Once again, thank you to the wonderful stnemele for helping me through a rough patch. Here's a long one for your patience over the past few weeks!

One. Year. Later.

Everyone in the office was acting strange. Not only had Kensi given him a Twinkie from her secret stash, Deeks hovered around the agent's desk like a mosquito on a hot day. Across the floor, Sam conferred with Hetty in her office. The small woman glanced up at Callen over her tea, an unnerving, though fleeting, stare.

Something was definitely not right.

He couldn't take it any longer. Standing resolutely, he marched over to Hetty's desk.

"Ah, Mr. Callen," Hetty shuffled papers on her desk. "I need you and Mr. Hanna to interview Petty Officer Carlisle regarding her assault by her husband. You will find her at a Los Angeles shelter. I've had Mr. Beale send the information to your phones."

Callen quirked a brow. "Aren't most interviews done in the boathouse?"

Due to the high level of OSP cases, the Los Angeles NCIS rarely deviated from standard operating procedures when interrogating-or interviewing-witnesses.

"To be sure, but due to her circumstances, I think it best if we keep her from feeling like she's experiencing an interrogation. She's in good hands at the shelter."

His phone buzzed; Callen checked the instrument. "Harmon House?"

"Come on, G," Sam moved toward the exit.

As the partners drove to the address, Callen couldn't shake the feeling something was off. "Do you think Hetty's acting odd today?"

"No odder than usual," Sam shrugged. "Why?"

"I don't know," Callen responded, shifting in his chair. "Everyone's acting weird today."

In the driver's seat, Sam chuckled lightly. "Maybe it's you who is the weird one."

"Please, I'm the only normal one of this bunch."

"Only in your head, G."

Callen did a double take, glancing from the lavish manor to the address on his phone and back again. This was the refuge house?

It was large, even by California standards, enveloped in a tall fence complete with intricately detailed gate. Stepping pat the entrance was like walking into another world. The garden was lush, the lawn green (a real miracle in the typically golden grasses of California) and well kept. A gaggle of children ran past Callen, laughing and cheering in the throes of an imaginary chase. Callen spotted a treehouse in the corner of his eye as a young boy popped his head through with a make-believe telescope.

The house itself was painted an earthen yellow; the wraparound porch decorated with pillars of piled stone. Two women sat on the swinging bench, watching the children gallivant about the yard. Engrossed in conversation, they didn't notice Callen until he and Sam stood before them.

"Hi," he greeted. The laughter died on their lips as they looked him over.

"We're looking for Petty Officer Carlisle," Sam supplied. "Does she live here?"

"Who wants to know?" one replied cautiously.

"NCIS." Callen flashed his badge.

The other woman snatched it from him for examination. "Looks real," she determined.

Footsteps echoed on the wooden porch. "What's going on here?"

Callen froze at the sound of an all-too-familiar voice.

"Jocelyn!" Sam exclaimed. "It's been forever!"

"Good to see you, too, Sam. I'd hug you, but…" she gestured at her paint splattered attire with a chagrined shrug. "Art therapy."

"Naturally," Sam replied, as if seeing the former detective covered in pastel colors was an everyday occurrence.

As she turned to greet Callen, Jocelyn prayed her voice wouldn't shake. "Agent Callen," she heard herself say.

Where did they stand? They stood on the porch in the world's most awkward checkmate standoff. There were no protocols for this. Jocelyn wished for telepathy so she could read the thoughts going through the agent's mind. Did he still have feelings for her? Did he hate her?

"Hart."

How did he manage to stay so enigmatically aloof? she brooded. Where was that training when she needed it?

Going off his wardrobe alone, Jocelyn couldn't perceive any notable differences. He was wearing her favorite blue shirt, the one that took his eyes from pale sky blue to aquamarine. His hair was longer, she noticed, long enough to comb her fingers through.

She blinked rapidly and was saved by Sam. "We're here for a follow up interview with Irene."

"Oh!" Jocelyn waved them to follow her into the house. "Claire didn't tell me anyone was coming. Her case is practically closed, isn't it?"

"Hetty wanted us to tie up some loose ends."

