The wind had not stopped blowing with astonishing intensity for three days. It was late, but Dmitri Tushkevich was not tired. He paced the floor, making a circuit through the connected rooms on the first floor of the house. He passed through the sitting room, the formal dining room, the foyer, the…what was this room even for? It was piled high with boxes of varying sizes. He looked into a few and saw china, linens, pieces of furniture, all the trappings of a happy home.

But happy families are all alike and we are not like anyone, not even from my favorite novel.

He rushed out of the room, not stopping until he arrived at the door of the den. Ziva was not inside; she had gone to bed hours ago. As far as he knew, she had not been in the room since he had lost control. He opened the door, but did not turn on the lights as he made his way to the couch. She had looked so vulnerable sitting at his knees, literally having crawled back to him.

How could I have reduced her to crawling? I almost killed her and she still set aside her pride to show her love for me.

He was ashamed of the incident. It had felt like some outside force had taken over his muscles, forcing him to tighten his grip around the neck he had lovingly kissed and caressed so many times before. The anger was familiar – one did not conduct business in his chosen field without a certain amount of aggression and rage – but the source was not. Even when Ziva had first revealed her connection to Moussad, his temper had not flared like that.

Because I saw how I could use that. I have no use for a rival.

Even if she were lying, if she had loved DiNozzo, would telling the truth really be so much better? Dmitri was sure that she had not been unfaithful since she had come back to him. If she had been involved with DiNozzo not long before returning, it was only natural that she would have some trouble getting over any feelings she had developed. Dmitri had told her to go on as if he really was dead, and she had complied, never knowing when he would call her back to him.

I am jealous of a man my wife killed to save me.

She was Moussad trained. She could have reached for her weapon, but she did not, nor did she use her hands against him. She had avoided him for the better part of the last two days, but she had not tried to leave or retaliate. If there were going to be consequences, they would have occurred by now. He had no doubt that Ziva's powerful father could have had him dead in hours if she were still in contact with Moussad.

She did not want to hurt me on any level.

He walked down a short flight of five stairs on his way to the kitchen. He was surprised to find the room brightly lit. His eyes needed a moment to adjust after the muted lights in the rest of the house at this hour. He finally saw Ziva standing by the espresso machine, watching him. "You're awake. I thought you'd gone to sleep in one of the other bedrooms."

"I have not slept yet."

I cannot sleep without you.

She busied herself with pouring water into the machine. "I don't suppose I should offer you anything then."

"Maybe a few moments of your time?" He leaned his forearms on the central island and leaned toward her.

She touched a yellowing bruise on her neck before nodding and he was once again filled with remorse.

You do not need to carry your knife and gun at all times. I am never going to hurt you again.

He took a chocolate chip muffin from the cellophane-covered plate in front of him. "It is four in the morning and you are fully dressed. And armed."

"It's too cold to walk around in pajamas and I'm not tired anymore. Why shouldn't I be dressed? And when have you known me to be unarmed?"

Never.

"Ziva, I cannot do this much longer. I have apologized. I have tried to make you understand why…"

She interrupted him, "I do understand. You were angry and jealous."

"Yes, so…"

"So I've had two days to think about it and I'm not through being angry yet. I said I understand. That isn't the same as saying I approve, or I'm not upset. Or that I forgive you."

I do not deserve your forgiveness.

He watched her sip her espresso as he ate his muffin. Her small white cup clattered on the countertop every time she handled it. "You are very tense."

"Yes, my husband tried to kill me a few days ago and upwards of thirty terrorists are coming here next week to buy nuclear weapons."

"Clients," he corrected.

"Old habits die hard."

You are still Moussad at heart. Or perhaps just Israeli.

"There is something else. You are anxious, as if you are waiting. What are you waiting for?"

She looked down at the espresso machine at her left. "Nothing."

"You are waiting for something." He walked slowly, rounding the central island.

Do not flinch, my princess. Do not shy away from me.

"You want the truth? I'm waiting for you to try and hurt me again! Because I swear, I will not let you!" Tears filled her eyes as she brandished her pistol, which she had pulled from the holster he had seen clipped to the back of her belt. "I won't let you…I'll defend myself. You know I can." He advanced gradually, reaching for the gun she held in both of her trembling hands. It was easy to take from her unsteady grasp. "Dmitri, don't…"

He silenced her with a long kiss. His face became wet with her tears.

You do not have to cry. I do not want you to cry.

"Please, do not cry, my princess. I was wrong, and it will never happen again."

Her voice was meek. "Do you promise?"

"Of course." He kissed her again, feeling a rush of exhaustion through his body as he realized he no longer had a problem keeping him awake. "I am quite tired as I have not slept in some time, but perhaps in five hours or so you will wake me and join me in bed?"

She pecked his lips. "I suppose I can wait that long, Mitya."

"I love you."

Ziva listened carefully, waiting until Dmitri's footsteps receded before splashing her face with water from the kitchen sink. She picked up her Jericho from the counter and secured it in her holster. While waiting for a second shot of espresso to brew, she warmed a muffin in the toaster. Settling on a stool at the island, she muttered, "And the Oscar goes to…"

She was sure the next man she had sex with would not be Dmitri Tushkevich. There were only two hours left.