BONES

I lay in Booth's arms, feigning sleep. The dream, as it always does, has left me unnerved and restless. When his breathing grows deep and even, I carefully ease away from him then slip out of the bed. I may not be able to sleep but that doesn't mean he shouldn't. In the dark, I dress in the panties and pajamas I'd been wearing earlier in the evening, then, as I slip into my robe, quietly close the terrace doors so Booth can stay warm as he sleeps. Soundlessly, I leave the room.

At home, when nightmares strike and I'm unsettled enough that I can't go back to sleep immediately, I will often make a cup of tea and pull out the work I've brought home with me. If that fails, I will concede there will be no further sleep that evening and go to the lab. With the lab not an option – not that I'd leave Booth anyway – the two files I brought with me will have to suffice. Sitting down on the couch, I lean forward and pick up the file on Leishenger and start reading from the beginning.

I find I cannot concentrate, Leishenger's file reminding me of how easily this could have ended differently if not for him. It was his bones, after all, that allowed me to provide Booth with the information on Broadsky's broken hand, giving Booth an advantage that may have kept him from being killed. I can feel my pulse quicken at the mere thought, as it always does.

The base camp in the Moluccas was located more than four-hours trek through the jungle then around Karangetang, driven. The purchase of a half-dozen Jeeps had been an unexpected but necessary expense, given the current instability of Karangetang. The volcano had last erupted less than three months before our arrival, triggered by the same earthquake in Tōhoku, Japan that spawned tsunamis across the Pacific Basin. It was the seismic activity that caused the rockslide on the northside of Karangetang, revealing the full set of interspecies hominid remains which in turn spurred anthropologists worldwide to question if this would be that illusive missing link.

The camp was not luxurious by anyone's standards, comfort a frivolous expenditure. Frugality and practicality could translate into funding another week – or month – of a dig. The first week was devoted to setting up camp with the materials that had arrived a few hours before us and would trickle in over the next few days. With the help of a dozen hired hands, eight grad students and two doctoral candidates, by the sixth day ten, small, elevated huts had been built, each of which held two twin cots and a primitive nightstands next to each. Students, grads and doctoral candidates alike, occupied the first six huts while the remaining three housed an archaeologist of some renown, a geologist due to the unique terrain we'd be excavating and a supervisory professor given grad student volunteers received credit for the dig and I would not have time to babysit.

On the opposite side of the small clearing two larger huts had been constructed along with a palapa that would serve as both a dining and gathering area. Next to the palapa was the larger of the two huts, which served as our lab and bones room. The last of the three buildings and the one closest to the excavation site was my private quarters, at my request. I was here to work, so the closer I was to the site, the better, in my eyes. A single cot, a hastily built L-shaped workstation created from scraps and a single metal chair was all I required. The rectangular-shaped camp was finished off by a cubicle of four basic showers and a trio of latrines which would be, thankfully, downwind most of the time.

For six days, I'd worked from sunup until sundown then long into the night, directing materials, inspecting work, answering questions, meeting with the geologist, familiarizing myself with the area we'd be excavating, creating schedules, reviewing prior reports and literature and handling all the little details and responsibilities my role demanded. There were many times over those six days and in the days that would follow, when for hours at a time, I was unable to complete a full thought before someone else was seeking me out. It was exactly what I'd wanted when I'd gone to the Moluccas: To work to the point of exhaustion after which I drop into my cot and sleep a deep, dreamless sleep.

I hadn't been in the Moluccas but a few days before I admitted to myself that no amount of distance would erase the fears that had brought me there in the first place. My nightmares continued and now included an entirely new facet: Watching Booth die in battle or at the hands of a sniper. I would awaken with my heart pounding, pulse racing and shaking with fear, thankful that – as leader of the expedition – I was given private accommodations away from the rest of the group, so no one could hear when I called out.

Although I was buried in work, just as planned, I found my thoughts often – and traitorously – turning to Booth. As the students built the huts, I could only imagine how many comments he'd have about 'squints' doing manual labor. When a scorpion would skitter across the sand, I'd imagine how Booth – who despises insects, arachnids and reptiles equally - would have reacted were he there. Someone cooking on the stone-stacked grills would bring to memory how Booth always wanted a grill, but his apartment prevented him from fulfilling that wish. Thoughts like these brought a smile to my face even while making me miss him even more.