"Claire's here, too?" Callen asked, more confused by the second.

"Harmon House is my establishment, a refuge for abused women and their families. As a licensed psychiatrist, Claire partnered with me to provide better support," Jocelyn explained before calling up the stairs. "IRENE! NCIS IS HERE!"

"Coming!" a female voice echoed back.

"You knew about this?" Callen whispered to Sam accusingly.

Sam only shrugged. "Why do you think Hetty sent us instead of Deeks and Kensi?"

Irene appeared, and greeted the agents before Jocelyn led them to the meeting area. The living room was the tidiest part of the manor. Claire had a moratorium against any child playing in the room, saving it for meetings. Jocelyn did her best to make the place cheerful; it was easy to get bogged down in the guilt of what these women faced leaving their abusive relationships and they needed a refuge.

She consulted Kayla's son, Andy, on what amenities should be included for children. He insisted on the construction of a treehouse, complete with rope swing. That, combined with the well-furnished playroom and computer lab, eased the children's transition to a happier lifestyle. Andy came to play often, Kayla in tow.

Yes, the entirety of Harmon House was a triumph. Jocelyn finally found her calling and turned her father's summer home into a shelter for each woman she so desperately wanted to help. Her return from London was a whirlwind of fundraisers and events. It took all her training to cajole each and every donor into supporting her pursuits, but at last, she felt she'd atoned for her sins against Sophie and Kayla. The house was a stunning reminder and a breath of fresh air.

Protective of her girls, Jocelyn observed the interview, and Callen took the opportunity to observe her. She'd changed, he noted. Her hair was back to its original black and tied back in a messy bun. Clad in paint-splattered jeans and a fitted tee, she looked natural and healthy. Her fingers picked the paint from her hands nervously. Despite the discomfort of the situation, she looked happy. He found himself unable to look away, and they caught each other's gaze on more than one occasion.

The interview dragged on, but Callen found himself distracted. He'd given up on Jocelyn a long time ago. No one on the team mentioned her, not even Deeks. There was a point, about ten months ago, when he could tell she'd returned. Conversations would hush whenever he approached. He waited patiently for her call, but none came. In ten months, he thought he'd moved on, but with her sitting not five feet away from him, it was clear those feelings still lived.

Sam caught his eye with a glare. Pay attention.

As if that was possible.

After what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, Sam stood to shake Irene's hand. "Thank you for your time."

"Of course, agents," Irene responded with a smile.

Callen mirrored his partner's actions automatically. "Yes, thank you."

Like a good hostess, Jocelyn showed the agents out of the house. She found herself shoulder-to-shoulder with Callen. The tension was palpable; they shared yet another silently searching glance.

Was he going to walk away as if nothing had happened? Jocelyn desperately wanted to speak to Callen, but she couldn't find the right words to say. Callen clenched his jaw to fight the impulse to reach for her.

"Good to see you again, Sam," she shook the larger man's hand. "And you, Callen."

The moment their palms met, Callen knew he couldn't walk away from this. She turned to go back into the house, trying to hide her disappointment, but his voice stopped her.

"Jocelyn?"

She pivoted. "Yes?" Was her voice too hopeful? She cringed inwardly.

"You mentioned that if we ever ran into each other, we could get drinks. Does that offer still stand?"

Not daring to speak, Jocelyn only nodded.

"It's a bit early in the day for drinks, but would you be open to a cup of coffee?"

"That's probably safer, isn't it?" she joked haltingly.

"I don't have a car at the moment, but I'll return in half an hour, if that's okay."

Could her heart beat any faster? Jocelyn nodded. "That's fine. I'll see you then."

She dared not take her eyes off the car until the gates closed behind it.

"CLAIRE!" she shrieked, rushing into the house. "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"

As if nothing was wrong, the older woman emerged from the kitchens. "Talk like that is not good for our guests," she chided. "What's going on?"

"Screw that," Jocelyn called over her ear, climbing up the stairs to her stash of clothes. While she didn't live at Harmon House, she kept a closetful of backup clothes for emergencies. "You knew he was coming! Why didn't you warn me?"

"Warn you about what?"

