Author's note: Wow, you girls like a cliffhanger, dontcha? ;) Thank you for all your reviews, especially those of you letting me know you've been reading along all this time! I'm so glad if it hooks you, because these two have certainly hooked me! I should sooooo be spending my time on other things rather than obsess about them ;)

She woke to water dripping in an insistent matter, each and every metallic sound making the pounding in her head worse. She tried to lift her head, but she abandoned the task groaning, her mouth feeling dry and foul, like after a long night of sleep.

She opened her eyes again, this time careful not to move, taking in her surroundings. She was lying on the floor, the wetness of it seeping into the clothes that were uncomfortably sticking to her body. Everything seemed to hurt, but most notably her head, and she palmed the top of it with shaky fingers. When she looked at the fingers, they were red with blood.

She looked around, blinking hard to try to get her double vision into one single clearer picture. She gasped as she saw Jimmy, his unmoving body lying several feet away from her. She urged her body to move, but the effort made her sight go black and she had to spend several seconds steadying her spinning head to be able to try again. The crawl to him seemed like an eternity and by the time she got to him, her breathing was labored and the ache in her head intensified to an unbearable level. Her fingers reached out searching and she relaxed on the ground as she felt the faint, but definitely present pulse under her fingers.

She turned to her back, trying to suck in air into her lungs and relaxed her body, the pulsing pain inside her head overwhelming. She tried to collect her thoughts, that seemed to be a jumbled mess, but clarity seemed to be just out of reach. Her mind was a muddle of growing anxiety and confusion.

She focused on the ceiling above her, watermarks crowding the dark space, when suddenly there was a small cracking noise and then something bouncing on the floor next to her. She looked to her left, seeing smoke rise from the strange object and soon there was a crashing noise, louder this time, and flashing lines of bright neon green dancing in the building smoke as shouting filled the room.

She was coughing, her eyes watering as she felt someone move over her in a flash. When she strained her eyes, through the smoke, she saw a dark figure, crouching above her, gun held to his shielded face as she heard a mechanical voice, as if over a radio "Secondary target secured... Affirmative, she's alive", before everything went black around her.

When she opened her eyes next, there was light everywhere. Her head still hurt, but instead of the sharp, throbbing pain, it was more dull, much more bearable. Her mouth was still dry and still foul, but her limbs felt less weak.

She blinked, squinting, slowly adjusting her sight. She saw Tristan sitting by the side of the bed, his face overwhelmed as a flash of relief crossed it, seeing her meet his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice so hoarse she hardly recognized it as her own. Her throat hurt too.

"How do you feel?" he asked her, his voice gentle, but his face terse.

"Sore. What...? Where's Jimmy?" she looked around, remembering her friend on the ground of the dark cell, a sense of urgency suddenly flooding her.

"He's got a broken arm and a concussion, but he's fine. What the hell were you thinking, Rory?" he asked, before restraining himself.

She looked at him, as if suddenly reoriented, the memories slowly falling into place.

"How are you here?" she asked, the only information that made no sense to her, confusion reigning.

"I flew" he replied wryly and she rolled her eyes, the attempt instantly reminding her of the headache she felt.

"No. I mean, what happened?" she asked, the effort tiring her as she let her head fall back against the pillow.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice angry and she focused on him, his quiet anger making her feel unease. He took a breath, his pale blue eyes shining with restrained emotion.

"Rory, you tried to infiltrate the drug cartel of El Chapo. You got uncovered and captured. A Delta crew rescued you" he said through gritted teeth.

She inhaled sharply. The words made sense, but also not. It's true that they were tracking a story about a secret elaborate drug operation, but she didn't quite know what she had stumbled upon.

"Yours?" she asked, her chest constricting with guilt.

He looked at her confused.

"My crew?" he asked, his eyes still glaring with anger and she was reminded of the last person she saw before she had passed out, in full tactical gear, speaking over a radio feed.

"Are you kidding? They hardly gave me permission to fucking fly in, let alone give me reigns. Do you know how fucking scared I was for you?" he said, keeping his voice low.