Then there were the other thoughts, the ones that left me out-of-sorts. Was Booth in Afghanistan yet? Was he working somewhere relatively safe – at least as safe as one can be in a country at war – or was he in the middle of it all? Was he training as the Army had said he would or had they changed his assignment and forced him to be a sniper again? The very idea left me fearful for him, given it's been nearly a decade since he left the military and he still struggles with the lives he took previously, even if the orders came from above.

I spent many a night wishing I could use the satellite phone to call Booth and assure myself he was safe. However, I wasn't sure how welcome such a call would be. Not that it mattered. I had no idea where in Afghanistan Booth was and had assumed that he would be limited to satellite phones as I was. Even if I could reach him, what would I say? I couldn't undo what had been done. I couldn't turn back time and return his kiss or say 'yes' to giving us a chance.

On the rare nights I wasn't haunted by nightmares and dreamed of making love with Booth, it hadn't been much better. I'd wake aching for him. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to see his face. I wanted to embrace him. I wanted to be sitting beside him in the Sequoia and solving crimes together. I wanted to find Booth sneaking peeks at me again.

I'd come to the Moluccas to find some perspective on my life. Those nights, while difficult, had made achieving this goal far hastier than I'd anticipated which left me a lot of time to consider where I was now and where I wanted to be. I'd left D.C. believing I wanted to go back to a time when things were simpler, when I had no relationships, no attachments; back to a time when the only thing I had was my work.

I'd promised myself in the foster home where I'd first learned of homesickness that I would never again allow anyone to get too close because the hurt when they were gone was unimaginable. Unless you've lived it, you cannot understand. For fourteen years, I'd kept that promise to myself and then Booth had entered my life.

I shove aside my files on Leishenger and Mr. Nigel-Murray and stand, rubbing at my arms. I am getting emotional which has begun happening with greater frequency this last year. Thinking some fresh air may help me clear my head, I step out on the terrace, closing the doors behind me. Now that the storm has passed, the night is beautiful – chilly, but beautiful. Leaning my arms against the railing, I watch as the waves crest then crash against the shore and return to my thoughts.

By the conclusion of the first month, I'd had no choice but to accept the truth: Despite my best intentions and promises made, afraid or not, I'd fallen in love with Booth. I spent the next month attempting to divine when it had happened.

When the Gravedigger had kidnapped Hodgins and me, he'd suggested we each write a letter to someone we loved in case we weren't found in time. Hodgins had written to Angela and I had written to Booth. I didn't need to see the letter to recall what I wrote.

"…How is it possible that simply looking into your fine face gives me so much joy? Why does it make me so happy that every time I try to sneak a peek at you, you're already looking at me? Like you, it makes no sense and, like you, it feels right."

Had I been in love with Booth then? The words I'd written were certainly not words you wrote to a man who was just a partner, right? Why had I chosen Booth to write what might be my last words? I wasn't certain of the answer to any of those questions.

Then to add more fodder, there was this…

"Booth will find us."

"You have a lot of faith in Booth."

"No. Faith is an irrational belief in something that is logically impossible. Over time, I've seen what Booth can do. It's not faith."

"No offense- and I'm not just saying this because you filleted me with a knife—we are out of air, we don't know if our message got out, much less if anyone understood it, and we are buried underground. What you have is faith, baby."

Hodgins hadn't been wrong. Our rescue was logically improbable, yet I never doubted Booth would find us, not for one second. Illogical and irrational or not, I did – and do – have faith in Booth.

I rub at my arms, because of the cool breeze or something else. I'm not sure, but I shiver as cutis anserine develop over my skin.

May 12, 2008, a date I'll never forget given it is the night Booth 'died' – shot by Pam Nunan, the obese woman who was obsessed with him as I was singing 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' on the stage just a few feet away. I'd tried so hard to stay with him in the ambulance then frantically searched the hospital for him after I was told he hadn't made it. I'd pushed away anyone who tried to offer me comfort reiterating again and again that I was fine.