Jocelyn tugged her hair free of its bun and turned on the shower. "You knew Gabe was coming and you let me greet him looking like…this!"

"You look lovely!"

"I'm a mess!" she objected. "You're in cahoots with someone, I know it. Is it Kayla? Hetty?"

Claire raised a brow at the accusation.

"I knew it!" Jocelyn narrowed her eyes. "You and Hetty…"

"What are you so upset about? He asked you out, didn't he?"

"How would you know that?" Jocelyn stripped to her skin and stepped into the shower, too rushed to bother with propriety. "It happened less than two minutes ago."

"Call it instinct."

"I call it bullshit."

"Why?" Claire asked innocently. "Do you not want to go out with him?"

Jocelyn took out her nerves on the oils caked on her arms. "You know very well I do. I just didn't picture myself seeing him looking like this."

"How did you picture it?" The shrink prodded like the professional she was.

"In clean clothes, maybe, with hair that doesn't look like a rat's nest! You could give a girl fair warning."

"Well, it's happened now. Your best bet is to get dressed and knock his socks off."

"Oh, shit," Jocelyn swore, stepping out of the shower, soaking wet but clean. "What do I say? I don't even know if he still likes me!"

"Slow down, Joce," Claire cautioned as Jocelyn blasted the hairdryer at her locks. "You'll blow a fuse."

Jocelyn relaxed her grip on the appliance, but didn't slow. "He hates me, doesn't he?"

"He wouldn't have asked you out if he hated you."

"But…"

Claire grabbed the dryer from Jocelyn and turned it off, stilling her friend's hands. "Follow his lead. You guys have such chemistry; if it's meant to be, it'll happen."

"I know," Jocelyn sighed finally. "I just really, really don't want to fuck this up."

Twenty five minutes later found Jocelyn fumbling in her makeup bag. She'd chosen perfect hair over a perfect face and was quickly regretting that decision. The mascara wand poked her in the eye for the third time; she wiped the errant gel away roughly. "Shit."

"You know you don't need a full face of makeup, Joce," Claire said.

"Do I look like I'm trying too hard?" She gestured at her outfit, a laid back but snappy combo of dark wash jeans, simple soft tank, and her favorite cognac leather jacket. "Too little? Do I need a necklace or earrings?"

"You look fine."

"I can't mess this up," she whispered for the hundredth time.

"Someone's here to see you, Miss Jocelyn!" the chorus of children yelled up the stairs.

"Fuck it," Jocelyn swore, giving up on makeup altogether. Now where are my shoes? "Coming!"

Claire squeezed Jocelyn's shoulders. "You won't."

She sped down the stairs only to slip on the wooden floors and fall into an unsuspecting Callen right as he stepped through the door.

He let out a soft oof, his arms wrapping around her to steady the both of them. Sure enough, their bodies still knew each other. He felt the stirrings of familiarity and twelve months of suppression. Letting her see the effects of her touch was probably not the best of ideas for a casual coffee, so he quickly released her, stepping back so quickly she might have burned him.

Jocelyn tried not to feel the slight. Was she repulsive to him now?

He most certainly wasn't to her. One touch and, bam, she was wishing it hadn't ended. It wasn't the best of ideas to ask for a real embrace in greeting. That would probably end with her kissing him, and she really, really, really wanted to.

Damn. It's coffee, just coffee…

A gaggle of children rushed past, breaking the moment.

"It's like running my own foster home," Jocelyn joked, tugging on her heels.

Yes, put on your shoes, don't look at him.

"I can guarantee you it's better than all 34 of mine put together."

Jocelyn's inner monologue cursed her stupidity at bringing up a delicate subject like his past. "There's a coffee show a couple blocks away," she offered to fill the silence. "We can walk, if you like."

She started down the steps, but Callen lingered a moment to observe her body as it moved. He may have memorized her in the past, but his eyes were thirsty to drink in her appearance again. How he'd missed those curves…

"You coming?" she glanced back.

His train of thought derailed. "Yeah!" He jogged after her, trying not to feel embarrassed. "I was just…admiring the craftsmanship." A dangerous flirt, considering the facts, but one he had to make. Test the waters. Make sure he could touch her again. Talking was good, but touching was what he wanted.

