Author's (Final) Note:

Sigh... here we are. The end. I can only hope you've all enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Thank you all for following this little tale and leaving such wonderful feedback on my work. I've greatly appreciated it.

Many, many thanks to Lily Moonlight: Without you, this would have never been finished, and even if it had it wouldn't have been very good. You're asbolutely irreplaceable and I have no idea what I would do without you reading over my shoulder. ;)

Without further adieu....

Epilogue

"I'll Find You"

"Detective Bonasera, do you have anything to add?"

The air is cold and still around me, and my brain is caught up visualizing what's going to happen to my life if the next few minutes go terribly wrong. I'm so wrapped up that it takes me a few seconds to realize that I've been spoken to.

"Detective?" he asks again. "Anything to add?"

"No, sir," I reply absently, "Nothing."

He nods his head and scowls with a ferocity I've never seen, and then he and the other five people at the table turn away from the microphones and begin to converse. The room stills expectantly while they speak, and it feels like every second is another year off my life expectancy. My blood pressure gets a little higher when they all start to nod their heads, and one sour looking woman at the end of the table scribbles something down and hands it off. I watch in terror as the message is passed down the table to the man in front of the microphone. My entire world depends on that tiny piece of scrap paper, and I'm left to watch it as though I'm being handed my death sentence.

The man takes a moment to read it, frowns, and then clears his throat loudly enough for the entire room to hear even without the microphone. A strong hand finds mine and squeezes it, but I'm immune to this attempt at consolation. Right now, my universe is frozen solid. Nothing can stir me. Even the next breath I take is going to depend entirely upon what Internal Affairs has to say in the next few moments.

"It is the finding of this board that the death of Raphael Benevuto was accidental and therefore no fault of Detective Stella Bonasera," the small, balding man reads stoically, seemingly detached from the idea that these few words have given me my life back. I hear a gavel bluntly strike its target, and then the din of the courtroom commences. I can hardly believe it, but the words are hanging in the air for the entire world to hear.

I'm free.

A series of hands find mine, shaking them, and I hear congratulations from dozens of voices that I couldn't recognize right now if I tried. I smile and nod robotically, my brain still processing this new-found relief. Of course I'd known all along that Raphael's death had been accidental—a total fluke that shocks me even now—but that didn't mean I couldn't have been held responsible. That didn't stop IAB from questioning me.

It's over.

I think the words with a sigh and find myself smiling a little more freely as the minutes slip by. Reality is seeping in the cracks, giving me the liberty to believe that I've really been cleared. Lindsay is quick to offer a hug, as are Hawkes and Danny. Jess embraces me and whispers congratulations in my ear. Adam offers a deep blush and a quick kiss on my cheek, followed swiftly by something that looked like a bow and a string of curses under his breath. Jess and I laugh and watch him retreat awkwardly back to the lab, where he's far more comfortable.

Finally, when I think I've been approached by almost everyone in the precinct, a large hand rests against my back and leads me away from the crowd. I go willingly, allowing myself to be guided out of the courtroom and into the circus of reporters that are waiting outside the courthouse steps. Questions are barked at me in rapid-fire and I ignore them, my companion promising a press release later that day. Of course, none of that matters. They're going to follow me to my car, and I'm most likely going to come home to a million messages on my answering machine.

The sudden death of one of the Mafia princes is no small bit of news, and I can't deny my part in it. I'm lucky enough to have shielded the most part of the story from the rabid reporters on my trail, but what's been exposed is bad enough. Stella Bonasera, undercover detective, solved a string of murders that led back to one of the most powerful crime families in the history of New York City. I can only imagine the headlines that are going to appear over the next few days… if I have any luck at all, I won't see any of them.

In addition to Raphael's death, Kevin La Salle has flipped on the family. He was released from Bellevue two days ago and is now giving us everything we need to have the Benevutos put out of business permanently. After all, who needs loyalty when you can have a plea bargain?