I hadn't been fine. I hadn't been anywhere close to fine. I'd found something that was far worse than my family abandoning me and I was ill prepared to deal with it. In the privacy of my apartment, my emotions careened wildly. I'd cried on and off for days, always in the privacy of my home or vehicle and when my tears stopped, I would speak to Booth as though he was there, berating him for taking that bullet for me. Finally, out of self-preservation, I boxed all those emotions up and stored them – and memories made with Booth – away, just as I done after my family had left. I'd returned to the Jeffersonian on Monday morning as though nothing was wrong, announcing unequivocally I would no longer be working on crimes but instead would be concentrating full time on serious anthropological work.

I'd found a way to move forward, burying myself in my work, arriving each day shortly after sunup and leaving long after night fell, allowing myself to think about nothing but the work at hand. When others broached the subject of Booth, I'd either cut them off or walk away. When the subject of his funeral came up, I adamantly refused to discuss it… or attend. It was not rational, but I would not watch Booth's body being lowered into his grave. Nobody dared argue with me.

Nights were a different matter. Those carefully locked away feelings and memories would escape, often making me weep and always following me into my dreams.

On the day of Booth's 'funeral,' I found myself standing at his graveside, unable to say no to Ange when she begged me to be there for her. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have noticed neither Parker and Rebecca nor Hank were in attendance as they should have been. But, as it were, my emotions were steeped in bitterness – over Booth's death and finding myself precisely where I hadn't wanted to be – had blunted my normally keen powers of observation.

That resentment had morphed into raging fury when it was revealed Booth had faked his death to catch a criminal. Then, to make matters worse, Sweets had accurately surmised why I was so angry…

"Dr. Brennan is actually upset because she had to face strong emotions that she'd rather deny."

Pride demanded I deny the validity of Sweets' assessment; self-preservation demanded I deny it to myself.

Had I been in love with Booth then? It was possible, even probable, I had to concede as I stood looking up at the stars from the camp in the Maluku Islands. He'd become the singular, most important person in my life, our partnership the most important part of my life. With a sigh, I'd shaken myself from my thoughts, checked in with the overnight crew, then went to my tent where I'd flopped down on my cot, wondering what awaited me when I fell asleep: Another nightmare or more erotic dreams? Did it even really matter since either one would have me waking up wishing I could see or talk to Booth?

The following day, the rain was coming down in sheets, despite the fact it was the 'dry season.' Normally, we'd work through the rain and cloudbursts, but that day wind was driving the rain sideways preventing the canopies from shielding the dig site. We'd secured the site then had taken refuge in our individual living accommodations. For two full days we'd been unable to work, leaving me with nothing but my thoughts to occupy me.

There's no use denying I was in love with Booth by the time the Gravedigger reappeared, although I vehemently denied it, even to myself.

Looking back, the year following Booth's 'death' was a very confusing time for me. In London, I'd turned down Ian's overtures because Booth would have been upset if I'd gone to bed with the man, yet when we got back to D.C. I engaged in a relationship with two men: Mark, a purely sexual relationship and Jason, purely intellectual. Once they'd found out about each other, both dumped me – a new experience that, admittedly, stung and gave weight to my belief that no relationship can last.

An assessment to which Booth took exception.

"…There is someone for everyone, someone you're meant to spend the rest of your life with. Alright? You just have to be open enough to see it."

I had been skeptical, of course. Science, after all, tells us monogamy is unnatural, which runs counter to Booth's opinion on two people spending their lives together. Still, it had been food for thought that I tucked away for another day.

Then there was Jared. If I'd wanted to push Booth away, I couldn't have chosen a better avenue than by not only going on a date with his brother, but also believing Jared when he'd claimed Booth was a self-sabotaging loser.

"Jared warned me that you tend to sabotage yourself."

"Jared said that?"

"Mm-hmm."

"He said that you're afraid of success."

"Hmmm. So basically I'm a loser."

He was so angry, I shirked, never answering the question directly. Doubts began niggling at me. When I'd returned to the Jeffersonian, Cam and Sweets had been waiting for me. An intervention they'd called it. Those doubts became a suspicion. When I confronted Jared, I found I'd been made a fool of in believing a word he'd said and in turn, I'd betrayed Booth's trust.

"I wouldn't blame Booth if he never spoke to me again!"