Thankfully, she took him literally and assumed he was talking about the house. "It belonged to my dad before the Harmon Foundation. When I figured out this is what I wanted to do with my life, he was all in."

Callen grinned, not just at her, but at how… right she sounded. Something about her being a cop had never quite fit. She'd come into her own. "It looks like you've got a good thing going. Is this what you spent the past year putting together?"

"Blood, sweat, and tears." She shot him a proud smile. Her hands felt useless swinging at her sides. She wished he would take her hand or…something. "What have you been up to?"

"Oh, the usual…taking care of the team, catching bad guys, et cetera." His attention briefly flicked to her hands, wondering if he was allowed to take one, but he decided against it and put his hands into his pockets. They'd get there eventually. Hopefully.

"A hardship, I'm sure."

"Keeping Deeks in line is a challenge," Callen admitted jokingly.

"If we're lucky, he won't ever grow out of that."

They shared a laugh, just like old times. Their nerves were melting as they became used to one another again. But what would happen when those barriers were down? Fireworks or implosion?

Were his eyes always that blue? Jocelyn had missed staring into them.

"I looked for you at the Pryor trial, but didn't see you."

"Yeah." A grim smile passed across Jocelyn's features. "It turns out they can pass a restraining order even if you aren't in the country."

"Pryor got a restraining order against you?"

"A small price to pay for freedom. It isn't like I want to see that bastard's face again anyway. He got what he deserved."

Callen nodded in agreement. "Well, Anna and Sophie are eternally grateful to you. Have you seen them recently?"

"Anna's one of the Foundation's top supporters. I sunk a large percent of my trust fund into this place before she started helping out."

They'd reached the shop; Callen opened the door. The small gesture of chivalry did not go unnoticed and she 'accidentally' bumped into him as she walked past. Judging by his expression, he didn't mind at all.

"I'll have a black coffee," Callen ordered at the counter, "and whatever she's having." He touched her arm, indicating she should speak, but really it was an excuse to touch her. Quid pro quo. Maybe it wouldn't be so hopeless after all.

"Orange pekoe, please, two sugars."

"Turning British on me?" he teased, passing her the cup as it appeared.

"This is the only place that serves it right. I'm addicted to their tea."

They moved to the porch; Callen pulled her chair back. "And here I was, thinking tea was just tea."

She settled into the seat, unable to touch him because of the drink in her hands. She thanked him with her eyes. "Is coffee just coffee?"

He sat next to her, leaning towards her as he put his cup down on the table. "Isn't it?"

"You've been drinking too much Navy coffee. There's light, medium, and dark roasts, not to mention the different roasting processes, blends, and countries of origin."

Small talk was harmless enough to the outsider, but it did nothing for Jocelyn's nerves. Yes, he hadn't shut her out. Yes, they were getting along like old times, but she didn't want the friendly banter; she wanted fire. This was not going as she'd pictured it in her dreams.

In those dreams, the ones she didn't talk about, Callen was there. No matter how or why, he just was, as if she'd never left…as if he'd never hated her. He was inexplicably shirtless ninety-nine percent of the time, his toned torso scarred in the same way it was on that morning in his house. The pattern of marks was burned into her memory. She'd run her fingers over his chest as he pulled her in and—

Oh, wait, he was talking. As much as she liked the sound of his voice, she struggled to focus on what he was saying. She took quickly took a sip of too-hot tea. It scalded her throat on the way down, and she failed to suppress the cough.

Concerned eyebrows went up; he reached across the table to clap her on the back. "You okay?"

"Hot tea," she choked. Hot body, too. Those arms… that chest… why was he wearing a shirt? Couldn't they have gone somewhere where clothing wasn't required?

Callen smiled at her faux pas. Over the past year, he'd made a mental list of her misses. Detective Jocelyn Hart's exterior was so alienatingly perfect, it became his goal to collect moments when she missed the mark. It reminded her she was human and, in her imperfections, even more perfect.

She wasn't wearing makeup, he noted, and he liked it. That was how she looked best. Had she remembered that off-handed comment? Or just not had time? He decided that she did remember and wanted him to look at her. Not that he needed any encouragement.

