Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"Is it dry?" The question just pops out of her, unbidden.

His face is blank. "Is it dry? Is what dry?"

"The page. I hope it is, because I spilled something on it and I blotted it up and spread it open on the towel to dry."

"You spilled?" Still blank.

"Scotch. It would have been coffee but there wasn't any so I was drinking Scotch which maybe was better anyway because coffee really stains."

He's not saying anything. He's not reacting, at all. Maybe she'd better keep talking.

"It didn't stain your tee shirt, so that's good. I used your Storm Fall one which I was wearing to sleep in, but I washed it out and it's fine now. Good as new. I didn't want to use your cashmere sweater even though that could have done a better job of mopping, right? But I mean that might have ruined the sweater so I thought it was better to use the shirt. Oh, and that's why I had to take another one of your shirts to wear, I'm really sorry. The Black Lagoon one. Which I guess you noticed." Geez, he's still just standing there, comatose almost, and she hasn't been this nervous, ever. "You know, before. You probably noticed when we were in here before. A while ago. When I was asleep."

"You were asleep in my shirt."

"Right." He blinked when she said that. At least he blinked. "It was late. I fell asleep."

"It didn't keep you awake?"

Huh? What does that mean? Why doesn't he just say something about the notebook, which is still in his hand? "Um, what?"

They're oddly frozen, standing fifteen feet apart. Neither has moved since their simultaneous discovery of the other, and their expressions haven't changed. They're like a pair of deer in the headlights, though in this case the headlights are the flashlights in two cell phones. Her expression is shock laced with terror, his is shock underlaid with something unidentifiable.

"If I were wearing one of your shirts it would keep me awake." His tone is flat.

"Well, yeah, you would be uncomfortable if you had my shirt." Wait, he does have her shirt, her NYPD one. Doesn't he remember? "Because it would be too small. Since your chest is bigger."

He blinks again, but his face changes. She's not sure what it's telegraphing, but something. "Different, Beckett. My chest is different, not bigger. Yours is bigger. Not your chest, really, your—" What he's looking now is mortified, as he shuts his mouth without finishing his sentence.

Just as it had in the living room not long before, her empty hand moves of its own accord, this time to just below her chin. Her fingers, operating without instruction from her brain, pull the turtleneck away from her skin; her head, also moving against her will, dips down, looks inside her shirt, and looks back up. "My boobs. My boobs are bigger, yeah, because you don't, you know, have any. Boobs. Just pecs. Not just, I didn't mean just, I'm sure your pecs are really good. Or great. Not that I've seen them but you can tell from the way your shirt is. On top of them." Oh hell, now what has she done? She tugs at the hem of her turtleneck.

Okay, she caught him red-handed with the notebook, but she's the one who's red-handed. It's time to fess up, really fess up. The whole megillah, the whole enchilada, the whole nine yards, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help her, God. Especially the last part. Help. Help me, God, she thinks. "Castle?"

"Mmm?"

"Could we turn on a light?"

"Oh. Sure. Okay." He takes two steps to a floor lamp and turns it on.

"And maybe sit down?" She gestures to the pair of armchairs, with a small table in between.

"Uh-huh."

So now they're both sitting and he's looking at her while she's silently searching for divine guidance. She rubs her palms over her thighs, clears her throat and dives in. Makes herself look right into his eyes. "I read them. The notebooks." She points to the one he's holding. "Your notebooks. Not all of them, but parts. Some of the entries. It was an accident. Not an accident, I mean not planned. After I'd been in here for a while and knew I would be for a lot longer, I was hoping I could find something to wear. And I opened the drawers and found the clothes. Your mother's were just, too, you know. Anyway, and then Alexis's seemed too small since I'm a lot taller. And then I had yours."

"Goldilocks." He's looking straight into her eyes, too.

"Goldilocks?"

"And the three bears. Mother, Alexis and me. One was too, um, neon? blindingly bright?, one was too small, and one was….One was what?"

She has to swallow, and even then she can barely whisper, "One was just right." She can tell he's about to say something, so she extends her arm, with her palm up, in hopes of keeping him quiet. It works.