She swallowed, the anxiety inside her chest growing. It made sense, he was elsewhere, probably working on a mission of his own. She looked at him, studying the anger evident on his face and she suddenly felt an immense amount of guilt flood her.

"I'm sorry... This was not supposed to happen...How did you... how did you even find out?" she asked, the effort still overwhelming her.

"This works both ways Rory" he said, his finger tapping his wedding ring, "and also, your phone is tracked constantly."

The words, although not a complete shock to her, still felt like a slap in the face. They stared at each other for a couple of seconds, both of them doing their best to convey their aggravation towards the other. She sighed, closing her eyes momentarily.

"How long was I out?" she finally asked.

"Two days" he said, and when she opened her eyes, she found him still focused on her, his expression not lightening.

"Stop looking at me like that" she frowned.

"Like what?" he asked, face stern.

"Like you're going to kill me" she shot back, groaning as the ache in her head intensified.

"I'm trying really hard not to" he said.

She was in the hospital for another two days before they cleared her to leave. He didn't leave her side and she was sure she saw armed guards by her door. When they finally released her, a black SUV took them to the airport. There was no passport check, no lines and she found herself in the inside of an army cargo plane with seats on the side. Tristan secured the complicated seat belt and she felt like she was supported as if in a cocoon.

He barely talked to her and she longed for any conformation that he wasn't as angry with her as she thought he was.

"Are you going to be in trouble?" she asked.

He looked at her, face unaffected.

"I'm not the one in trouble, Rory" he said, although his face was as weary as if he'd said yes.

She swallowed hard as she wondered where they were heading.

When they landed in DC, she wasn't even surprised as the black SUV waited for them right on the tarmac. She sat in silence, a sinking feeling taking over her as she realized where they were heading. When they got to the Pentagon, they were lead through long corridors until finally a door opened. She glanced back, seeing Tristan fall back in the hallway.

"I'll be right here when you're done" he said, his face still tense.

She nodded, following the officer into the room with a table with chairs around them.

Another door opened and two people walked in, someone that looked like a high ranking military officer, a general, she concluded, with the nameplate reading Grayson. The other was dressed in civilian clothes and he leaned against the wall housing the two way mirror.

"Mrs. DuGray, we have some questions..." Grayson started as he took the seat across from her.

"I use my maiden name" she said, her voice small.

"Excuse me?" he asked, looking at her and concentrating hard.

"My name is Lorelai Leigh Gilmore, I use my maiden name" she said a bit louder.

She saw the confusion on the general's face turn to a quiet disdain and she sucked in a breath, bracing herself for the conversation.

"Right. Miss Gilmore, could you explain the series of events leading to your being captured by the drug cartel of El Chapo?" he went on, his tone slightly cynical.

She sighed again and started to talk, explaining the way she researched the story, talking vaguely about her sources, then describing her intention of interviewing the village that she and Jimmy were heading to on the truck.

The general grilled her about sources, which she of course would not give up.

She already felt exhausted, the dull ache in her head intensifying as she looked around in vain for something to drink. The two man stared at her unbothered and she decided it was best not to ask for anything.

"Miss Gilmore, were you also doing an assignment in Pakistan last year?" the general suddenly asked, taking her off guard.

She furrowed her brows, trying to recall the exact memory.

"Yeah, it was a story about refugee camps. It came out in the Times" she shrugged.

"Did the Times commission that story?" he asked, looking at his notes.

"No, I work freelance, most of my stories are not commissioned" she explained, shrugging again, feeling slightly annoyed.

"And later last year were you also in Bhutan?" he went on.

"Yes, that was..." she furrowed her brows trying to concentrate through the haze that was still clouding her head.

"Also your own idea, I assume?" he finished for her.

"Yes" she replied, not understanding where he was heading with his line of questioning.

"And these assignments, these story ideas, they just find you? No outside influence?" he went on.

She stareed at him astonished, an uneasy feeling finding her.

"I read stuff, I hear stuff. I find topics that interest me, that I would like to read about" she said defensively.

