. He watched mesmerized as she closed her eyes as she swallowed a mouthful of the wrap. "Mmmm", she sighed and it was all he could do to remain in his chair and not leap over the desk and pull her to him. "Get your mind out the gutter, Seeley!"
Booth would swear, if not for the fact that Bones didn't seem the type to play those kinds of games, that she was torturing him on purpose. She speared a chunk of pineapple from the fragrant rice they were sharing and he couldn't help but stare as she took a bite causing juice to roll along the length of the chopsticks she held loosely in her hand. The liquid dripped down the side of her elegant hand and Booth held his breath as she traced the clear line of juice with her tongue. He loved that she ate exactly what she liked and didn't pull that girly crap of pretending that she only ate salad leaves and didn't ever tuck into a proper meal. But on this occasion he wished she was devouring sexless salad leaves and not soft, ripe, fruit.
By the time the cartons were empty, Booth was totally distracted. He helped her tidy the boxes back into the bag and then squashed the bulky mass into the metal bin by the side of his desk.
"Time for popsicles." Brennan said as she went to open the cooler.
"You know, I don't think I could eat another thing, Bones." He said resting back in his chair and tried to adjust to the feeling of being uncomfortably full.
"It's just ice and some additive-rich fruit juice. However, I'm not surprised - you did eat most of the wraps and the rice."
"Hey! You ate all the mango salad."
"You don't even like mango salad." She shot back and then smiled as she caught his mock-innocent expression.
"Will they keep for a little while longer?"
"Sure. I've packed the cooler with plenty of ice blocks. Is that the case file?" Brennan pointed to the closed folder that rested against his keyboard. They both knew which case she referred to.
His good mood evaporated as he picked up the file and handed it to her.
"Yeah. So...did Hodgins have any luck pulling trace evidence from the last girl?" He just couldn't bear to assign a name to the collection of bones that the "girl" had become. Instead, he focused on the image of the pretty, smiling little girl that shone from the photograph that her grieving parents had given to the FBI shortly after she was taken. It was the Maisy that he wanted to remember. It was the Maisy that he wanted to avenge so badly that it threatened to overwhelm him.
"No. We discovered some fibres but they matched the clothing she was wearing at the time she disappeared. Hodgins didn't find anything out of the ordinary and certainly nothing to tie her to her killer." She scanned the file and then wrinkled her nose; he was sure that a question was to follow.
"Why is the file headed up "Jackrabbit: #001769"?"
"The first vic was a cheerleader for the local college football team, the South Dakota Jackrabbits."
"Is that really how the FBI assigns a case name? It seems very random."
"It doesn't really matter what it's called – it's just a shorthand way of referencing a case – who'd remember case file #001769?"
"You just did." She said simply.
"Well, that's because I've been staring at that thing all day. Ask me tomorrow and I'll have forgotten the numbers." He sensed that Brennan didn't believe him but she understood the point he was making.
"You know", she continued, "it was long thought that the European Brown Hare engaged in inter-male competition...hares were observed striking one another with their paws...but on closer inspection is was revealed that it's usually the females that strike the males, either to show that they aren't ready to mate or as a test of the male's determination."
"Speaking of random..." He chuckled.
"It's not random. A Jackrabbit is a hare. I told you something relevant." He doubted he'd ever seen her pout before.
"Is it relevant to the case, which is what we were discussing?"
"Well...no...but."
"But...you like to educate me whenever you get the chance, right?" He sat forward, placing his elbows on the top of his desk and rested his chin in his hands.
"You can never know too much." She smiled shyly as he fixed her with his best charm smile.
"Okay, 'teach'...tell me something else."
"A similar pattern of behaviour is evident in the..." Her voice died as his dimly lit office was suddenly bathed in white light. The flash lasted a second or two and then Booth heard the deep, rumbling of a thunderclap.
"Wow! I guess that's the storm you said was coming." He said as the next bolt of lightning sliced through the horizontal blinds. He watched, awestruck, as the thunderstorm delivered her into the light.