I force myself out of my thoughts just in time to crawl into the passenger's seat of a nondescript black sedan with tinted windows; the perfect getaway car. Camera lights are still exploding around me, giving me a monstrous headache, but then the engine starts and we start to pull away from the curb. A few ambitious rookies dare to run after us for a little while, but even they fall to the wayside after a few blocks. I exhale loudly, suddenly exhausted, and I'm met with bright blue eyes that look suspiciously concerned.

"Where to, your majesty?" he asks playfully.

"Home, Don," I reply, staring out the window. "I just want to go home."

"You sure?"

Am I? I've barely been home in the last two weeks, since Raphael's body was carried out of the greenhouse. The nightmares have kept me awake, and missing Mac has taken up even more of my time. I think about my apartment; I think about the silence and of the red stains I can't seem to get out of the upholstery. Already my mouth is dry, and I'm not even through considering my choices when Flack answers for me.

"That's a no, then," he replies. "Are you hungry? I haven't seen you eat yet today."

"I had coffee."

"Which is kind of like eating, but different," he says sarcastically and I give him a weak laugh. "Come on, Stella. Make me happy, here. One good, solid meal. Then I swear I'll leave you alone."

"Liar," I accuse, but I'm smiling.

"Until next time, anyway," he says with a wink.

"Go on, then," I instruct. "I'll go wherever you lead me."

"That's got to be a first," he smirks and I roll my eyes at him.

My eyes retreat to the window, taking solace in the way that everything appears to be the same. Flack turns on the radio and it gives me a temporary outlet, the lyrics of an old Jim Croce song effectively taking me out of the present.

-----

Two Weeks Before

I wake up in the back of an ambulance, dizzy and disoriented. The earth seems to be shifting unsteadily beneath me, taking my uneasy stomach right along with it, and the wail of sirens cuts into my thoughts. I feel a slight pressure in my hand as the bumps of the road rouse me back into consciousness. People are talking around me, and one familiar voice stands out from all the others.

"Sheldon?" I ask tentatively, opening my eyes to the excruciatingly bright light.

"Yeah, I'm here," he replies and pushes my hair out of my face. The touch is firm but gentle, but it does nothing to comfort me.

"Where am I?" I groan, suddenly feeling nauseous. "What happened?"

"We got you out of there," he says. "Lindsay's fine, too."

"What?" I take a deep breath, but it only upsets me more. I'm lost. "What's going on?"

"Calm down," he says, "What can I do?"

"What happened?" I ask, starting to panic as my memory catches up with me. The sound of a gunshot echoes brutally in my ear and then my heart is racing, throwing me back into the middle of everything.

"Mac!" I cry suddenly, sitting up on the gurney. "Mac's hurt!"

"Stella, calm down," Hawkes instructs, taking a firm grasp on my shoulders. "He's on his way to the hospital right now, the same as you."

"He is?" I ask frantically. "Take me to him. I have to be there."

"The only thing you have to do right now is breathe," he tells me frankly. "You had a panic attack and passed out."

"A panic attack?" I ask, confused. "I don't have panic attacks."

"It's totally understandable considering the circumstances," he says gently, doing his best to offer comfort to someone who won't be comforted no matter what he says.

"What about Mac?" I beg of him, his calm brown eyes meeting my frantic green ones. "Is he okay?"

"As far as we can tell, the bullet only grazed his rib cage," he says calmly, but it doesn't take a cop to know he's holding something back.

"And?" I press, all at once terrified of the answer.

"He's sustained some pretty serious injuries, Stella," he replies candidly. "He has a severe concussion, and what feels like three cracked ribs. A dislocated shoulder, on top of that. We'll know more once we can get him through an X-Ray and an MRI."

"But he'll be fine," I insist, "Won't he?"

"Head injuries are difficult to predict," he says reluctantly.

"Hawkes," I cry incredulously, "Tell me he's fine!"

He clenches his jaw.

"He's fine," he says, placating me, but neither of us seems to know how true that statement may or may not be. I lean back on the gurney, and try to force my breathing back to normal. I should have known it wouldn't work. It doesn't take me long to slip into unconsciousness again.