The two men stared at her, a couple of seconds passing in tense silence.

"Miss Gilmore, have you ever received any classified information from your husband?" the general asked and it made her inhale sharply.

"What? No, of course not. He tells me nothing, most of the time I don't even know where he is going" she shook her head.

"And do you have access to his electronic devices, like his phone?" he continued and she felt a shiver run down her spine.

"No... this is ridiculous" she protested.

"Did you tell your husband where you were going?" he said, cutting her off.

"Yes, I sent him an email" she replied, her eyes downcast, not wanting to see their reaction to that particular answer.

"Do you usually discuss when you are going on an assignment?" he asked.

"Yes, this came as a spur of the moment" she explained, trying to brush off the feeling of guilt.

"And you maintain this was not commissioned by anyone?" came his next question.

"What exactly are you implying? That somebody is using me to influence Tristan?" she exclaimed, feeling both sets of eyes on her.

There was another couple of seconds of silence and she felt weary under their scrutiny. She was reminded of Tristan's calm demeanor, of ho he stayed calm even if they were arguing and she tried to channel that self control, pulling herself up in her seat to straighten her back.

"Miss Gilmore, are you aware that your husband is the leader of a special forces squadron used specifically in high risk situations and that his missions are all top secret?" Grayson said, his every word biting.

"Yes, I've noticed" she rolled her eyes.

"Miss Gilmore, this is not a joke" the military officer replied and she swallowed hard. "As a significant other of a Delta operator, you are a potential target, a liability. He can be influenced or threatened through you" he said, his words heavy.

She felt a chill letting those words sink in. She thought about the surveillance, from literally the moment they started their relationship, suddenly seeing it in a different light. She felt the feeling of guilt return and she took a deep breath.

"I understand that, it was unfortunate that all this happened, but I really..." she started, her voice pleading.

"Are you trying to get him to quit?" the man asked her and she looked at him, bewildered.

"Excuse me?"

"I've seen it before, Miss Gilmore. Young wife gets tired of waiting for the husband, acts out a couple of times, convinces the man he needs to be back home to keep the peace, so to speak" he explained, gesturing vaguely as the hidden accusation rolled off his tongue.

"Wow, I did not realize it was still 1960 in the US Army" Rory shot back.

"Some things don't change" Grayson looked at her, with a piercing gaze.

"Yeah, but some things do. Like the fact that unfortunately us women folk have gotten some crazy ideas in our heads, like I don't know, that we can have jobs? Careers? A free will?" she spat.

"Miss Gilmore, are you aware your husband threatened to abandon an ongoing mission in order to get to you?" the smooth faced civilian said, speaking for the first time.

Rory jolted, looking at the man casually leaning against the two way mirror. His words echoed in her mind, knocking the wind out of her. She stared at him, a million thoughts racing in her mind. A phrase Tristan once said echoed in her head: If anyone can distract me it's you, Rory.

"I... no..." she shook her head, her voice small.

"Now, me personally?" he said, smiling as he pushed himself off the wall and walked towards the table, leaning in, his face close to Rory's. "I don't give a shit if a nosy reporter who fancies herself Ammanpour gets shot in the head somewhere in the jungle" he said, his words seething even as he smiled.

"Do you know what I do give a shit about?" he went on as Rory watched him hypnotized. "If one of our top fucking Delta operators loses it in a middle of a mission that has been planned for fucking months" he spat, his smile disappearing.

"You might ask why we're here in the first place. Why you aren't dead and your husband not awaiting a court martial?" he asked, his face back into the fake smile he used before.

"You see, your husband? He's as good as it gets. He has 15 years of combat experience. He's been scoring close to a 100% on any practical training we've ever thrown at him. He has gone through stuff that would make others useless shells, but he does not break. He does not despair. His mind? Was fucking made for this. He's a fucking gem. He's a gem we've spent a lot of time and money on. He's a gem we didn't give up on, even when he had to be pieced together from a bloody fucking pulp. And he served every penny ever spent on him" the smooth faced man continued.