His fingers itched at his side to touch her. The neckline of her top lay enticingly across her chest, showing just enough cleavage to be tasteful without completely hiding the curves below. Never mind he'd never seen her naked, he'd pictured it a thousand and one times. He had real images to go on, like the time she'd exposed the curve of her spine to him when he zipped up her dress, or the firmness of her legs with the shorts she'd worn when she kissed him in the boathouse. Those legs would be the death of him.

Would moments like those come again and, more importantly, what did he have to do to make them happen?

"I have to thank you," Jocelyn said finally. "I'd probably be behind bars if it weren't for you."

Callen answered quickly without thinking. "Well, I owed you one. Consider us even."

A flicker of confusion crossed her face, followed by an embarrassed smile. "Yeah. Even."

His own grin fell. "What?" Way to ruin the mood, Callen.

"Nothing," she replied unconvincingly.

Callen was pleased to learn she'd become a worse liar in his absence. He could fix this. Get her back…

He leaned towards her, urging her to continue. "Come on, I've never seen you pass up an opportunity to speak your mind."

The corners of Jocelyn's mouth turned up slightly at the reminder of all the times she'd told him off. She casually shifted her chair closer to his, as if her next words were meant for only him. They were, too, but she was also nervous to even vocalize the thought. "I just figured…you did it for me. I guess you were just covering your ass and clearing the slate."

Callen threw back his head and laughed; Jocelyn started at the sound. She had expected, meaning hoped for, a hand squeeze or even a denial, but laughter? Did she feel insulted or just startled?

"Jocelyn Hart, if you think for one second that I would let you rot in jail, think again." He leaned in even closer, making sure she could see every ounce of truth in his eyes as he said, "I would have broken you out in a heartbeat."

Okay, she was just startled. Warmth pooled in the pit of Jocelyn's belly as she lost herself in his gaze. Damn those blue eyes and mischievous grin!

"There's something I need to know," he forced out, now looking into his coffee cup. "If you don't answer, I might go crazy." He could ask her. He had to ask her. But actually asking her…

Here it comes, Jocelyn thought, bracing for the onslaught. "Shoot."

Here goes nothing. "I understood your letter, and I know you left for a good reason, but did I do something wrong for you to not tell me you were leaving?"

"What?" Jocelyn exclaimed, unable to hide her surprise. That wasn't the reaction Jocelyn expected at all. He was supposed to yell at her. A wave of relief enveloped her mind, and she couldn't help but wish his arms would envelop her body, as she'd longed for so many times. "I thought you wouldn't want to see me after I yelled at you then dragged you into the mess with Pryor."

Callen could only imagine what she'd been through. He placed a hand over hers and squeezed reassuringly, as much for her as for himself. He needed to know that they could be close to each other again. They needed to understand one another. This was about them, not NCIS.

"I thought you were mad at me for insulting you," he continued. "I know I was way out of line."

"You were," Jocelyn confirmed. Feeling braver, she put her other hand over his and continued, "But that's ancient history."

Callen shifted closer to her again. "So you're telling me you didn't keep in contact with me because you thought I hated you?"

She shrugged sheepishly. "I guess."

"Jocelyn," he breathed, "I could never hate you. I didn't go after you because I thought you were mad at me. I even got all dressed up to apologize the next morning, coffee and all."

"You brought me coffee?"

"What I wasn't expecting was to find your father in your apartment, and you long gone. When you left, I was so confused," he confessed. He stared at their hands, grateful she hadn't tried to pull away, and prayed that she'd keep the touch for long enough that he could get out the words. "You clearly defined our friendship as nonexistent, but I couldn't accept that. I was an asshole, asking you what I did at the housewarming party. You were completely within your rights to hate me."

"But I didn't hate you," Jocelyn objected.

"It didn't matter, because it wasn't until the moment you went into the Pryor house I realized I…"

He trailed off, leaving Jocelyn hanging.