I'd spat the words at Jared right before shoving him off his barstool. I gained some satisfaction out of the last. I'd hurt Booth. Deeply. In a way I had never done before. I'd considered myself fortunate that Booth had forgiven me, especially given he does not offer forgiveness easily or often. I, however, had vowed to never allow someone to lead me astray again and did my best to convey that to Booth…

"I would like to propose a toast to my partner, Seeley Booth… I know who he is, but I forget sometimes because… because, he never shines a light on himself. He shines it on other people—"

"Yeah. Right after I conked them over the head with it."

"Anthropology teaches us that the alpha male is the man wearing the crown, displaying the most colorful plumage and the shiniest baubles. He stands out from the others. But now I think that anthropology may have it wrong. In working with Booth, I've come to realize that the… quiet man, the… invisible man… the man who is always there for friends and family… That's the real alpha male. And I promise that my eyes will never be caught by those shiny baubles again."

A drip in the corner of the room by my makeshift worktable caught my attention. I'd swung the table around so it stood parallel to the other, protecting the paperwork from any splatter. No need for a bucket. The water would just seep through the floor to the ground below. I stripped off my utility pants and t-shirt and pulled on a pair of shorts and a tank, before propping open a window on the leeward side of my hut. Although just as muggy outside as in, the temperature outside had at least dropped slightly.

I hadn't like it when Agent Payton Perrota had stepped in as our FBI liaison when Booth had become a suspect in our case, I'd acknowledged to myself. Booth was my partner and he was not interchangeable, a position I'd made clear to him…

"That Agent Perrota? She really enjoyed working with us."

"Yeah."

"But, um, you're the only FBI agent I want to work with."

I flopped down on my bed and drew my legs up to sit Indian style, prepared to make an even bigger confession.

The word jealousy hails from the Late Latin zelus, which, more often than not had a positive connotation: Emulation, zeal… passion. In the early thirteenth century, biblical writings used the word to denote a lack of tolerance for unfaithfulness while in Middle English the word was associated more with fondness and ardor. As with anything else, the word evolved over the centuries – gelos from Old French, zelosus in Late Latin, from the Greeks zelos – until the word diverged into two: Zealous and jealous.

There is a biological component to jealousy. The hormone oxytocin, responsible for that feeling of 'falling in love,' also affects behaviors such as empathy and trust while facilitating bonding. Conversely, recent studies have also indicated a relationship between oxytocin and the feelings of jealousy, suspicion and envy. Oxytocin simply amplifies what someone is already feeling.

The point is, I may have difficulty reading others' emotions and I may not always understand what I am feeling, but I have experienced envy on a professional level and I have experienced jealousy on more than one occasion where Booth is concerned.

The fact was, I confessed resignedly as I sat on that cot in the Maluku Islands, I'd been jealous of Booth's very obvious display of his attraction to Agent Perotta.

And of hers to him.

I hadn't liked Booth looking at another woman the way he looks at me when I sneak a peek at him. I had been agitated that I'd been mostly relegated to the lab while Booth, my partner, was in the field with her. I disliked how he appeared to kowtow to her and give her meaningless praise. I'd found it distasteful having to confirm for her Booth's attraction was authentic. But most of all, I'd become accustomed to Booth and I spending nearly all our time together and the thought of someone interloping on that made me feel… threatened.

It wasn't rational and the only logical explanation for it was one I hadn't been ready to accept: I wanted Booth for myself because I was in love with him.

If only things had been different…

If only I had been different.

I'd long ago learned what could happen when you placed your personal happiness and security in another's hands and Booth wasn't just anyone. He was a man who, without thought, placed his body – and life – on the line to protect someone or to capture a murderer. I'd sat by his hospital bed on numerous occasions. I'd stood at his graveside. I'd watched as he'd been thrown across a room like a ragdoll when a bomb exploded. I'd seen his body battered, bleeding and burned when he'd been tortured. I'd watched as he'd fallen at my feet after he'd been shot and had felt the warmth of his blood as it had poured from his body. I'd watched a ship explode mere seconds after he'd boarded the helicopter and we'd begun to fly away.

Booth would go on as though these events were insignificant after they'd occurred, much like he'd continued to pursue love despite his history of being abandoned by his mother, beaten and essentially abandoned by his father and Rebecca turning down his proposal leaving him heartbroken and a part-time father. But I'm not Booth. I couldn't dismiss his brushes with death any more than I could my family abandoning me.