"Now, we are willing to let go of the fact that you are single handedly responsible for the first US Army involvement in a South American drug dispute in the history of... well time, and we are willing to turn a blind eye to the fact that your husband went batshit crazy, but we strongly suggest that you reconsider your method of income ma'am. If you wish to stay married to your husband" he finished, his eyes boring into hers.

"You don't have the power to tell someone they can't be married anymore" she whispered, the chill on the back of her spine returning.

"No, we don't" the man said, smiling again as he stood up straight, looking down on her. "We also don't have power to stop our servicemen from obsessing about the safety of their loved ones while they are trying to make decisions that affect not only their lives, but those entrusted with them and the country they are working for" he said smoothly and the words left an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"Miss Gilmore. There is a reason military spouses lead lives like they do. It's not because their life is secondary to the servicemen. It's not because they're not smart or capable. It's not because we think it's 1960. It's because they chose to do a job and what's more, they committed to a job. If you are married to a serviceman, you are serving too. You are serving him and you are serving your country and you have a responsibility to do that to the best of your ability" he said and Rory dropped her gaze under his piercing one.

"Now your husband? We're willing to do a lot for him. He was made for this. You give him a mission, that mission is as good as done. In a couple of years, he's going to be the fucking head of fucking Special Forces. Calling the shots and using his experience to do even more he is doing now, without having to stand in the middle of a fucking war zone. You know what's the only thing that can stop him from achieving that? You know the only thing that is going to be able to mess up his mind and make him make a fucking mistake where mistakes cost lives, including possibly his own?" he said, making her look up to lock eyes with him again.

"You are" he pointed at her.

"We are not going to tell anyone who they can be married to. But we've seen men make mistakes at this job and those men? Some of their limbs are still not recovered from that godforsaken peninsula, ma'am" he pointed to some unknown location in the distance as a bewildered smile crossed his features.

"So, I suggest you reconsider your stance on your rights and responsibilities. It's not his job to hold you up. It's your fucking job to hold him up" he finished his speech, the two men looking at her with stern expressions.

The truth was, he had her at hello. She had no reasoning, no fight, just a lot of shame and worry. She glanced towards the door, as if she could see through it, see Tristan and even further, see into his soul.

"We are done here, I think?" the general asked and the smooth faced man nodded.

She felt disoriented for days, the house feeling too quiet and crowded at the same time, with him always around but never truly talking to her.

When she got released from the Pentagon, humiliated, embarrassed and tired, he kissed the top of her head and drove her home, but he had hardly touched her since.

He cooked her meals and encouraged her to stay in bed, letting her take long naps that she seemed to need because of the strange exhaustion she still felt. It was a normal occurrence, the doctors had warned her and she should give it time, so she didn't really worry, the headaches she experienced becoming more rare and less intense anyway.

At night she'd try to stay awake, waiting for him to join her in bed, but she could tell he was stalling, hearing him work out in the garden, or down in the kitchen, somehow always waiting to join her in bed only after she was asleep.

She longed for forgiveness, longed to be close to him, longed to be reassured that their bond was strong, but anytime she brought the trip up, he brushed her off, telling her to rest.

"So, how long is this going to last?" she asked as she approached him in the living room.

He was sitting on the couch, legs propped up, reading a book.

"What?" he asked, glancing up from his book.

"Your little celibacy vow" she sighed.

He closed the book he was reading, taking an annoyed breath as he repositioned his legs on the floor.

"And by celibacy, you mean..." he asked, his tone cynical.

"You haven't touched me. Haven't even looked at me" she pointed out.

"...sex. Actual sex. Wow, okay" he scoffed as he dropped the book on the coffee table with an audible thud. "You had a concussion, Rory. And I can't say I'm turned on. I'm enraged. I am worried sick. But definitely not turned on" he said, his words making her roll her eyes.

"That's not what I meant" she said, annoyed.

"I know what you mean, Rory. You default to what works between us, what has always worked between us" he said and she sighed, feeling the accusation sink in. She crossed her arms, steadying herself as she shifted the weight to one foot.

