5/4/13 AN: I didn't change much of anything since this chapter, in my opinion, is almost perfect. I realized a little time recap might be helpful since I've been skipping some periods that I don't consider crucial to the storyline, so here goes:

*Sookie moves home/Jason's death: early-mid May

*Eric and Sookie hook up at the hotel: late May

*The talk about being friends: early June

*Wine Festival: early July

Yes, I'm aware I skipped over some time, but nothing of significance happened. This chapter starts off at the immediate end of the last one, so nothing to be caught up on. Also, MissyDee is my savior. If not for her, I would still be staring at a blank line with no way to proceed. Her talent with lemons is unrivaled and you have her to thank for the citrus in this chapter. Enjoy…

SPOV

When I get home, I don't know exactly how to feel. The look on Eric's face haunts me and I can understand his frustration. To learn the reasons he thought I broke up with him were just veiled excuses for my weaknesses has to be hard. To be fair to myself though, the concerns that I voiced that night so long ago were valid. I had been scared that he'd get caught up in the fast-paced world of SEC football and forget about me. But I was more worried that I would neglect him in the pursuit of my own goals. My immature, inexperienced mind felt that I would lose him no matter what, so why not get it over with and do it on my terms? Teenaged me was a moron.

Ugh. My brain hurts. What the hell was Eric thinking, talking about marriage? If nothing had changed, if we had stayed together, would we be married or on the way to that point? What would life be like? I was never a girl to daydream about the perfect wedding or life as a wife and/or mother. Not that I had any objections to the practice, but being preoccupied with those events in my future just wasn't me. I close my eyes to try to picture it… and I can't.

I put my wine in the fridge and pour myself a glass of ice water to being to bed with me. I don't know if it's the wine, the sun, the conversation, or some combination of all of the above, but I feel ready to fall asleep standing. I don't even want to bother with pajamas since it's still hot and sticky, despite the being down. Stripping everything off, I slide between my fresh, cool sheets and I'm asleep before another conscious thought can float through my head.

I know I'm dreaming. I'm sitting on an unfamiliar couch in a strange living room holding a scrapbook I've never seen before. I can't stop my hand from opening the cover and at the sight of the picture taking up the first page, I'm faced with an essential truth:

My subconscious is a cruel bitch.

The semi-matte, clearly professional photograph has four people dressed to the nines. On the far left is Hadley in an elegant hunter green dress holding deep red, almost burgundy colored roses. On the far right is Jason, smiling in a vest and tie set that matches the color of Hadley's dress, a proud smile lighting up his face. In the center are Eric and me. I'm in a refurbished, redesigned version of Momma's wedding dress and holding a bouquet of fire and ice roses; Eric in a black suit with white-on-white vest and tie with a boutonniere that matches my bouquet. But while Hadley and Jason are looking at the camera, Eric and I only have eyes for each other.

I know I'm sleeping, that this is a dream, but I feel my heart breaking regardless. If I had been with Eric when I came home from Chicago, Jason wouldn't have been out on the road that terrible night. Although I know it's a ludicrous connection, I can't stop the guilt. My bad decision, so long ago, has changed or ruined so many things.

My dream hand, unaffected by my conscience, continues to flip though the album. It's surreal to see pictures from your wedding when nothing close to similar has even happened. I see shots of me dancing with Daddy and Eric with Trena. There's even a funny one of Pam and Jason dancing together, both looking slightly uncomfortable.

I don't know what my subconscious is trying to punish me for. The more I flip though pages, the more shared milestones I see: Eric and I standing in front of a house I've never seen next to a realtor's sign reading "SOLD". Eric in a blazer and jeans, surrounded by uniformed, screaming, sweaty teenagers, all of their hands participating in holding up a gigantic trophy. There are pages torn out of a magazine; apparently I try my hand at writing fiction again and it gets published. I try to look closer to the words but only see indecipherable squiggles. I turn the page and see a set of pictures that rock me to my sleeping core.