She looked so beautiful. He longed to run his hand along her cheek and bring his index finger to rest under her pretty chin, he wanted to lean in closer...to tilt her mouth towards his own...to be so wonderfully close to her. He swallowed and suddenly, despite his every effort, he remembered the way she had felt in his arms, the way she moved beneath him, on top of him, as he'd kissed her with everything he had.
She was talking to him but her words were lost to the storm and he was grateful for it. He couldn't have answered her if he tried. He thought he was getting better, that his coma-dream was finally losing its grip. He didn't want to confuse the woman in his dream with the woman who now sat opposite him. He couldn't and wouldn't do that. She was Bones, his Bones. So, he'd never touched her in that way...God, how he wanted to touch her in that way...but that didn't mean that he never would, right? He had to believe that they were possible. Taking solace in his dream was a temporary fix, a fleeting high, and as he continued to look at her, he realised that his dream would never live up to the reality of her. If he was ever blessed enough to take Bones into his bed, he knew, deep down, that she would be so much more than the woman in his dreams.
"It's really coming down out there. Let's look." Bones jumped to her feet and rushed over to the window. She pulled up the blinds and pressed her face to the glass. Booth followed and soon they were both leaning forward, faces touching the cool glass panes as they watched the bright lightning slice into the inky-blue night sky.
"Bones", he said softly, as he watched another flash of light illuminate the surrounding buildings, "tell me something about lightening."
"Temperatures in the path of a lightning bolt can reach as high as 50,000 degrees Fahrenheit." She said, without seemingly needing to think.
"What else?" He said twisting his head against the glass so that he could make out her profile.
"A million volts of artificial lightning can be made in a laboratory by an instrument called a Van de Graaff static electricity generator."
"Huh." He said as he tried to fathom how on earth she knew so much about so many different things. Pops was right; she'd clean up on a game show.
"Booth?"
"Yeah."
"Tell me something about lightning." She moved closer to him, so close that he could smell traces of her perfume and whatever heavenly shampoo she used. Think, Seeley. Think!
"Okay. I have something. Florida is the lightning capital of the United States." He announced proudly.
He snuck another look at her. "But, you knew that already, right?"
"Yes."
"Fine, here's something else: lightning bolts travel at speeds of up to 60,000 miles per second."
"Really?"
"Bones, you knew that, too! You don't need to humour me. I'm a big boy; I'm comfortable with the fact that you know more than me about...well almost every subject under the sun."
"You know more about the really important stuff, Booth." She said quietly and before he could ask what she meant, she hit him with another fact.
"A single lightning bolt travels through twisted paths in the air that can be as wide as one of your fingers or from six to ten miles." She turned her head and looked at him.
"So beautiful." He whispered as he watched another burst of light flicker in her brilliant blue-green eyes. He wasn't complimenting Mother Nature on her light show - and he wondered if Bones had realised that. She looked away and he saw her breathing hitch, just a little. Oh yeah, she knew.
"I got another one for ya, Bones: about 71 per cent of all people struck by lightning survive."
"That's more than I thought." She turned back to look at the view outside.
"Close, Bones, but no cigar." He grinned; she was such a terrible liar.
"I don't know what that means."
"It means that I know that you knew about that statistic. You're humouring me again, Bones."
"I am most certainly not 'humouring you'. I didn't know that."
"I know you're lying to me. So why don't you just admit it." He said playfully.
"You don't know anything of the sort. I happen to be telling the truth."
"Okay. Look at me. Look me in the eye and I'll be the judge of whether you're lying or not."
She pulled back from the window and placed her hands on her hips and lifted her eyes to meet his. It took him all of a second to know that he'd read her correctly. She was doing her very best to hold his enquiring stare but she broke first, just as he knew she would, and laughed.
"You think you know me so well, don't you?" She huffed but her tone assured him that she wasn't mad at him.
"I think I know you pretty well, yeah. Well enough to know when you're lying to me."