"Do you want a divorce?" she asked him, making her voice strong despite the feeling of insecurity eating her up inside.

"What?" he asked, shaking his head in confusion as he stood up from the couch to walk up to her.

"Do you want to divorce me?" she repeated, making her words slow and clear.

"Of course not, Rory. I made a vow to you. I wasn't sure that included rescuing you from fucking El Chapo, but sure, fine, whatever. It said 'sickness and health' and all that shit and I don't break my fucking vows" he said, almost yelling at her.

She reached out to him, her fingers brushing his arm and it made him calm instantly, his eyes boring into hers. He sighed, his fingers absently tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, the first intimate gesture in days.

"You're not well enough to talk about this" he said, his voice soft.

"I'm well enough" she insisted.

He sighed, defeated.

"I don't know what to do, Rory. Tell me what to do" he said, his eyes showing how lost he felt. "I know how much I'm asking of you" he said dropping his gaze.

"You never asked me to do this" she shook her head, feeling her throat constrict.

"I asked you to do this the first time I showed up at your doorstep" he said, looking up into her eyes.

She scoffed, a weary smile playing on her lips. The infamous 'debate'. The reason he was on the fence about ever seeking her out.

She felt like she was failing a test, like he was right to be debating all those years ago.

"Tristan," she said, moving closer to him and reaching out to snake her arms around him, "I know you were scared. And I am so sorry I caused so much trouble. I promise, I won't ever do anything like that again" she said, her voice pleading.

"Like what?" he asked, his face in a frown. His tone made her falter, her arms dropping from around him as she felt the iciness of the words.

He looked at her, waiting for an answer and she felt like it was a carefully set trap, every fiber of her being screaming at her to not walk into it.

"Rory, if you're not running around South America scavenging drug lords, you're traveling to third world countries without any security or clear-cut plan..." he said, pointing randomly as his eyes darted around.

She took a step back, her eyes widening.

"Hold on a second, you are making it seem like I am a fucking daredevil. Most of those stories are totally harmless and safe" she interjected.

"Rory, nothing is harmless and safe out there! You book a fucking flight and land in the middle of nowhere, looking like you stepped out of a fucking fairy tale. The world is ugly, okay? Nothing is harmless and safe, you don't know about half the things out there" he said, his words stern.

"So, you don't want me going anywhere, but I shouldn't bat an eye when you go off to do god knows what in countries I haven't even heard of?" she shot back.

"How is randomly devised travels on the same page as taking part in highly organized military missions after years and years of training?" he replied, his voice frustrated.

She sighed, sensing his reasoning was more rational, while she was guided by emotions, still jumbled up in her mind.

"It was not... I planned this, okay? Just like I plan every story. We had connections and a plan" she argued.

"It was reckless, Rory" he shot back.

She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. She couldn't argue. When she really looked into herself, her line of thought leading her to call Jimmy and book that flight, she really couldn't deny it was.

"Fine. So, it was. I can't fucking write about the state cheese fair, Tristan" she said defensively.

"Why not?" he asked, incredulous.

"Because it doesn't take my mind off of my fucked up life. It doesn't take my mind off of my mom and it doesn't take my mind off of you killing yourself" she yelled.

He looked at her bewildered, the silence of the house reverberating with her exclamation.

She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling exposed and guilty.

She closed her eyes, knowing how she must have sounded. The girl who married the ghost, crying about the fact that her life felt haunted.

"Rory" he called out her name, his voice soft.

"46% Tristan. That's your chance of getting hurt every fucking year" she said, her voice small and frustrated.

"Rory, that's not... That's a stupid statistic. It includes me spraying my ankle at a drill" he shook his head, his words still careful, as if not to spook her.

"It doesn't make a difference Tristan. It's 46 fucking percent. Every day I don't hear from you, every time I come back and you're not home yet, that's what I think about" she said, feeling tears well up in her eyes.

"Rory, that's not fair" he shook his head slowly.

"It's been four years. You know what that means? That means you're down to 9%" she went on.