-----

It seems likely barely a second before Flack's car pulls up to the curb and stops, rousing me out of memories that are better left alone. I don't remember the drive, but I suppose I wouldn't. I surprise myself when I realize that I'm looking forward to the dinner, simply because it's a distraction. For the moment, the last thing I want is to be left to my thoughts.

Dinner is magnificent.

Flack had the foresight to take me to an upscale restaurant that wouldn't allow reporters to bother their guests, for which I'm forever grateful. The rest of the team joins us a few minutes after we arrive, and they're quick to toast my apparent release with red wine that's probably way out of any of our price ranges. We all smile and laugh and I realize for the millionth time in the last two weeks that I'm the luckiest woman in the world to have them in my life. Lindsay, Jess and I discuss wedding plans—Jess seems particular interested, which interests me—and I offer what futile advice I can. The guys are discussing something which, for them, means arguing loudly and disrupting the rest of the restaurant.

The sun sets quickly when you're too wrapped up in your company to notice, and before long the city's night lights have come alive. Hawkes leaves first, claiming exhaustion, and then Flack and Angell leave under a similar pretense. I hug each of them as they go, thanking them profusely. A few minutes later Danny starts to yawn, and Lindsay mentions leaving. She asks Danny to go get the car while she says goodbye, and of course he agrees. He offers me a fierce hug and words of encouragement that make me feel like I had the entire world behind me. Danny could be like that, I think to myself. Having his support is like having an army behind you.

Once he's far enough away from the table Lindsay turns to me and covers my hand with her own.

"How are you holding up?" she asks in a whisper, her dark eyes compassionate.

I shrug. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"That doesn't answer the question, Stella," she says sternly. "You're the eternal optimist, remember? You have to know this wasn't your fault."

"Logically, of course I know that," I reply honestly, "But that doesn't mean it feels like it."

"There was nothing more you could have done for him," she tells me earnestly, squeezing my hand. "Please tell me you know that. This was not your fault. These things just happen."

"That's such a passive way of dealing with things," I say bitterly, fighting the tears building up behind my eyelids.

"Would you rather dwell over it for the rest of your life?" she asks pointedly and I grimace, thinking that I probably will.

"I'll manage," I say with some finality, swirling the dark Merlot in my glass before taking a sip. Lately, I've lost my taste for it. "The last few times I went to see him he was still unconscious. Then… then, he was just gone. Checked out of the hospital, without another word. I actually went to see him that morning, but the IAB guys picked me up on my way in." I give a bitter laugh. "I should have taken it philosophically."

"Maybe he just needed some time to get back on his feet," she insists.

"A week is a long time, though, Lindsay. Especially when it's someone you care about." I look up at her with a sad smile. "He must have really wanted to avoid seeing me."

"You can't believe that," she laments, heartbroken for me, but all I can do is cast my eyes down at my hands.

I've called Colonel Brand every day this week, and he's reported that Mac is quickly improving. He's not back at work yet, but he will be in another week or so. The man must have heard by now that I've been calling—scared out of my mind for him—but never once has Mac left a message in return for me. It's excruciating to lose him like this, without warning. Every time I hang up the phone, another part of me fractures and falls away.

"Mac's involvement in this case was mostly outside the call of duty," Lindsay responds, bringing me out of my head, "Outside of vague statements about inter-agency cooperation, anything he contributed could have lost both your jobs. I'm convinced that he's just trying to protect you."

"I don't need his protection," I groan, frustrated, "I need him. Here, with me."

"I know you do," she says gently and squeezes my hand. "He'll be back, I know it. Once he feels like it's safe."

"It would have been safe days ago," I say dejectedly, every word viciously cutting my lips like glass as they pass over them. "It's over, done with. I'm done with it. I can't spend my life waiting to see if he'll turn back up."

"Don't give up," she pleads as she stands up from the table and gathers her things.

"Too late," I murmur, "Part of me gave up days ago." She replies with a half-hearted smile before turning and leaving me at the table, alone.

