Chapter 11

Sara muttered angrily, but took Grissom's proffered arm. "Don't think you can get out of this that easy – after all I'm the one who made dinner, no use trying to bribe me!"

Grissom regarded her calmly. "I would never try to bribe you, Sara. That's a dangerous proposition, and I'd like to keep all my body parts, thanks very much. Now, let's get dinner on the table, because in spite of my best intentions, I'm intrigued at the idea of tasting quiche."

Sara had never been able to stay angry long with people she cared about. Besides, he had admitted that he actually did want to taste her quiche, and based on what he had been saying earlier, that was tantamount to prostrating himself at her feet. "But I'm still going to figure out what that crack about trying to ignore me meant," she promised herself.

"Fine, we can call a truce, Gris. Damn, I hate when you win!" Fighting the urge to stick her tongue out at Grissom, Sara grabbed a pair of potholders and removed her quiche from the oven. "Do me a favor, Grissom, and grab that bread from the oven? Potholders are in the second drawer on the left." Setting their prizes down on the table, the two exchanged a domestic smile.

"Well, this is homey. Feels like we've been making dinner together forever," Sara reflected to herself.

Noticing the small smile on Sara's face, Grissom wondered what she was thinking. Was she wishing there might be more nights of making dinner together? He hoped so, because that was what was going through his mind.

They ate in polite silence for a few minutes, both absorbed in their food. Eventually, Grissom broke the quiet. "This quiche is . . . surprisingly good, Sara. I'm impressed."

"Well, you know what they say about quiche."

"No . . . what do they say?" Grissom asked, intrigued.

Sara snickered. "They say that real men don't eat it, Grissom."

He raised his eyebrows, considering that idea. "Real men, huh? Does that mean you don't consider me a real man, now that I've eaten it and even liked it?"

She shook her head. "I've seen enough of you to know that you're a man, Grissom." A very pregnant pause followed that statement, and Sara spluttered, "Enough of your actions, I mean! The way you handle life, and cases – it makes you a good man, at least in my eyes."

Grissom was touched. Sara was usually so concerned with seeming tough – "one of the boys," almost – that it was rare to hear her share such feelings, especially about him. His eyes met hers, and she gave him a soft smile. If he hadn't been such a manly man, he would've sworn his heart fluttered.

"I, uh . . . thank you, Sara. I'm glad I've earned your respect." Was it him, or had they been dancing around some unknown issue all night? There seemed to be this . . . this vibe in the air, and damned if he could get his unconscious to spit out what it was about.

"Just eat your dinner, Gil," he thought. "It'll eventually resolve itself one way or another. In the meantime, have some bread or something." Doing as the voice in his head told him to, Grissom reached for the knife to slice some bread. His hand collided with Sara's over the cutting board, and as a jolt went up his arm, *BAM*. He knew what this tension was about. Time to admit it, he wanted Sara in a very non-supervisory way. "But wanting doesn't mean having," he reminded himself. As Catherine had once told him, having low expectations meant you were never disappointed. This could be a problem, he decided. etected her mental withdrawal