"I picked up the tee shirts and saw the notebooks. I didn't know what was in them, but I was so bored. I'd been in here for hours and there was nothing to do, nothing to listen to or watch or anything, so I took them out. I have to say, in my defense, even though I shouldn't be defending myself, that I was also having caffeine withdrawal."

"My fault."

"Your fault?"

"I almost used up the coffee the other day, Beckett. Didn't replace it. Unconscionable." He gives her a little half smile.

"Oh. Right. Well. So I took the notebook on top and opened it and started reading about how you wanted to learn more about baseball so you could." She gulps, audibly, and looks away before steeling herself and turning her eyes back to his. "So you could talk to me about baseball. And maybe persuade me to go to a game with you."

"I already got the tickets."

"What?"

"I already got the tickets. Yankees-Red Sox, Saturday, May 8th. Behind the Yankee dugout."

"Really? You got tickets?"

"Yup."

"Oh. Thank you." She squirms a little in the chair. "I was going to stop right there, I swear, but I couldn't. I read a little more before I put the notebook back in the drawer. I thought I was done. But the next morning I went back and told myself that maybe the other three were about different things, not journals, maybe outlines for more books or something, that would be fun to read. I chose the notebook on the bottom. It began with last April, when you found out about my mom. You said that you needed to have a place to write things about me that you weren't going to write about Nikki. I read a little more and I felt like I needed a drink."

She pauses again, wishing she could drown her sorrows right now with his excellent Scotch. "Then I spilled my drink on one. You'd think that I'd call it quits after that. You'd call it a sign from the universe. Shoulda listened to you, Castle. I felt so guilty, incredibly guilty. And I did stop for a while, tried to play solitaire with a pack of cards I made."

"You made a pack of cards? That's really resourceful." He looks impressed, and curious.

"Yeah, well, they didn't work very well and God, I was like a junkie. I went back to the notebooks. And I read what you wrote. When you were leaving the other day, what you wrote then. Before Colorado." She stops because she's choking up and she doesn't want to do that. If she could just get into her professional Detective Beckett mode and steamroll through this, be what he called her in that first entry, kickass. Kickass but apologetic. She can't though, and she feels a tear land on the back of her hand, which is in her lap. She's not looking at him now, but she does start talking again. "It was so intimate and personal and I'm so ashamed." She wonders when he's going to start screaming at her. She wants the axe to fall. She deserves it. But there's just an excruciating silence until he finally says something so softly that she almost misses it.

"You're embarrassed, Kate?"

"God, yes."

"I meant embarrassed by what I wrote."

"Oh." That's all she can say.

There's another long silence before he continues. "When I got home and found you in here it occurred to me that you might have discovered the notebooks, but you didn't say anything when we were having coffee. And when you went to bed I came in here to get them and lock them up in my bedroom until the time came—and I was really hoping it would come—that I could tell you how I felt. But then I got in here and saw a notebook on the floor and knew for sure that you hadn't just found them, but read them. I was excited, you know? Because I feel like we've gotten close while you were staying here." He stops, and stares at the notebook as if he'd forgotten he had it. "I hoped that you were glad about what I wrote. Or pleased. Flattered, maybe. Even pissed off. Pissed off would be better than you being embarrassed. Because now I am. Unbelievably embarrassed."

He gets up from the chair and she has no idea what he's about to do. Walk out? Throw the notebook in the wastepaper basket? She does the only thing she can think of, although in truth—since she's pledged to be truthful—she doesn't think before she acts. She doesn't look before she leaps, and she actually leaps, right at him. She almost knocks him to the floor as she grabs him around the waist. "Castle!"

"Beckett! What the hell?"

She's holding him as tightly as she can, speaking into the space between his shoulder blades, her nose pressed against his back. "I'm embarrassed at myself for reading something so private without permission. I'm not embarrassed by what you wrote. I love what you wrote, Castle. I love it. I can't believe that you wrote it about me."

TBC

A/N Thank you for all your enthusiasm for this story, which I appreciate more than you can imagine. I don't even really mind the threats I get after each "TBC"! And just so you know, this is the last TBC for this particular story, which will wrap up in chapter 8.