-----

I wake up to the sound of a heart monitor, beeping steadily. Since I can feel the IV in my right forearm, I'm left to assume that it's my heart they're monitoring. I tentatively blink a few times, clearing my throat. My mouth is drier than the desert at high noon, but it only takes a few seconds to come to the conclusion that thirst is the least of my worries. My mind stumbles upon the memory of Kevin La Salle's gun aiming at Stella, and within seconds the beeping a few feet away starts to speed up.

Was she hurt? I look around, and find no one who could answer the question for me. I remember pulling my own trigger in defense, but nothing after that comes to the surface. As hard as I'm trying, nothing happens. It's all a blank.

"Careful, now," I hear a voice tell me. "You'll tear those stitches right out."

My eyes stumble on an elderly nurse with cocoa-colored skin and wiry gray hair that's tucked into a bun on the nape of her neck. Her body is tiny and unimposing, but her voice holds authority. She's standing in the doorway of my room, staring at me with calm eyes that look black and perfectly serene in the near-absence of light.

"Where am I?"

"Mt. Sinai," she answers, "You had us worried for a few days now."

"Days?" I ask incredulously. "I've been here for days?"

"Three to be exact," she says. "Not counting the night they brought you in."

"Three days…" I murmur distractedly, trying to account for the time I know I'll never get back. "What happened?"

"To you?" she asks pointedly, "Concussion, cracked ribs, messed-up shoulder and a gunshot wound." She walks a little farther into the room, stopping at the food of the bed. "Between you and me, I would hate to see the other guy if you look like this and still made it out alive."

"Did a woman come in with me?" I ask, "Stella Bonasera. She's NYPD."

"Oh, Stella came in alright," she replies with a smirk. "I don't think she's slept in three days, waiting for you to wake up."

"She's here?"

"No, not this minute," she replies thoughtfully. "I could have sworn I saw her this morning, but two men came and pulled her aside before she could come in."

The beeping on my monitor speeds up again.

"Two men? Who were they?"

"They were from some group called Internal Affairs, if I remember correctly," she said, concentrating. "They'd come in once or twice before, looking for her. It took them a while to catch up with her, but they finally did." She scoffs. "Unlucky, too. She's going to lose her ever-loving mind when I tell her you're awake."

I'm too caught up contemplating the idea of Internal Affairs going after Stella to realize what's she's said, but once the words sink in I look up at her and shake my head.

"No," I tell her adamantly. "You can't tell her I'm awake."

She narrows her eyes at me.

"Excuse me?" she asks pointedly. "The woman's been by that bed for the last three days without fail. And you want me to lie to her?"

"Please," I say, "It's important."

"How important are we talking here?"

"Very," I promise her emphatically, "The men who were talking to her—Internal Affairs—can take away her job if they find out we're involved." I lower my voice. "She could be convicted of something she didn't do. Understand?"

She takes a moment to mull over the information, grimacing, before she finally nods.

"Got it," she says firmly, "No phone call."

"Thank you," I sigh. "So am I going to die if I get out of here early?"

"Die? No," she says. "Hurt? Damn straight."

"Pain I can deal with," I mutter and she scoffs.

"We'll see about that, sugar," she warns. "Hell hath no fury, remember?" She cuts her eyes at me. "Stella's not going to think too kindly about being ditched, you hear me? And between you and me, she deserves better."

"You're right. She does," I reply. "That's why I have to disappear."

She sighs and shakes her head. I hear her mutter something about men and then she's turned to walk out the room, leaving me panting in my bed and wondering how I'm going to successfully stay in the shadows long enough to keep Stella out of harm's way. Stella has an entire case for the NYPD to back her up… if the IAB finds out that she went rogue to help me in my revenge mission, she'll lose everything. Her job, her life. When it comes right down to it, I can't do that to her. I won't.

It takes me half an hour to rip out my IV and get dressed, but then I'm gone.

