Sara was awakened by the smell of something burning. She jerked up to a sitting position and almost fell off the couch, having forgotten that she had fallen asleep on it minutes after arriving home, then sniffed. Yeah, something was definitely burning. Standing up, she began to trace the scent through the apartment, ending up in the kitchen doorway, completely nonplussed.

In her kitchen stood Grissom, frantically fanning a towel at the smoke detector and holding a water-drenched pan of burned eggs as though it was about to bite him. His back was to her, thankfully, and he didn't see the chain of emotions that flowed across her features: confusion, amusement, resentment, defensiveness, and finally anger. "What are you doing in here, Grissom?" He whirled around in surprise and nearly launched the eggs across the room.

Giving her a half-sheepish, half-indignant look, he muttered, "Making breakfast. At least, trying to."

"That wasn't what I meant." She remained in the doorway, on the defensive now that she had accepted the fact that he had snuck into her home. "What are you doing in my apartment?" She emphasized "my," making it clear that he didn't belong there.

Grissom visibly steeled himself for the confrontation that was about to happen. Placing the pan gently in the sink – "I'll wash it when we're done" – he wiped off his hands and gestured toward Sara's living room. "Can we sit and talk?"

She had intended to do this, to try to talk it out with him, but now that he had taken the choice from her, Sara wasn't feeling charitable. He wasn't her father, her keeper, or even her husband. Grissom did not get the right to decided what was best for her, and that was why she was mad at him in the first place: his autocratic, "I know what you're doing and I'm going to fix it" attitude.

"Why, Grissom? You can talk just as easily standing up, and it's probably pointless to sit you down, since you'll be leaving in exactly," she looked at her watch, "five minutes." Taking in his pleading look, she shook her head. "No, Grissom. You said everything you needed to say last time."

"I didn't. I said everything I didn't want to say. The devil made me do it," he said, trying for a humorous tone. He didn't know how this conversation had gone so bad so fast, but he wasn't leaving this apartment until they had resolved this. He tried again. "Come on, Sara, please. Let's work this out instead of sniping at each other."

It didn't work, and Sara's face only hardened. "You don't want US to work this out – you want me to let YOU work this out, then smile and nod and agree with what you decide." His wounded look only irritated her more. "Oh don't give me that look! You know you think this is about 'some female thing' and you think if I calm down things will be all better." She checked her watch again. "Three minutes, Grissom. Better talk fast."

Grissom's patience was wearing thin. Though he honestly wanted to make this better, he still didn't understand what she was so angry about, and why she was getting angrier by the minute. "Listen," he said sternly, "I came here to try to fix this. If you're going to stand there and yell at me and not even let me speak, then I'm out of here and you'll have to wonder what I was going to say." He was pleased to see Sara's mouth snap shut, though she still looked like she wanted to sock him.

"Good," he continued after a few seconds. "Now sit down, please, and listen to me." She did, scowling. "I don't know what I did to make you so angry, Sara. Catherine told me it has something to do with me not liking you kissing Greg, but I don't understand why that's so wrong." Sara started to speak, but he gave her a threatening look and she held her peace. "So I need you to tell me why it's so wrong for me to not want my woman to kiss other men."

Sara ground her teeth in an attempt to keep from screaming. "I am not 'your' woman, Gil. I'm my own woman.  You don't own me, and frankly, if I wanted to kiss Greg every night – which I don't want, and never have – it would be none of your business. The only decisions you get to make in this situation are, first, do you really want to pretend that I'd cheat on you, and second, if you really believe I would, whether you want to dump me or not. That's it, Grissom. You have no right to lecture me, or judge me, or tell me what's right or wrong."

He stared at her. "I didn't say I thought you would cheat on me." Sara raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Well that's not what I meant, at least. If you interpreted it that way, I'm sorry, but . . ." His voice trailed off in amazement as Sara let out the loudest scream he'd ever heard. It must have gone on for almost a minute, and he could only stare at her for another minute after it ended. "I, uh . . . are you ok over there?"

"You DID say that! You're acting like I'm taking this all wrong, but let me tell you, YOU'RE the one who said it, not me! What else could 'I don't like you kissing other men' possibly mean, Grissom, other than that you're the only one I'm allowed to touch and if I touch anyone else it's cheating'?" As she spoke, she crossed the room until her nose was touching his and she was yelling, full-volume, right into his face. He showed no reaction, and the last thin thread of Sara's control finally snapped. She reared back and slapped him across the face

Grissom's head snapped back and he stumbled where he stood. He'd been slapped a few times, but not by someone as strong as Sara. Putting a hand to his cheek, he felt the flesh get warm as blood rushed to site of the injury. After a few seconds he lifted his head to look at Sara. Her face was perfectly white and the brown eyes he loved so much were staring blankly at him. "Sara?"

"I've never hit anyone before. When I was angry, I mean," she said mechanically. "I can't believe I just did that. I've never hit anyone before." She closed her eyes and Grissom could see her lips moving as she repeated something to herself, over and over.

"Sara?" he asked again. No answer, she only continued to mumble to herself. "Sara." His anger had been replaced by a sense of panic. What was wrong with her? "Sara!" He reached out, took hold of her shoulders, and shook her. Sara's eyes snapped open and focused on his face.

"I've never hit anyone before."

"Stop saying that! I know you haven't, Sara. I'm fine, see?" He took a step back, allowing her to scan his face for damage. "You needed to vent your anger, and a slap was probably the least destructive way. It's fine, I guess I deserved it anyway."

She shook her head. "No you didn't. I practically gave you whiplash. I shouldn't have . . . I mean, it's just WRONG to hit someone because you're angry. Wrong for men, and wrong for women."

He cupped her cheek in his palm. "I'm fine. Believe me, please. Honestly, Sara, I can deal better with physical pain than knowing you're in mental pain." When he felt her relax and let his hand support her face, Grissom wanted to cheer. "Please, Sara, talk to me. Let's sit down and work this out." He felt her nod against his palm.