There are ten pictures of me, standing in profile, wearing the same shirt in each picture. In the first picture, I don't look much different than I do now; maybe slightly older, but not by much. The following two photos look almost identical. The clothes are the same, but my hair is slightly longer in each and the handwritten dates below each are the same illegible squiggles, but I somehow know they were taken exactly a month apart. The fourth picture is where I notice the changes: I can see the shirt from the three previous shots is noticeably clingier and starting to show a defined swelling at my middle. My dream self is unaffected; I feel my lips curling into a smile as I run "my" fingers over the photographic evidence of "my" pregnancy. Each progressive month the bump is noticeably larger until the final picture where I look almost as wide as I am tall. Damn Eric and his mutant Gigantor genes.

I turn the page and see a full page picture of possibly the two most beautiful, identical babies I have ever seen. Apparently Peyton Michael and Joseph Mitchell were born two days after that final picture was taken. My sleeping chest stutters for breath. This is a dream. This. Is. Not. Real. I try to wake myself up, but can't.

The rest of the photos are of the babies as they grow, mementos of those events like tiny locks of blond hair and itty-bitty little handprints. Pictures of napping babies on a sleeping Daddy's chest. Snapshots of first steps and documenting of each baby's first word. I don't know how much more that I can take when I hear something behind me and close the album.

"Hey, Beautiful. I dropped the boys off with your mom and dad. We have the whole weekend to ourselves," the voice almost growls and only one man has ever made me feel like this with just his voice alone. I turn, look up, and feel myself get weak.

The Eric before me in my dream is older, as I assume I am, but still just as distractingly handsome as he is now. He holds none of the boyish immaturity that I can still see in some of his features and expressions. His brilliant blue eyes, however, can still light up with devilish delight in knowing that we are alone and can do what we want.

Okay… I think I'm just fine with staying in the dream for a little while longer.

He lifts the scrapbook off my lap and places it on the couch next to me before taking my hand and helping me to my feet. Towing me along, he walks backwards down apparently well-known hallways until we reach the bedroom. I see both of our tastes melded perfectly: the light wood bed and furniture that I love, with bedding and linens having hints of the red and blue that are his favorites. As soon as we pass through the door into the sunny room, he's attacking my clothing and it's the first thing about this dream that feels real.

My t-shirt is roughly pulled over my head and Eric's lips attach to mine, kissing me with a passion that I haven't felt in so long. I haven't been kissed with equal parts love and lust in five years. I open my mouth for him and his tongue slides in over mine, tasting every inch and letting me swallow his groans. His large hands cup my ass and pull me tight against him, letting me feel just how happy he is for some private time. I slide my hands under his shirt and up his abdomen, pleased to feel that he is just as in shape as he is now. We separate just long enough to pull his shirt off to join mine of the floor and we become fused at the mouth again.

Our hands work simultaneously on the other's pants and I'm cursing the invention of button-fly jeans. Somehow, we eventually get each other undressed to our underwear and I'm already panting. It's been just less than a month and a half since our time in the hotel room, and although that was definitely fun, it has nothing on the love and passion that I feel in this dream.

Slowly, sensuously, he unclasps my bra and slides it gently from my body. His fingers whisper over the sides of my breasts and I feel my skin erupt in goose bumps from the gentle touch. He runs only his fingertips over my exposed skin: cheeks, neck, collar bone and shoulders, down my arms to my wrists, switching to his palms and running them up, over my stomach and ribs, the valley between my breasts, his eyes never leaving mine. "I hope you didn't have any other plans for this weekend, Lover, because I don't have any intention of letting you leave this bedroom," he says huskily. Leaning in, he whisper-growls against my ear. "If I have my way, you won't be able to walk straight regardless."

I feel my panties get wet at the vibrations of his voice and the plans he has for us. He dips his large, rough hands under the waistband and gently pushes my panties to the floor. I break the kiss again to move to the bed. Lying on my back I beckon him to me as I let my legs lazily fall to the sides. Eric is on me in seconds. With a growl his mouth latches onto my left breast. His eyes are darker than their usual brilliant sapphire and filled with lust. The midnight blue is blazing as he looks up at me. The amount of fierce, undying passion in that gaze sends chills throughout my body, even in the sticky summer heat.