-----

The crowd in the restaurant has begun to thin, and the bus boys are sluggishly cleaning up the tables around me. I take another sip from my glass and reach for the bill that was placed on the table over an hour ago, when the staff still had hopes of getting us out of here at a reasonable time. I'd insisted on paying for the meal myself, and I'm almost afraid to open the tiny book and see the damage. Fortunately for me, I'm interrupted before I get to the big event.

"Oh, I've already taken care of that," a voice says from behind me and I turn, my eyes widening as I watch a man I think is Gino Benevuto approach the table. No, I think again. It couldn't be. Could it? I blink a couple times but my initial impression was correct: the suave man approaching me is, in fact, crazy Uncle Gino.

His usually frizzy white hair has been combed neatly and slicked back, making his thin face look even leaner. Not surprisingly, the effect is impressive. His suit is the deepest black and very obviously tailored to fit its owner; even his glasses are different. The gawky black frames he favored the last time I saw him have been replaced for slimmer, stylish ones with a slight tint to them. Even the red handkerchief in his lapel looks like fine silk.

"Look at you," I say, honestly surprised. "You look… great."

"Thank you, dear," he replies before kissing both my cheeks. "Of course you look amazing, but that's a given with Mediterranean women."

I smile and watch as he pulls up a chair next to me, facing me with an interesting grin. The eccentric older man I'd known a few weeks ago is seemingly gone, replaced with this dashing and debonair doppelganger. I study him just as intently as he studies me, wondering where the old Gino managed to sneak off to.

"I'm glad to know you're okay," I say finally, and the words are absolutely true. I'd agonized for days about what had happened to him, but when I read his statements in Flack's report I assumed he was fine. Judging from the man in front of me, Gino has been more than fine.

"I've still got plenty of tricks up these old sleeves of mine," he replies with a self-effacing smirk. Then his expression turns serious, and I start to wonder why he's really here. "I've been watching the news lately. Looks like you're off the hook."

I nod.

"Yeah, I am," I tell him. "Raphael's death was ruled accidental."

"Huh," he says unconvincingly. "There you have it."

"It was accidental," I say tentatively, "The glass falling was a complete coincidence. Bad timing." Gino just stares at me. "Right?"

"You know, Stella," he starts, "I've always found that the people closest to you are more likely to cause damage to you than the shifty-eyed stranger next to you. So, as much as I love my family, I've always made sure to have… options."

"Options?" I ask, "What does that mean?"

"Underground tunnels, secret passageways inside the house," he says and catches my eye, "Booby traps."

"Oh, my God."

"It's amazing what one little pressure trigger can do. If you know how to use it, that is," he adds solemnly with a wink. My stomach has plummeted, of course, and I'm staring at the man in front of me like I've never seen him before. As far as I know, I haven't. This isn't the sweet little man who gave me flowers straight from his garden at the dinner table—this man was… someone else. Someone else entirely.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about that," he says jovially as though he hadn't just confessed to the brutal murder of his own nephew. "You just let Uncle Gino do all the worrying."

"You can't be serious," I reply nervously, leaning forward and whispering so that no one at a surrounding table could overhear this particularly gruesome conversation. "He was your nephew, Gino. You couldn't just kill him." I pause. "Could you?"

"Raphael was a monster," he replies heatedly, "The whole family knew it, his father and brother included. But his mother coddled him, and no one would do anything about it. He tortured people just for the hell of it and that's not right, no matter what your family history looks like."

"Oh, my God."

"It had to be done, Stella," he tells me solemnly. "You know it did! Better than anyone, you know it did." He leans in closer. "You saw what he did to those people."

"We could have put him in prison!" I whisper savagely. "We could have put him away, where he couldn't have hurt anyone."

"He would have gotten out eventually," he shrugged, "Prison has never been able to hold the members of this family. There's always a loophole, waiting to be found. Even if you did manage to keep him inside, he would be coddled and protected even more. The family has many connections, even inside the system." He sighs. "No. This was the only way."

"I can't believe…" I trail off, "You, Gino? How could it be you?"

He smiled enigmatically.