"Gabe?" she prompted softly, moving her head to look him in the eyes. They were very close to each other, now, close enough that she wondered if it was going to end like their first meeting, but the way he was talking, this was serious. It wasn't a game or a trick. She calmed her own mind enough to reassure him, because that was what he needed. She squeezed his hand in encouragement.

"I was in love with you."

The words were uttered with no fanfare, but Jocelyn's heart flipped. Butterflies filled her stomach and somewhere in the back of her mind, angels sang the hallelujah chorus. Love. He'd said it! That meant there was a real chance for them.

"Me, too," she replied, leaning in to kiss him.

"But that was months ago," he said abruptly. He released her and dropped his hands into his lap. "Like you said, I didn't know you."

As disappointing as his withdrawal was, she understood. She had changed in many, many ways. Their chemistry was still the same, if not more potent than before, but they really did have to start again.

"Neither did I, not really." At Callen's questioning glance, she explained. "I built my entire being around breaking the mold of my upbringing. My moral compass pointed wherever my purposes served and I didn't care who I burned. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have made it through alive."

"You'd have survived," Callen laughed. "But it would have been messy."

"What happened was messy!"

Back to the banter again. It was their safety zone, after being vulnerable or avoiding getting too close. Neither wanted to lapse into that state, but now that they'd said their feelings and, in a sense, stated that they weren't based on anything, where else did they have to go?

"Okay, messier," he corrected.

"Well, shit," Jocelyn swore. "We'll have to communicate better in the future."

If there was a future.

Please, please let there be a future.

"Understatement of the century." Callen leaned back, flashing the easygoing smile Jocelyn fell in love with. "You look good. More…you. Looks like you finally found the right haircut."

Jocelyn touched her natural raven locks self-consciously. "I like yours longer, too. It's more mature."

"Is that your way of telling me I'm old?"

"Not at all! I'm saying you look less like a teenage boy-man and more like a fully grown adult."

"Don't let the hair fool you," he warned flirtatiously.

"Oh, I know you better than that."

"You do, don't you?"

As Callen fiddled with his mug, Jocelyn noticed a new scar on his wrist. Were there others?

She took a deep breath and uttered the words that could kill or save their twisted relationship. "Where does this leave us?"

Callen had his answer ready. He'd had it ready since the day he'd walked into her empty apartment. "I'm not about to walk away from this without the promise of seeing you again. What would you say to starting over?"

A thrill shot through Jocelyn and she shivered involuntarily. She'd take anything to have him again. The idea of erasing their encounter at Deeks and Kayla's wedding was enticing. She wanted him—needed him. Was their history too spotted for it to work?

"What do you mean?" she asked.

The agent stood, making a show of straightening his clothes, before holding his hand out confidently. "Gabriel Callen. Nice to meet you."

A laugh escaped Jocelyn's lips. It was wonderful to laugh at him again. She stood opposite him, eye to eye, and slid her slender hand into his own. "Jocelyn Hart. The pleasure is all mine."

It was a simple touch, but both of their bloods set on fire. How did two hands fit together so perfectly? Whatever desires or tensions they'd felt before were dwarfed by the sheer possibilities in store. This was different. Better. No games or pretenses. This was new and it was going to work.

It had to work.

He didn't shake and release her hand as custom dictated, but rather lifted her fingers to his lips.

The butterflies were back. Had he taken gentleman lessons while she was gone? "This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact I'm no longer a cop?" she queried, raising an eyebrow.

"My rule says nothing about former cops, and besides, I'm sure you still have your own set of handcuffs." One good flirt deserves another.

The familiar seductive glint flashed in Jocelyn's green eyes. "Is that a request?"

Oh, sweet mother of—Callen cut his own thoughts off to steady himself. "As much as I'd like to take you up on that offer…"

"We've barely met?" Jocelyn finished for him, a hint of disappointment creeping into her voice. If she didn't leave, their new acquaintance policy would go out the window along with the painful inches of space between them.

"Yes," he agreed. "But that can be remedied. What do you say to dinner tomorrow?"

They really were going to keep at it. "I'd like that."

"Walk you home?" he asked, offering her his hand.

Gratefully, she laced her fingers with his. "Of course."

This isn't the end! One more chapter is coming, followed by an epilogue.