"So what gave me away? Tonal quality or perhaps it was something about my posture..."
"Hey, a magician doesn't give away his tricks."
She rolled her eyes and tried to look nonchalant but he could tell that it bothered her. She wanted to know his secret.
"It's not just one thing, Bones. Sure, there are a few tell-tale cues that I can easily pick up on but mostly I rely on what I feel. If I want to know if some guy killed his wife and then tossed her off a bridge somewhere, I try and put myself in his position. I try to figure out how he might think or feel if he had to lie to cover up his crime compared to how he might act if he were telling the truth...if he had nothing to hide. Once I have this straight in my mind, I look for behavioural indicators of those thoughts or feelings."
"Give me an example." She said taking in his every word.
"You're not going to let this drop are you? Okay. Come on, let's sit down and I'll try something on you." He followed behind her, his hand placed lightly on her lower back.
He cleared a space on his desk so that there was nothing blocking his view of her. He thought she looked a little nervous, intrigued also, but she was definitely on edge. This was going to be too easy but he wasn't about to let her know that.
"Okay, Bones. Now, I want you to think of something that you don't want me to know and something that you don't care if I know. It has to be something personal, something that you really don't want me to know, okay? I want you to tell me both things. You decide whether you tell me the true fact or story first or last."
"How personal does this 'thing' have to be?"
"I'll leave that for you to decide."
"This feels like a trick." She said uncertainly.
"Then don't play." He winked at her. She sat up straight in the chair and placed her hands on the desk. He could see her trying to come up with something to test him with. He knew that she wouldn't back away from a competition.
"You know, Booth, you don't know me as well as you think. Besides, I doubt you've interrogated someone with my intelligence before and clever people make better liars."
She was trying to stare him down or maybe goad him into a game of chicken. Pops was right again – the woman had a pair of steel ovaries. He wondered what it was that she thought she had up her sleeve.
"Sure, smart people, like you for instance, maintain the consistency of lies better than your average Joe, but really all smart people do is drag things out a little longer. Dumb or smart, people crack all the same. So, you got something for me, yet?"
"Don't rush me, Booth."
"Fine. Fine. I'll tell you what; I'll help myself to a popsicle while you think of something."
He bit off the top of the still mostly frozen treat and let the ice melt on his tongue. And he waited. He had the distinct impression that she was sizing him up. She was wondering how far she should go. He knew for certain that her admissions would be sexual in nature because she figured, mistakenly, that he couldn't handle it when she went there. She wanted to unbalance him. He took another bite and he waited some more.
"I'm ready." She said and leaned forward in her chair, trying to show him that she wasn't scared of him, that she felt in control.
"Lay it on me, Bones." He kept his voice even and he too leaned forward, matching her stance.
She waited a beat before speaking. He recognised this for the ploy that it was. She was trying to shock him, hit him with it just when he thought she was going to back out.
"When we first became partners I fantasised about having sex with you on this desk." She said simply. Her voice was clear, colourless and she'd planned it that way.
Her eyes met his and she didn't blink. He could tell that she was torn between tamping down all emotion, eliminating all expression and yet she wanted to know how her words had affected him. And, damn, how her words had affected him. But somehow he was able to slip into Special Agent mode – maybe because he wanted to know more, to know if this was the true admission or maybe it was because he wanted to prove to her that he was back. That he had regained his balance again. The chicken guy that pulled the wool over his eyes was but a distant memory, a blip against an otherwise flawless record. He wanted her to know this. He wanted her to know that she could trust him to manage this element of their partnership.
Booth ran through his mental checklist. Bones wasn't displaying any of the tell-tale signs common to liars. She wasn't fidgeting or sweating. She wasn't avoiding eye contact. Her pupils weren't dilated and the pitch of her voice had been even.
"What are you thinking?" She asked in that same monotone voice.
"I'm thinking that one of the reasons liars succeed is that the person listening doesn't really want to know the truth. Sometimes we hear what we want to hear."