"Raphael probably told you I was an accountant," he says and I nod my head in return. "Well, to tell you the truth, the only numbers I crunched was my body count."

I stare, mouth open and eyes wide, and I have absolutely no idea what to do. Should I arrest him? He just confessed to other murders, including the murder of his own nephew! But Raphael's death has already been ruled accidental and I don't exactly have a death list with which to consult his claims. It takes me only a few more moments to realize that my word against his isn't going to stand up in court or anywhere else, and he gives me a faintly amused expression.

"You just forget about all of that," he says gently, patting my hand, "It's none of your concern now. You have a life to get back to, remember? You should enjoy it."

"Yeah," I reply absently and stare helplessly as he stands up from the table. He presses a chaste kiss to my forehead and stares down at me.

"You take care of yourself, Miss Stella," he instructs pointedly. "If anyone gives you trouble—anyone at all—you come get me and I'll take care of it."

I barely have the presence of mind to nod my assent before he walks away, heading for the door. His movements are strong and confident, and completely unlike the jittery amateur magician and gardener that I met over a month ago. The transformation between the two men is remarkable, but then again I suppose it's easier to act eccentric than it is to act normally. For him, anyway. I'm left to wonder just how much his family knows about his "oddity," but I have a feeling it isn't much. Men like Gino can blend in anywhere, and can make anyone believe whatever he wants them to. The thought is terrifying, even when it's him. Maybe especially because it's him.

He crosses the space of the restaurant quickly, and then he's gone from sight. The host regards him with some anxiety, so I'm left to assume that this isn't Uncle Gino's first visit. I find myself laughing after a few moments, amazed. The laughter is mostly a nervous reflex—hysteria because I'm watching helplessly as a murderer walks casually away from me. Of course I have no proof other than a seemingly peculiar old man's word, but only a fool would doubt Gino at this point.

I can honestly say I didn't see that one coming.

-----

All the stress from the last two weeks has accumulated right behind my eyes by the time I get home, and I overpay the cab driver as I climb out and head for my apartment building. The headache swiftly gaining ferocity is a combination of unbearable stress and expensive wine, but it won't last long. There's a bottle of pain reliever in my bathroom cabinet with my name on it, and I have every intention of taking two and crawling into bed.

Now that the IAB decision is out of the way, tomorrow my life goes back to normal. Tomorrow I'll have crime scenes and paperwork to deal with, and everything that's happened in the last few weeks will be behind me. It doesn't help that I've fantasized for weeks about all this ending, and now that it has I'm miserable without the one person who gave it all meaning. Mac's gone back to his life, and I'm left to mine. I should be grateful, I know, because my life has been returned to me. It may not be in one piece, but at least I know it's completely mine.

At last.

The thought is no small comfort as I suffer through the seemingly endless elevator ride to my floor, and drag my tired body down the hallway and up to my front door. The key feels like it weighs a ton, but I manage to fit it into the lock and turn the damned thing far enough for the tumblers to slide back and let me in. I throw my bag and keys down with a thud, and my badge and gun are next to go. I lock them up in a drawer and it's not until I'm kicking my shoes off that I realize the difference in the air.

It's wrong somehow, I think. It has to be. Suddenly all the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end and the last thing on my mind is sleep. My ears are straining to pick up any hint of sound, but there isn't one. Complete silence. My first thought is the most irrational one—Raphael—but I'm quick to throw that one out, simply because I don't think I could take the shock of wandering into my kitchen and seeing him standing there. As comforting as it is to know that it wouldn't be Raphael who's standing in my kitchen, I know that I'm not entirely off the hook. Someone is definitely there.

I consider reaching for my gun, but then the person clears their throat and I know exactly who it is. No, I think. It can't be. My heart seizes in my chest and I rush around the corner, a single glance confirming my suspicions.

Mac is leaning against my kitchen counter, in complete Marine dress uniform. He's holding his white hat in his hands and looking directly at me, his eyes locked on mine. Part of me is thanking God for the fact that he's alive, but the scorned woman in me is cursing him with every breath. I run through millions of possible responses for this situation, ranging from "Take me, I'm yours," to "Get the hell out of here before I find my gun." Fortunately for both of us, neither of those comments are what leaves my lips.

