In the old days Logan would never have left Max in the living room while he cooked. She would have been hanging around the kitchen, sticking her fingers in everything for a taste, and not spoiling her appetite a bit, either. Today, though, Logan needed a few minutes to calm down and gather his thoughts.

Not that he regretted his impulsive invitation -- not for a moment. But he did need to pull himself together and plan. Planning. It's what you do, he reminded himself, taking a deep breath. Let's see. What have you got to work with?

Time. There was definitely time to cook a nice meal -- more than enough time, as a matter of fact, since it was only four o'clock. Not their usual dinner hour, but darkness came early on these fall days ... he had a sudden vision of Max by candlelight, not sick and sleeping but beautiful and laughing. It was very distracting.

Focus, he told himself sternly.

Food. Not much in the fridge, but he could throw something together, vegetables and pasta and sauce. Wine. Good idea or bad idea? Good, he decided, but get everything organized before you pull the cork. And speaking of organized, this would be the ideal moment to slip discreetly into the bedroom and bathroom. Not like the old days, he thought wryly, setting the scene for whatever action was meant to follow the aforementioned food, candlelight, and wine. No, this time it was to be sure his true identity was safely hidden from Max's sharp eyes and insatiable curiosity.

The back hallway and the bedroom were already growing dark. The wheelchair lurked in a shadowy corner, its chrome glinting like watchful eyes. Quickly Logan shut the door behind him and turned on the lights. The last thing he wanted to do was trip over something in the twilight and bring Max running in.

A pang of guilt touched him as he quietly folded the chair and pushed it into the closet, throwing some dirty laundry over it for extra concealment. Suddenly, not telling Max about his ... situation ... seemed like the most dishonest thing he had ever done. What if his dreams came true, and Max began to feel something for him again? If she began to remember who he was, who she was? How could he allow her to grow closer to him, not knowing what she was getting herself into? Not just the sexual issues, which were bad enough, but all the logistics of his daily life. What if she was repelled by it all? People were. Hell, sometimes he was.

But even worse was the thought of telling her the whole truth. No matter how explained it, justified it, spun it, he knew Max well enough to realize that she would blame herself, just as she always had, for not saving him the day of the shooting.

And ... in a way, she was right.

The stark truth was that if she had helped him out when he asked, it might not have happened. She had been out for herself. And his life had been changed forever.

What would hearing that now be like for her? How would it feel, he wondered, to wake up one day and be told that a total stranger's life had been permanently altered because of a single moment when you could have said Yes instead of No? Suddenly he was sure again of his choice to hide the truth for now.

I may yet lose her when the day comes. She may not want me as I am. But I know for sure that she will walk away forever if she finds out now that she played any part in this. However long ago it was, and however many times I have forgiven the universe for the price I've paid to have Max in my life -- that will be the end. She won't forgive herself. And I cannot lose her again. He turned out the light and left the room.

When he passed back through the living room, Max was inspecting his music collection. "Is this all you have?" she asked, nose wrinkled, holding up a CD of classical music. The sight of her instantly banished his serious thoughts. He laughed.

"Sorry, but I'm afraid so," he told her. Max pouted.

"Isn't it bad enough you've got me sitting out here on the couch like your old aunt or something? Can I come in the kitchen and watch you do your thing?"

He was so pleased he couldn't answer for a moment. "Of course, and believe me, you're nothing like my old aunt," he told her, leading the way to the kitchen. Though I'm not sure I can trust either one of you with my possessions, he thought. The exoskeleton footpieces seemed incredibly loud against the floor, but Max said nothing. He wondered briefly what on earth she thought that sound was. Then he let it go and opened the bottle of wine.

They talked for a while then, Max perched on the counter with a glass of wine while Logan cooked. "So what were you trying to find out about me from my checking account?" he asked, pouring some olive oil into a hot pan. Max waited until the sizzle died down to speak.

"I don't know. Whatever," she said as if she wasn't really interested any more, and then, with unusual shyness, "Could I ask you a couple of things about my family first? Me fritzing out that day at my apartment kind of messed our conversation up."

"Sure."

"I asked you where my brother Zack is. Do you know?"

"No," he said, glad he could be honest, at least for the moment. She didn't need to know that Matt Sung was doing a little investigation for him behind the scenes, helping him track down Lydecker. Not that Matt had any real idea of what he was searching for. As far as he knew he was on a routine job for Eyes Only. That was why he had called earlier.

"Why were you talking to a cop on the phone before?" she asked suddenly. "Is Zack in trouble with the cops? Is that why he's hiding?"

