Okay soIi'll start off by saying last chapter was NOT the last, honestly I was surprised by how many people are reading this... but there was no way I was gonna leave it there, that would have been such a clifhanger ending, and personally I would've pulled out the pitchforks. anyway I'm sorry if i scared anyone, I was just kidding! :) though this story is almost over... for real this time. It ends better, with more closure.

Anyway enough of my rambling, you guys wanna READ! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Godzilla + my dreams of ever owning any of this = crushed.

Chapter 21

Mamori had thought the phone call with Youichi two nights earlier uncomfortable. Yes, she had expected they would need to talk, say the things her absence had already announced, work out the return of her belongings and discuss a divorce. And they had. But what she hadn't expected was the call to go the way it had.

So very easily. Peaceably. Politely.

Youichi's casually conversational tone–

"Do you have a lawyer already or can I get one for you?"

"Sounds like the earliest the fucking shippers can get there is Friday. You going to be okay till then?"

"You sure you don't want any of these fucking clothes? I have no fucking use for them now so they'll just sit here till I can get rid of them."

–working her over in a way no amount of hostility, accusation or railing could have accomplished. It had nearly killed her to leave, but the hurt of knowing how little her departure had affected him was so much worse. He turned off all emotion… in a single day. Been so unaffected, the call had unfolded more like friendly chitchat than the first step in the end of a marriage. Back at the house, he'd been ready to 'talk' her out of leaving, but he'd still been in the fight at that point. Once she was gone and the loss was confirmed… it was as if he simply shrugged it off. And she was wrecked to have all her suspicions so quickly confirmed. But, as brutal as having her heart crushed again was, the fresh pain of it was exactly what she needed to alleviate her doubts about artificial insemination and her choice to forgo relationships in the future.

She would never doubt again.

So the call, as uncomfortable as it was, had been worth it.

Or so she thought right up until sixty seconds ago, when she opened the door expecting to find the shippers on her stoop, but instead faced Youichi grinning that aggravating grin at her. "Hey, fucking woman, got something these guys can prop the security door open with. Shouldn't take too fucking long–"

"What are you doing here?" she snapped, too shocked to soften her demand. A careless shrug. "Didn't know if you had anyone to help, and figured it would go more smoothly with a second body. You know, make sure there weren't any problems." Throat thick with emotions she didn't want to face, emotions she needed to put aside, she shook her head. "Youichi, you shouldn't have come here. I left because–"

"Call it fucking marital privilege." His grin stayed exactly as it was, but his eyes were hard as they scanned the guys unloading one box after another from the truck. "I'm still your husband, so might as well work it while I've got it." Marital privilege – who was he kidding? She wanted to argue with him, tell him how much his presence in her home – when she left in the early hours of the morning to avoid seeing him again – infuriated her. But Youichi wasn't stupid. He knew exactly how much this would upset her, and he chose to come regardless because Youichi always did what Youichi wanted. "Anyway, I'm here," he said, reaching over her head and wrapping his hand around the security door she was holding onto for dear life. "So, what do you say we haul this stuff up to your apartment and get these guy out of here?" she nodded, trying to ignore the way his casual work shirt stretched across the broad expanse of his chest, or how when he leaned in to take hold of the door she hadn't yet relinquished, it put him close enough for the too-good scent of his bodywash and skin to tease her. Unable to resist, she drew a deep breath through her nose and held his delicious scent within her. Savoring it as she savored the memories it spurred. Memories of late nights, bare skin and pleasure that engaged her every sense.

She had fallen so far. So fast.

Youichi's free hand closed over her waist, and she looked up into those dark blue-green eyes. It was a mistake. She shouldn't be this close. Shouldn't have allowed herself to be snared by the one lure sure to catch her. The hand at her waist coasted over the small of her back, shooting sparks of sensation across her skin, sparks that threatened to reignite a flame. "Mamori," Youichi said, urging her closer to all his heat. She knew she should push away. Being this close meant getting burned, but– "Watch out, fucking woman, these guys need to get by."

Her head swung around to the first mover, who was edging around her, a box marked OFFICE in his arms. "Thanks, ma'am." She nodded, embarrassment blazing in her cheeks as she tried to step back from Youichi's hold and into the door. Only, he held her firm, until she had no choice but to meet his eyes again.

This time she kept her head.

"Let me go so I can tell them where to put everything." So she could breathe and think and stand a chance at remembering all the reasons she needed to keep her distance from this man who wreaked havoc on her judgment.

His thumb slid in the smallest caress against the base of her spine, and then his attention shifted back to the men and the truck and the return of Mamori's life to what it had been before she had met him. What the hell was he doing there? He'd decided to let Mamori go. Had spent the entire damn day she left getting himself to a place where that possessive part of him all about keeping her was tamped down enough for him to be able to call. Talk to her without trying to talk her into anything. Make sure she had made it back to Denver and was okay.