"Smart - are you telling me what I want to hear, Booth?"
"Maybe. I guess when I work out whether you're lying or not, I'll have my answer and you'll have yours. Bones, tell me more. How many times did you fantasise about fucking me on my desk?" He purposely cursed, hoping to knock her concentration.
"I lost count." He smiled, she was good.
"Fine. Tell me; in your fantasy, were you on top...probably, right?" He registered a flicker of surprise in her eyes but to her credit, she recovered quickly.
"Sometimes. My 'fantasy you' seemed to like it. " Oh, she was really good. But he was better. Interrogation skills 101: push your subject for particulars. The more minutiae a liar has to provide, the more likely they are to slip up and get caught in a lie.
"I want to know when you last thought about me in that way. Did all your fantasies take place at night, when everyone had left for home, or did we go at it day and night? I want to know what fantasies stick out in your mind - what are your favourites. I want details. Tell me everything. "
He listened impassively as she began to speak. He had to hand it to her, she didn't blush once. When she finished he regretted not having listened to every single syllable so that he could play her words back over and over as he lay alone in bed that evening - instead he'd divided his time between listening and watching her. If he was still a betting man, he would bet that she was lying. Not every word was untrue but her statement was essentially a lie. Of course, until he heard her second admission, he wouldn't know for sure.
"Okay, Bones. I have all the information I need. What's the second thing?"
"Can I take a break? I'm entitled to ask for a comfort break, right?"
"Sure. I don't want you claiming police brutality. Can I get you a glass of water?" He said with mock concern.
"No. A Popsicle will be just fine." She almost broke into a smile but recovered at the last moment.
"Are we okay to proceed?" He questioned as she raised the red ice to her lips.
"Yes."
Another flash of lightning temporarily lit his office and he saw that the cherry flavour had bled onto her lips, turning them scarlet. He struggled to keep his focus. "Hit me with it, Bones." He said as assuredly as he could manage.
"The last time I had sex, I spent the entire time thinking about another man." This time there was a definite inflection in her tone. He knew that she was unaware of it.
He could tell that she was uncomfortable maintaining eye contact and he almost let her off the hook...almost. But damn, he wanted to impress her - he was going to confirm her truth and reject her lie and she would know for sure that he was running at full speed again.
He forced himself to ignore the many questions that popped into his head - top of the list: was the man you were sleeping with, Hacker? Closely followed by: are you still sleeping with my boss? He got up from his chair and pushed it underneath the desk. Resting his hands at his waist, he tucked his thumbs under the top of his leather belt and ran through his checklist once more. His eyes never left hers.
Ordinarily, if someone was reluctant to make eye contact, it signalled that they were trying to deceive him but he didn't think this was the case with Bones. She didn't want to hold his stare because she was concerned that he would see the truth in her eyes. He wasn't going to ask her if he was that 'other man', he knew he was – this was the truth she couldn't conceal and because of this her admission also had to be true.
He felt as though a piece of him that had been lost suddenly was within his reach. He understood how people worked again. He'd been gaining in confidence in the interrogation room and earlier he'd knocked Angela off balance (something he definitely wasn't proud of) but he knew that if he could read Bones correctly, then he could read anyone.
"I have to hand it to you, Bones, you're a much better liar than I gave you credit for. It was smart to weave in some truth with your lie, it made the whole thing more plausible but I know the answer."
"I know you do. I can read you, too." She said looking at her hands.
The energy between them changed in an instant. He waited a second or two and she looked at him again. She didn't look annoyed, pissed that he'd won their dangerous little game, she looked unsure of herself, exposed, and that's when he knew that he wouldn't push her any further.
She might not love him but he now saw that her attraction to him was still there. Despite everything they had been through, she wanted him too. He wouldn't force her over the line that they'd observed these past years. They both had to want to let go, give in, or it wasn't going to work. They were right back where they started and for the first time in months he felt the stirring, energising, promise of hope.