I run my fingers through his hair, holding him to my chest as he moves to my right breast. Eric runs his soft tongue from the underside of my soft, fleshy mound to my nipple, drawing light circles before sucking me through his teeth. I have to break our stare momentarily, the feeling that rockets through my body causes me to close my eyes briefly. I start to rock my hips, searching for some sort of friction when he sucks harder. When I look down at him again his eyes are closed. He's completely lost in the pleasure he's giving me.

"Baby, come up here," I coo, tugging lightly on his hair.

His eyes slowly open and again I'm struck by the passion filling his burning gaze. He trails slow, strategic, open mouthed kisses from my breast to my lips, never once looking away. Everything about him is so new, yet so familiar. The way his wet tongue swirls over my skin, the way his hips settle between my thighs and he unconsciously flexes. His eyes devouring mine and his hands ghosting over my body. Eric has always had a way of making me feel like I'm the most beautiful girl in the world. When he looks at me like this it's like no one else exists. He sees into my soul. He knows my deepest, darkest secrets and loves me anyway. He always has; even with my faults and weaknesses, Eric accepts me for who I am. He fell in love with the sassy teenage girl that challenged him and made him work for her affections. When Eric looks at me like this it takes me to a place in time where the only thing that mattered was how are we going to get time alone? Not just for sex, but for a quiet, undisturbed embrace by the one person that makes you feel complete. Eric makes me feel whole.

I let my eyes close and allow him to show me with his gentle, yet rough touch just what I mean to him. His hands are everywhere at once. Ghosting over the sides of my breasts; running the pads of his thumbs over my hardened nipples. His feather light touch dances down my sides, gripping my hips to cease my rocking.

"Slow down, Love, we have all night," he whispers against my lips. He's right - we do. I want – no – need to feel more of him against me, inside of me, consuming me.

He pulls his head back and I can feel him watching my face as he slides his hand between our bodies. His heavy erection is resting on my inner thigh and I moan softly when his middle finger runs up my slit, swirling around my opening.

"Is this what my girl needs?" he asks as he starts to push his finger inside of me. "Mmm, look at that beautiful face. Open your eyes, Lover." My eyes snap open and he gives me that devastatingly gorgeous smile.

"Kiss me," I plead and he does. He removes his hand and lines his tip up with my opening. His tongue sweeps into my mouth at the same time his thick cock pushes into me. It feels like home. This Eric and I have belonged to each other like this for years, years that I stupidly, foolishly, selfishly lost. Dream me has gotten to hold onto him every single day. The me that lives in reality knows that no matter how many women have fallen into his bed or how many late, lonely nights I've spent studying, our hearts have been screaming for each other. Eric and I both know no one can ever dare to compete.

Eric's thrusts are slow and deliberate. He's making sure I feel every inch of him driving into me. Every ounce of love and passion… lust… I feel it in his kiss, see it in his eyes. He's blanketing me in his emotions and it's almost suffocating me. I love it though; I'm breathing him in and letting out deep, throaty moans every time he pulls out only to swiftly thrust back in. He's getting so deep, hitting every spot. He knows my body so well; he knows what it takes to give me the release he thinks I deserve.

I feel my release building. My breathing is getting heavier; my legs are hiked up around his ribs. Eric's hips piston faster. Our bodies are covered in a light sheen of sweat, allowing us to slide against each other with ease. As I start to come undone Eric reaches his end, slamming into me one, two, three times. He's swallowing my moans as our kisses get more uncoordinated, but so full of passion. He pulls his head back and collapses on top of me with a groan as he gently pulls out of me, his lips find my neck and I revel in his weight on top of me, making me feel so safe in his embrace.

The cool sheets stick to my sweaty, aching, overheated body, waking me. I sit up to look at my clock and realize it's far too early to wake up on a Sunday… but I also know there's no way I would be able to get back to sleep.