"What?" he frowned, not following her line of thought.

"0.54 on the fourth. That's 9% that you still don't get hurt" she said and she realized she probably seemed hysterical, quoting the anxious calculations she performed one night when she was especially worried and easily influenced by the article she had just read.

"So, what? Are you racing to get hurt before me?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I... I don't know. I didn't think I was" she said, her shoulders sagging.

He stepped closer to her, his arms reaching out to brush hers.

"Rory. I know it's unfair to have you sit here and accept I'm gone most of the time. You know it has been eating away at me since the first day I saw you again. And I know it seems selfish to say this. But this is my job. And I've made a commitment to it because I feel like I was meant to do it. I'm not going to be the 46% because I was born to do this and I trained to do this and when I'm there, I'm there a 100%" he said his voice back to calm, reassuring.

"And you can't be a 100% if you are there worrying about where I am" she said, her voice small.

He sighed. If she was being honest, she'd thought about that before. His constant tracking of her, literally and figuratively, was proof of how much he worried for her. And she suddenly felt selfish for traveling to keep herself from being worried about him and making him be worried for her instead.

"Is that why you like me on the landline? Because you know I'm home and not away?" she asked, the thought suddenly lodging in her brain.

"I'm the calmest if you're here" he confirmed.

She sighed.

"I understand what you do, you understand what I do. We don't expect each other to give anything up, but I do expect you not to be reckless" he said, reasoning with her.

"Are you not reckless?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Never, Rory. I'm there doing a job that has to be done and I know I'm the best man for it. If it's not me, it's someone else who is more likely to get hurt" he explained.

She nodded. It was hard to argue with his reasoning. His reasoning was concrete walls, steel structures, protective but unyielding and insurmountable for her flailing emotions.

"Okay" she conceded, her head hanging as she moved closer into his chest.

"Okay?" he asked, lifting her face gently, looking at her intently as he held her with the other arm.

She nodded.

"Is this settled then?" she asked and saw a flash of surprise on his face, a mix of relief and unconvinced skepticism. He squinted, trying to decipher her meaning.

"Yes, but you're still recovering from a concussion" he pointed out, his words careful.

"I'm done recovering. I've missed you" she said, their eyes meeting. He sighed, before he pulled her into his hold, his arms going around her waist as he lifted her gently. She wrapped herself around him, her body finally feeling relieved after days of guilt and shame.

"I love you. I'm sorry" she whispered, clinging to his body with all her might.

"I love you so much" he replied, inhaling her smell as his muscles tend to hold her close.

He had her right there, against the sofa, his touch eternally soft even as she felt the restrained need inside him. She pleaded with him, urged him and he relented, panting as he drove into her.

"Please don't do that to me again" he whispered into her ear as she cried out in pleasure and she promised not to, her breath faltering as her words broke from her chest.

He groaned as he released into her, his body shaking and she was still clutching him, whispering "I promise" over and over again as he came down.

She got an offer from Georgetown University.

She thought the timing suspicious, her thoughts about her encounter in the Pentagon still fresh in her mind, but it didn't change her mind about it.

She said yes before even telling Tristan about it. He was away on a drill and she wondered if that was also not coincidental.

She shook her head, trying to keep herself from immersing in full blown conspiracy theories.

The job, however it came to her, was something of a dream.

When she went to visit campus, she was instantly swept up in the atmosphere, her memories of Yale, a time she still felt about like one does of a nostalgically good dream, reignited in her mind.

She was given a task of holding a class on unconventional journalism in the 21st century and she chuckled at the title, noting the Army had a sense of humor. If in case it was the army behind the fortunate offer. The dean of education swore it was her infamous stint as a rescued journalist during the raid, her resulting article, although she tried to downplay her role in the incident, causing quite a splash she had been happy to avoid during her last couple of years.

She was happy to accept the job and take an unofficial break from worrying about what she should write about. She worked for days to come up with the syllabus and schedule for the course, thinking up assignments and working on lists of required readings.