He'd done that.

Worked out a few logistics regarding the return of her things and hung up patting himself on the back for finally doing the right thing. And then he'd gone to bed and stared at the ceiling until he finally gave up and drove into work. Where he spent the next eighteen hours. When the shipping crew arrived, he supervised the packing of Mamori's belongings. Figuring once they were out of the house – the constant in-his-face reminder of what he wanted and what he lost removed – he would be able to relax. The vise around his lungs would ease up. The persistent knot in his gut would finally loosen. But as the last box left his house, he found himself following behind. Checking the truck, grilling the guy in charge about how long it would take to arrive. What precautions were in place to ensure her belongings would be in the same shape when they arrived as when they left. If the men who did the loading were the same ones who would be unloading. How long he'd been working with them.

When he realized no amount of reassurance would be enough, he decided to fly out and meet the truck in Denver. Make sure the movers delivered her things and got out of her apartment without a hitch. Simple. No ulterior motives involved. Yeah, sure, fantasies about getting her beneath him, on top of him, wrapped so fucking sweet and tight and hot around him had been running through his head on a thirty second loop. But did he have plans to act on those fantasies?

No.

At least, he hadn't until she'd peered up at him from so temptingly close. Those eyes that had been filled with ire when she saw him waiting at her door going soft and warm as he got her out of the way of the mover. Fine. He still wouldn't act. Her looking up at him the way she did, when he knew for damn sure she didn't want anything, spoke volumes about the sway he held with her. Too much. And the emotion in her eyes? Yeah, no stroke to his ego had ever compared… but he still didn't want a relationship with that kind of emotion. That kind of responsibility. What he wanted was Mamori wanting him… but not needing him. Not vulnerable to him. Sure as hell not trying to leave him over and over again…. And simply failing.

Fuck that.

No. he'd make sure she was fine and then he'd be able to take off without looking back. With the last box delivered, Youichi signed the paperwork, tipped the guys and then closed Mamori's door. Her apartment felt smaller than he remembered. But then, there were boxes stacked in the center of each of the four rooms, eating up space. She hadn't brought everything to San Diego. Not the furniture. But her keepsakes. Books. Knickknacks.

Things he'd laughed about seeing as she unpacked them, but now wondered if he would miss having them. opening one odd-shaped box, Mamori withdrew a lamp with a beaded shade, and he found himself watching intently as she returned it to the place it had been, curious about how her life fit together without him in it. Setting the lamp on the small table beside a reading chair, she plugged the cord into the outlet and stepped back, an unreadable expression on her face. He couldn't tell whether she was happy to see it returned or not. She turned to him, and he knew what was coming next. Wasn't ready for it and so cut her off before she could say goodbye.

"Which room do you want to start with?" he asked, jamming his hands deep into his jean pockets so she wouldn't see his fists, and plastered an easy grin on his face. "Youichi, thank you for getting my things returned so quickly, but I can handle the rest."

"I'm here," he said, aware his voice had lowered. Taken a stern tone. "I'll fucking help. Let the office know I'll be out a day or two–"

"What?" she gasped.

"We'll order in, pick up a bottle of wine for tonight. Settle down for some mind-fucking TV or something." He'd make it casual. Not intimidating. No demands. No pressure. Not really. "Order in, huh? Are you out of your mind or are you intentionally being cruel?" she was vibrating with tension now, and suddenly Youichi was right there with her. "I'm trying to fucking help. I want–"

"It's not about what you want, Youichi! How can you not get this? I can't be friends with you!" and then he was in her face, his hands wrapped tight around her upper arms, as he bellowed back, "I don't want to be fucking friends, Mamori!" she blinked, as shocked by the break in his reserve as he was. "What do you want?" she asked too quietly for the way they were locked together. Seconds passed and then finally the breath he'd been fighting to contain shot past his lips with the only answer he had.

"I want you. I want what we were supposed to have. I want the fucking wife and partner I found in Vegas. I want you to admit I can give you more than you can have alone."

"It won't work."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because–" she held up her hands helplessly, too much pain and emotion shinning in her eyes to be anything other than what came next "–I love you, Youichi." It wasn't a surprise after what she had said before moving out, or at least it shouldn't have been. He saw the evidence in her eyes. In her hurt. In a million little things he gave up trying to deny. But hearing the actual words on those lips he couldn't get enough of – they hit him like he was getting sacked by the other team's defense, knocking the wind from him and leaving him on the ground. Mamori walked to her door and held it open, her eyes on the floor ahead of her feet. "Please, just go."