I can't remember specific details from the dream upon regaining consciousness. There was marriage, babies, togetherness, and a partnership… love. A whole life that I had a chance to have and threw away with both hands. I never thought that being a wife or a mother would appeal to me the way it does now, but not with just any man. I want the man that challenges me, fights me, teases me, infuriates me, makes me laugh, and ultimately still knows me better than anyone I've been intimate with before and after him.

I physically ache with the emotions and sensations left over from the dream. I know sex with Eric is fantastic, but I miss the feeling of making love. Being worshipped, having every inch of my skin caressed until my whole body is an erogenous zone. To be worked up passionately and intimately tuned to feeling not only physical pleasure but emotional satisfaction. Completion.

Flopping back on my pillows, I cover my eyes with my hands as the realizations hit me. I. Fucked. Up. This dream life that I never knew I wanted had been right in front of me and I gave it up. I can blame my immaturity, but that's not a valid excuse. I think about Jason's letter. He knew. He knew me so much better than I know myself and I can't think of anything I wouldn't give to have him here with me for one more hour. I need his guidance more than ever and pain and guilt shudder through me.

I try to shake it off and get dressed in my comfy usuals if I'm not going anywhere: yoga shorts and one of Jason's old t-shirts knotted at my waist. Barefoot, I pad out to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee if I'm going to be awake at this ungodly hour that the sun doesn't even rise to see. While it brews, I go back to bring Jason's letter to the table. The whole sentiment behind it moves me, but one line in particular hangs in my mind.

Since you've moved back, you're getting another chance.

EPOV

I hoped the wine would make me sleepy, but it doesn't. I'm not surprised; beer and liquor hasn't ever worked either. This staying-awake-all-night shit has to end sometime. Apparently though, it's not going to end tonight.

I'm not in the mood for company after spending the afternoon and evening with Sookie, being friends. Even in my mind, I can't help sneering over the word. I want her in my life, and if all she's willing to offer is her friendship, so be it. Doesn't mean I have to be entirely happy about it though. I turn my phone off and plug it into the charger after making a reminder to follow up on the trainer position. Having a goal might help me turn off the thoughts and restlessness that keep me awake night after night.

That thought sparks another and I feel stupid for not taking advantage of it sooner. The subdivision my condo is in has a three-mile track circling the neighborhood. I immediately head to my room to pull on jogging shorts and my running shoes. I have wallowed for long enough. If I want to get back into the shape I was in a short seven months ago, the work starts now. I haven't entirely let myself go, but I can feel the effects of my Ron Jeremy workout regime when I start jogging on the sparsely lit trail in the middle of the night.

Temperature wise, I couldn't have picked a better time. With the sun down, it's considerably cooler than during the day and while still humid, the air doesn't feel as sticky or solid. By the end of the third mile I'm huffing, but I push myself. Six miles used to be nothing and damn it, I'm not going to let myself turn into a tubby couch potato just because things haven't gone the way I wanted them to.

When I finish the second lap of the track, I lock my hands behind my head and take the long way to walk back to my condo. On my porch I do a few more stretches to help cool my body down before going in. Setting a goal to get to three laps before the end of August, I strip my soaked clothes off and head in to take a cool shower.

I glance at the clock as I leave the bathroom. Five AM and I am exhausted to the point of near pain. It feels fantastic. I toss the towel in the laundry that I mentally remind myself has to be done when I wake up and slide into bed.

BANG BANG BANG

Oh, what the fuck is this? I'm almost asleep before sunrise for the first time in months and some asshole has to knock on my door? I grab a random pair of jeans and pull them on before threatening the life of the shithead who is disturbing my peace; it's hard to be intimidating naked. Growling and muttering to myself down the hall, I all but scream "WHAT?!" when I fling the door open. The fury dies instantly.

It's Sookie.

AN: Like I said, not many changes here. BTW, the babies names are: Peyton (Manning: UT quarterback before heading to the NFL) Michael (middle name of paternal grandfather) and Joseph (Pulitzer – award for exceptional journalism) Mitchell (middle name of maternal grandfather). Just thought I'd clarify the connections.