By the time Tristan was home, she was ecstatic, her body vibrating with a nervous excitement as she told him the news.

She saw his face tense, his eyes filling with worry, his demeanor only calming slowly as he listened to her describe the premise of the new job. It kept him in a contemplative mood and she could tell he was mulling over the whole deal even hours later as they were sitting at the table over dinner.

"You're going to be a professor?" he asked reverently, a small smile playing on his lips.

She smiled at him, happy to see acceptance on his face.

"Looks like it" she said scooping food onto his plate.

"You're way too hot to be a professor" he remarked.

"Oh please" she laughed.

"I'm gonna have to beat them boys away with a stick" he said, reaching out to caress her face.

"You might be exaggerating here" she arched an eyebrow.

"Just when I finally oust all your suitors" he continued playing.

"Okay, Odysseus" she rolled her eyes.

"You sure, you want this?" he asked, his face turning serious. She could see anguish on his face, worry and an obvious guilt and she smiled, doing her best to try to relieve him.

"It sounds exciting. And it's close by. I'd be close to a landline at all times" she said, looking up at him and giving him a knowing smile.

"Rory, I know they gave you a hard time in there, but it was more to scare you" he said, sighing.

"I know" she nodded.

"And I don't want you to give up anything for me. You've never asked me to give up anything for you" he said and she took a deep breath, knowing not only that he was right, but that that was her burden now, her task and responsibility. Holding him up.

She nodded again.

"I think this will be fun. And if not, I can always go back to igniting international military incidents" she pointed out.

"Oh yeah, you're a natural at that" he played along.

Turns out once she was on the podium, she never looked back.

She never talked about journalism before. She always just did it. So, to speak about it, to portray to someone who was just starting out how it felt to wield the power of words, of truth, felt reinvigorating and surprisingly addictive. She dreamed about giving lectures, waking up with a jolt of adrenaline and rushing to her computer to write down a particular phrase or thought. She immersed herself in work, loving when the students engaged, when they asked and argued with her.

He'd sneak into her lectures sometimes, quietly, hoping she wouldn't notice, but she always did, whenever she turned around to spot him in the second to last row, his eyes intent on her as she continued her lecture. He'd wait patiently after class for most her students to clear the room, smiling his own private smile when a guy would hang back to ask her extra questions.

Once she started putting away her stuff, he'd descend the stairs, walking up to her to gently draw her into an embrace and a kiss. She smiled her private smile when she saw from the corner of her eyes, the girls still in the classroom gape at them and elbow each other whispering.

The only hard part was getting up in the morning. Through years of being a sloth, she lost the ability to be able to wake up to an alarm clock and hit the ground running and she had to take up a habit of cold showers to jolt herself into alertness.

She'd frown at him, always sitting behind the kitchen isle and ready by the time she came downstairs, already showered after his morning jog.

"Good morning professor Gilmore" he said cheerfully and she winced at the level of his voice.

"How are you this awake every morning?" she murmured, her eyes still half sealed shut, her voice groggy.

He smiled.

"I love you most in the mornings" he chuckled.

"Shut up" she said as she absent mindedly took the cup from his hand and took a swig from it.

When she lowered it, her baffled eyes met his horrified ones.

She swallowed, tasting the liquid she had abstained from for more than 8 years, the taste rushing her. It was as though the caffeine already entered her bloodstream, her heart racing and the surge of adrenaline rising like a wave from the back of her stomach.

He looked at her, unblinking, his expression weary as he braced himself for her reaction.

She breathed, the air coming in easy, deep breaths even as she felt the panic on her face.

She kept her focus on his eyes, pale blue and more concrete than anything she'd ever depended on.

His hand reached out, taking the cup from her hand and pushing it aside.

"You're okay" he murmured, not taking her eyes off of her.

She nodded as he repeated the expression, standing up to pull her in for a kiss, leaning over the isle.

She closed her eyes, concentrating on the slide of his hand up her arm, the feel of his lips brushing softly against hers, the smell and taste of his tongue, meeting against hers. Coffee on coffee.