Once again, they had found themselves lying next to the other, this time cuffless, but forced by the small space of the car trunk to be arguably closer. And the tension- sexual and not- was even greater: jealousy can cause that.

The case was barely wrapped, and too many thoughts continued to replay in his head. From Sophia's treason to Beckett's curly, natural hair after their dive in the Hudson. But every time a new thought popped up, her frustrated- and frustrating- assertion takes front stage: "I'm not going to be rescued by your girlfriend."

And it's this thought that has led him to get out of bed way past midnight, pull some clothes on and get a cab to her house and knock on her door as loudly as he dares while trying to avoid waking up her neighbors. He's sure he can sense the moment she wakes up, and it might or might not be because a dim light becomes visible from under the door. It might be his spidey senses too.

In one swift motion, she opens the door, confident that there's only one person who would dare knock on her door at this time of the night. A thief would have simply gone in, is what her sleep deprived brain tells her. She hasn't been able to sleep all week, tossing and turning and dozing off, only to wake up again to toss and turn.

He doesn't let her speak. Castle knows the threatening words that usually accompany those threatening eyes, but he doesn't care: he wraps his arms around her, feels her tuck her head on the hollow if his neck, and both of them take a deep breath at the same time. Evidently, both were frustrated tonight. At themselves, at one another, at the CIA.

"She's not my girlfriend," he said, eventually, unwilling to let her go.

"What?" Beckett answered, playing dumb but obviously knowing what he was talking about.

"Sophia. She's not my girlfriend. I don't think we ever were a couple to be honest. Yes, we slept together. Yes, we had fun as I semi-stalked her in the name of research, but it was never more than fun," Castle said.

"You don't owe me an explanation Castle," she answered, starting to dislodge her arms from around him. But he was having none of it. They needed to talk, and he figured that holding her might buy him some good will. And if not, he'd be able to hold on to that feeling while he continues to wait for her. There's no doubt in his mind that he'd wait for as long as she asks.

"Perhaps, but I still want to give it to you Kate. I know that with my history I've given you plenty of reasons to question my commitment to you. But you see, I'm not going anywhere, and I'm sure as hell not going back- again- to the arms of a woman I don't love while I wait for the one I do," he said.

He could feel the moment her entire body tensed up. She knew what he was talking about. Hell, she probably remembered him tackling her, telling her he loved her. But none of that matters right this instant: he'd used the "l" world around her, clearly referring to his feelings for her, and not only had she not poked him, but instead, wrapped herself even more tightly around him, holding on. As if he was ever going to let her go.

"You shouldn't have to wait, Castle," she said. "I don't want to make you wait."

"Then don't Kate. I'm here if you are, but I'm also willing to wait. Just don't ever think there's someone taking your place, in my heart or in my bed, because you see, having tasted your lips, having held you in my arms, having ran my fingers through your hair, I know all other lips will be bitter, all other women would be wrong, all other hairs …"

She cuts him off. Her lips are on his before he can finish the sentence, and all of his thoughts are gone. Who could expect for him to be able to think when Kate Becket is kissing him? Her movements are slow at first, as if waiting for him to respond. More than a kiss, it's a series of pecks on his lips first, noses touching, up and down, as if needing to warm up after a freezing walk on Central Park.

Sensing his hesitancy, she pulls back, searching in his eyes for a reason. Seeing them darkened, pupils dilated, she blushes. It's the most perfect shade of red he's ever seen, and he can't control his facial muscles: they all move in unison, creating the most truthful smile he's ever given to a woman other than Alexis, but she's his little girl, and will always be his little girl.

"Stop rambling Castle," she says, interrupting his thoughts. At least, he thought he was just thinking? "You're not rambling really loudly Jedi!"

He loses it then, and he's sure his laughter woke her neighbors. But he couldn't care less. Beckett is standing in front of him, arms crossed, eyebrow up, challenging him to deny it. But her posture is anything but closed off: despite the arms and the challenge, everything in her exudes "come and get me."

She's carefree, visibly relaxed, and every sign of the apprehension she had when he didn't really engage in her kiss is long gone.

"You see, Beckett. When a man spends four years chasing after the woman of his dreams, it's to be expected that, when she throws herself at him, he responds like a teenager: clumsily," he said.

"Yeah, well, I always pictured you more like an overeager teenager, inexperienced, shooting too soon. But hey, if you need some time to regroup, you can show yourself out, I'm headed to bed," she says, with her eyes on his, all sassy and confident.

But her sassiness and confidence disappear the instant he grabs her again, holds her face with both his hands and kisses her with all he has, in a fierce kiss that expresses a thousand different sentiments. When they come out for air, both are reluctant to let the other go. Instead, she breaks eye contact to burry her nose in his chest, breathing him in, letting his scent wash over her.

"Does this mean you're my girlfriend now?" he asks, preparing himself to be poked. Instead, she hums her assent and holds him tighter.

After what feels like an eternity, she dislodges her arms from around him, and disappointment washes over him. It's time to go home, and the certainty that he'll see her again in a few hours does little to mask his unwillingness do so.

"There's no need for the puppy Castle," she says, once again reading his mind. "I don't want you to go any more than you want to leave, and though I'd like our first time to be when we have more than a few hours to explore one another, the left side of my bed has your name on it if you want it."

And the teenager in him is back full force: he grabs her from behind, her limbs all over the place, her laughter filling the room. He was just issued the most amazing invitation ever, and he'd be damn if he gives his Beckett the chance to take it back.

Even if his eagerness makes him a reckless, immature, self-centered jackass.