I'm not brave like he is, I recognized as the rain tapped against the roof of my hut. I'm not a gambler. I believe in patterns, statistics and evidence. A man as reckless as he was when it came to his body and life would eventually not prevail. How did I risk my heart and my happiness knowing how it would likely end?

It was a question I'd posed to Booth's friend, Ken Nakamura, after the sister he'd raised had been found murdered.

"Is it worth it? To have your own happiness so contingent upon another human being?"

"If I was willing to give up my life for Sachi, why would I not be willing to risk my happiness for her?"

I'd been unconvinced. I would give my life to keep Booth safe, as he would for me, but I was only beginning to realize how much I had to lose already if something happened to him. How could I risk more, even it meant having a chance at the life with Booth my active imagination had begun to conjure?

I was confused, a state of being I'd avoided my entire adulthood before Booth had come into my life. Since that day, it seems as though I have lived my life in perpetual confusion – a state I'd voluntarily put myself into, nonetheless. During that first case, I'd been given a glimpse at a life so much… larger… than the one I'd been living; a life I'd found myself very much wanting… even if it meant introducing chaos into my carefully crafted and controlled life. A desire I hadn't realized Booth understood innately, in that way of his, until Zach had returned from Iraq.

"Zack needed to leave the nest, the same way you did when you wanted to leave the lab and see the world for the first time… And I helped you do that."

A brisk breeze shoots a chill through me. I wrap my arms around myself and rub my upper arms as I relive those days when I'd been thousands of miles from home.

I'd gotten off the bed and kneeled beside it, then tugged out the one little luxury I've always allowed when staying at a remote site: a watertight, under-the-bed bin, to keep items of importance dry in case of severe weather, floods, etc. Releasing the latches, I'd set the lid aside, homing in on the item of interest: The canvas messenger bag that I used as my briefcase at home. On trips such as this, I carried a rucksack with me wherever I went, nature, terrain and hostile natives demanded any number of first aid supplies and defensive tools accompany you at all times.

With the bin secured and rolled back under my bed, I sat back down and lay my bag across my crossed legs. Almost reverently, I ran my flattened hand over the bag. Everything that mattered most to me was in that bag; everything that made me feel like I wasn't alone in the world any longer. It was silly and sentimental, but one of the many things I discovered about myself over the last seven years was that there was a small, silly, sentimental part of me that I'd tucked away a long, long time ago.

Flipping open the flap of the bag, I slipped my hand inside and pulled out a small, bubble-wrap protected item. I smiled as I slipped the tape loose and freed the glass dolphin from the wrap. Reaching into the bag again, I pulled out the smaller of my two scuba dry bags. I wasn't taking any chances with what were within and you'll just have to trust me when I say if you want to protect your documents from the weather this is the way to go.

It didn't even take me a second to find what I was in search of: The note Max had written me when he'd left the dolphin in my apartment. Dolphins, my mother's most favorite thing. Upending the dry bag, I gave it a gentle shake and four metal objects clinked onto the bed. I set everything else to the side to read the note from my Dad.

Tempe – The next time I really want to tell you some things about your mother. Love, Dad.

That note has me reaching into my bag for another, one I'd written to Booth.

Dear Agent Booth – You are a confusing man…

Confusing, yes. His interactions with my family are no exception. He's a man who believes in the law: If you are guilty, you're guilty. He tolerates no excuses. Yet, while he'd upheld his professional responsibilities in arresting both my father and my brother, he'd had a very different perspective on them, on a personal level.

Oh, he'd voiced his complaint when I'd allowed my father to get away the night Max had left me the note and dolphin. But how could I let Booth arrest the man who'd just helped me save his life? There would be another day, and I'd had no doubt Booth would get his man…

He always does.

Besides, he could hardly fault me after telling me…

"You know, he never ended anyone's life who didn't have it coming to them."

"He's a sociopath."

"Well, maybe, but at least he aimed in the right direction… In the Old West he would have been considered a hero… You know, your father never killed any hardworking, tax-paying citizens or honest cops."

"You still think that society should forgive him?"

"…You know who maybe should forgive him? His daughter."

Booth loved the law and this country, but there were people in his life whose safety and happiness would always come before either. Parker. Hank.

And me.

My father was a conman, a thief, a bank robber, a fugitive and a murderer who'd abandoned his children. Each of these attributes were on the list of those things Booth detests most. Yet, as rigid as he was in his thinking in so, so many ways, here again he was a contradiction because in his mind sometimes justice is more important than the law.