"I thought you said you wouldn't break in anymore," I observe, squaring my shoulders and trying to pretend that I'm as strong now as I used to be.

In typical Mac fashion, he only smiles.

"If I remember correctly, I said that was barring unforeseen circumstances," he replies simply. I clear my throat, suddenly more nervous than I should be. I feel his eyes boring into me and it takes almost all my concentration to ignore the sensation of being read like a well-worn book.

"I visited Amy last week," I say suddenly, swiftly changing the subject to something safe. He nods, his eyes finally shifting downward.

"We buried Nate this morning," he admits, brushing something from the brim of his hat. "He was given full military honors."

"I'm glad," I say honestly and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that this dry dialogue is a prelude. I feel my chest constrict and I feel my eyes burn, but there will be plenty of time for tears later. I need to get this newest heartbreak out of the way before I have time to grieve its loss.

"I'm sorry I haven't been here," he says dryly and I'm not entire convinced that he means it. His eyes are still on his hat, rather than on me.

"You couldn't have been that sorry," I say, obviously hurt, "You weren't here." My voice raises an octave, and it's not hard to hear the strain. "I didn't even get the courtesy of a phone call or a message. I didn't even get to know if you were still alive, for Christ's sake." I stare at him, hard. "That doesn't strike me as sorry."

"It wasn't that simple," he fires back, and this time I hear the emotion in his voice. "I couldn't be here! You would have lost everything."

"That should have been my choice," I reply heatedly. "Not yours."

"I wasn't involved with Raphael out of duty, Stella!" he says emphatically. "I was there to murder him. If anyone had paid more attention what was going on outside that greenhouse, they would have figured that out and you would have been charged as an accomplice." He narrows his eyes. "I couldn't have been responsible for that. You have to understand that I did what I thought was best."

"But I wasn't guilty of anything!" I cry incredulously. "I did nothing wrong. I had nothing to lose, except for you." I clear my throat. "And it's looking to me like I already have."

He says nothing, but keeps his eyes on mine. They're unreadable and for once I don't mind not knowing what he's thinking.

"Take care of yourself, Mac," I say, my voice breaking under the strain of the words. "I guess I'll see you around."

His mouth presses into a grim line and my resolve breaks, allowing a few tears to roll down my cheeks. This is it, I think to myself. Goodbye. It hurts like hell. I start to turn away, planning on crawling into my bed and crying myself to sleep, when his voice cuts into the otherwise still air.

"Don't you want to know the unforeseen circumstances?" he asks and I scoff.

"What?" I ask sarcastically, "You like my coffee better?"

He ignores the jab and sets his hat down on the counter. Walking slowly toward me, he takes a deep breath and reaches up to push a strand of hair out of my face.

"All this time I've stayed away because I thought I could protect you, but I never expected to miss you this much," he says softly, sending chills ripping mercilessly up my spine. "The last two weeks have been hell. Every morning I wake up and reach for you before I realize that you're not there."

"Did you want me to be?" I ask cautiously, internally begging him not to hurt me. Loving Mac Taylor has made a weak woman of me, and there's no telling when I'll be strong again.

"That's up to you, isn't it?" he returns solemnly. "Is that what you want?"

"I'm a pretty big risk right now," I warn casually, and it's the truth. If Mac's not careful, he'll be stuck with me forever.

"I've never met a risk more worth taking," he tells me, using the pad of his thumb to wipe away a few of my tears. I almost laugh from relief, but instead of fumbling for the wrong words I pull his lips down to mine and bring them crashing together. The fit is perfect, just like it always is. He greedily pulls my hips forward to meet his and I wonder how I ever could have lived without him. When he pulls away from me, his face his flushed and his breathing is labored.

"I want to stick around, Stella," he says earnestly, kissing my forehead. "If you'll have me."

I reply with another burning kiss.

"I think I can work something out."

THE END