So she had been listening to his call. "He was," Logan replied evenly. "He was arrested for murder, escaped, and came back here for you, to rescue Tinga. I assume there's still a warrant outstanding. I have a contact on the police force. He's checking on it for me."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

"I thought maybe you were calling the cops on me, before," she said, still a bit shyly. "OC says I can trust you but ..."

"But what?"

"I don't know. There's something weird about you. Can't quite put my finger on it." She stared hard at him over the top of her wineglass until he felt his face growing red. Quickly he looked down at his pan of sauteed vegetables.

"I'd better get this in the oven," he said hastily, pouring the vegetables into a casserole. Just as he picked it up the overhead lights went out, flicked back on, then went out again. And stayed out. The kitchen was black.

"Uh oh," Logan said, setting the casserole dish back down on the counter. Though he knew the layout of the kitchen all too well, its clearances and corners, in the dark and on his feet he didn't dare move. To his relief he heard Max slide off the counter and walk confidently towards the living room.

"Candles?" she called out.

"Table. Matches too," he called back.

In a moment he heard the rasp of a match striking and Max's face suddenly appeared. "There," she said, moving gracefully from table to windowsill, lighting more candles. A glow surrounded her. She smiled back at Logan and for a moment he forgot all the complications and anxiety. Except for their dinner.

"Looks like we won't be eating this after all. Electric oven," he apologized. Max shrugged.

"Whatever. I'll settle for what's around." Fine blow to my chef's ego, he thought ruefully, putting the casserole in the dark refrigerator. Max was searching the cabinets. "You need to go food shopping," she said, finally pulling out a box of saltines.

"That's not dinner."

"Salty stuff is good with wine." Ignoring his skeptical expression, she carried the box over to the table with her wineglass, and slid into a chair. What else could he do? He followed with the bottle and his own glass.

They talked more, a lot more, over that bottle of wine and box of crackers.

And to Logan's amazement, it was easy. Unexpectedly, he found he could talk about himself as a journalist, and as Max's friend, without saying anything at all about the shooting and its aftermath. Catching the bad guys, looking for Max's family, finding Max's family, meeting his family -- they were all great stories that had absolutely nothing to do with wheelchairs. Nothing.

Funny. At the time it had seemed like the entire universe had revolved around his paralyzed body. Now, recalling those days for Max, telling her about some of the adventures they'd shared and the work they'd done together, he saw for the first time that his condition had had practically nothing to do with their relationship. Wasn't that what she had always tried to tell him?

It's never been about you being able to walk, Logan. Not for me.

He had always dismissed those words as just words, just Max saying the right thing, probably really believing it too. Now -- and maybe it was the wine, which was going to his head pretty quickly -- he almost wanted to laugh. At himself, and just for the pleasure of letting that burden go, at long last. Not that he wouldn't have to pick it up again someday when he told Max the truth. But now -- now he had some hope. That maybe his worst fears and suspicions weren't always the whole story.

Then his phone rang.

He was having too much fun to go in the other room to take the call, so he flipped open the cell phone and said, "Hello?" with barely a glance at the caller ID. The sound of the voice on the other end was like a bucket of cold water.

"Why do you have the cops looking for Zack?" asked Lydecker.

Logan sobered instantly. Under no circumstances could Max hear this call, and under no circumstances could Lydecker realize that Max was with him. He put Lydecker on hold and quickly excused himself. Picking up a candle, he hurried to the bedroom. He was so focused on the call he didn't even have time to wallow in regret about not bringing Max along. He released the hold.

"Don't put me on hold, son."

"Sorry."

"Do you have any idea how risky it is to get a bunch of cops looking into Zack's past again? Are you trying to jeopardize everything I've worked for since the raid?"

"If you'd just tell me where you are I wouldn't have to."

"It's for your safety."

"I'll worry about my own safety, thanks."

"Call off the cops." The line went dead.

Logan snapped the phone shut and as he did, the lights came back on. Exasperated, his mood deflated, he went back to the living room. To his further dismay Max was putting her jacket on.

"Where are you going? We can cook now." He gestured at the kitchen.

"Sorry. Elevator's back in business, gotta jet. Meeting friends at Crash." She zipped her jacket. "I had a good time though. And thanks for filling me in on all that stuff. Can we do it again some time?"

"Sure," he said. That made him feel a little better. Something to look forward to. He walked her to the front door.

"And hey, if you need a private investigator, let me know. Sounds like we work good together, so ... I'd be up for it." With a last smile over her shoulder, she disappeared into the elevator.

He closed the door behind her, not knowing quite how to feel, thinking that sometimes, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.