"Your father lives by a certain code and part of that code is defending his family by whatever means necessary."

"You mean killing people and setting their corpses on fire?"

"Any means necessary sort of covers that."

"You respect him?"

"I'm just saying, in his world he's a very honorable man."

To Booth, family means everything. You love your family, you live for them, you'd die for them and you'd kill for them.

Which is exactly what my father did when Russ and I had been threatened…

Which is exactly what Booth would do if his son were threatened. In this, they were sympatico: The alpha male prepared to defend and protect the people they saw as their own… by whatever means necessary.

It wasn't the only way they were similar when it comes to the people important to them. Unlike myself, neither of them gave a second thought to risking their own happiness for someone they loved. Like my father helping me to save Booth, even if it meant losing his freedom in the process.

"I want to do something, but I don't… I don't know what."

"Are you asking?"

"You'd help find the man who's going to put you in jail?"

"Well, Booth will… will do the best he can, I'll do the best I can and we'll see how it works out when we get there."

I reached for the dry bag again, this time selecting two newspaper clippings, the first featuring Booth and me, discussing our unique – and successful – partnership…

FBI Agent and Scientist Make Unlikely Match, Solve Double Murder.

And the second about my dad…

Jury Acquits Keenan in Death of FBI Deputy Director.

Booth and Max should be natural enemies: The hard-nosed Special Agent for the FBI and the slick criminal. I found it quite perplexing that in spite of how the natural order of things states they should be, they had always seemed to like each other, respect each other… admire each other. I hadn't misunderstood what my father had meant when he'd told me, moments before fleeing with Russ…

"If you find somebody that you can trust, you hang on to him. Remember that."

It wasn't dissimilar to how Booth approached me about my father.

"He could have gotten away. We got into a fight, you see. Your Dad could have escaped capture… Bones, your father chose to be arrested because he felt if he abandoned you again, he'd lose you forever."

From the start, Booth had been on my father's side, urging me to forgive him and give him a second chance.

Perhaps, that was why I was never concerned Booth and my father might hurt each other – well, beyond a fistfight: Not only did they like and respect one another but neither would ever risk my happiness by harming the other. Of course, it could have simply been—

My reminiscing was brought to a halt when Booth leaned his arms against the balcony to look out over the Atlantic with me.

"Couldn't sleep?" My eyes flicker to then away from him before I answer.

"I've just been thinking." It's true, I'm just leaving out the part of the nightmares waking me. "About you—" He looks at me now, a smug grin on his face and wiggles his brows.

"Well," he draws the word out, "If I were you, and I had me, I'd be thinking about me too." He chuckles when he's finished. He's teasing me, something I've become much better about identifying. I frown at him. He holds up a hand. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You've been thinking…" he prods.

"About how you and my father are very similar in many ways." He's shaking his head before I can finish.

"Max and I are nothing alike," he denies, quickly and vehemently. "That's like saying Superman and Lex Luther are a lot alike." Now I'm shaking my head.

"I do not know what that means."

"You know. Da-Da-Da Da-Da-Da-Da, Da-Da-Da—No?" He stops and sighs then gestures meaninglessly with a hand. "Well, Max and me are nothing alike."

"I disagree," I turn to face him. "You're both natural leaders, intuitive, protective, charming and have a personality that people are drawn to—" He faces me with a smile and takes a step towards me, clearly pleased.

"I'm liking this!"

"Stubborn, take foolish risks…" His smile vanishes again while mine lights up. I shimmy closer to him and lay my flattened palms against his chest. "You both love me and want me to be happy…" His smile reappears, he slides an arm around my waist.

"Yeah, we do…" he confirms in a near whisper while threading his free hand through my hair and cupping the back of my head. "I do." He turns serious. "Are you? Happy, Bones?" My eyes skirt away from his to regard the widening of light on the horizon while I consider his question. I find I don't have to dwell on the question at all.

"Yes, I am," I tell him with confidence, returning my eyes to his face. A smile wobbles on his lips.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," I confirm, sliding my hands up over his shoulders and loosely clasping them. "Very happy." My mood stumbles when a thought I hadn't considered comes to mind. Without intent, I take a step back and shift nervously.

"Are you happy?" I ask, worriedly…