Her hand was on the doorknob.

Fifteen minutes, seven heavy sighs, and three times turning around, and this was how far she'd gotten: her hand was on the doorknob.

Joey's snores filled the living room, bizarre percussion to her own fluttery breathing. She tried, failed, to match her own lungs to Joey's languid rhythm; she was too close, much too close to Chandler, for that trick to work.

Her fingers raised, trailed down the pale wood of Chandler's door, the grain magnified against her trembling fingertips.

So close.

She'd gone to sleep crying and woken up from a dream of him, a dream that had brought back memories, details, she'd been trying desperately to suppress, a dream that had left her feverish with need to be with him, a junkie trembling in tangled sheets.

She'd never wanted anything this much.

She breathed in, breathed out.

The doorknob turned beneath her hand, a wedge of light illuminating Chandler's sleeping face. She closed the door, silently, the tumblers turning as she raised her hand to softly press it shut. She stepped around the edge of his bed in the darkness, bare feet against the carpet, her eyes adjusting, her senses opening...

He'd cracked a window to hear the rain, and the room was filled with the smell of storm-ozone over the deeper, older, bouquet of The Place Where Chandler Slept: hints of his cologne, a touch of Old Book, and the rising, warmed scent of Chandler's body in sleep. The streetlights below were bright smudges in the sheet of rain on the window, the storm, for now, obliterating all New York sound save that of Chandler's breathing.

She lowered herself onto the bed, tugging his blankets over herself, pressing against his back, fitting herself to him, her arm wrapping around his waist. Heat spread through her from every contact point.

He sighed in contentment, his hand wrapping through her own and pulling her closer.

His breathing stayed regular; still not awake. She pressed her lips to the back of his neck, let her hand run up his stomach, breathed him in. He moved against her sleepily, dream-fuddled, and she went up on an elbow to kiss his jaw, his cheek.

"Rach?" he whispered, his sleep-rough voice sending tremors to her toes, rolling towards her, confusion dawning with consciousness. "What's... what's going on?"

She'd rehearsed what to say forever, but could only find one word: "Please?"

Chandler blinked, his hand rising, the backs of his fingers brushing down her temple, sinking into her hair, gently pulling her towards him.

And she went, her eyes closing as their lips met and opened, a thousand flushed fantasies becoming reality as her heart thudded in her chest.

She'd forgotten, almost managed to make herself forget, how Chandler kissed... like breathing, like flying in dreams, an extension of herself, moving when she moved, a blurred ecstasy of softness and pressure.

Chandler made her realize she'd been kissed wrong all her life, made novels suddenly snap into sense. Her consciousness was burning away, all concept of individual movements lost, realities sliding together, her fingers tracing over the roughness of his jaw, eyes closed, melting.

She ran her hands over the soft fabric of Chandler's t-shirt, feeling the heat of him radiating beneath, the aliveness of him like electric current beneath her fingers, her lungs filling with his scent, spicy and intoxicating. She felt a throb in her lower stomach, spreading warmth, her leg rising of its own will to wrap around Chandler's thigh, pressing her body closer to his as his lips moved beneath hers.

He moved over her, and homecoming flooded through her brain at the sweet, longed-for weight of him. She sank into the pillow, sank into his kisses, lazy and molasses and flying, and it was all a part of the moment, part of the perfection: the soft patter of the rain on his windowsill, the exquisite softness of his sheets, the rough heat of him as he sighed against her lips, his hand against her cheek.

She wanted to tell him she loved him; the words beat themselves against her teeth. But that would be... complicated.

Oh, and this isn't? her brain demanded.

Chandler shut it up for her, his palms sliding beneath her t-shirt, warm and possessive. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, rejoicing as his weight shifted. Closer... better. She ground herself against him, triumph surging through her at his ragged moan.

"Chandler..." she whispered, her neck arching as his fingers trailed higher.

"Chandler?"

Ross. Chandler and Rachel stiffened so fast they cracked skulls, clinging to each other, frozen comically.

"Hey, Chandler, man, are you awake?"

Their eyes turned frantically to each other. Chandler rolled off Rachel, running his fingers through his hair helplessly.

The doorknob rattled. "I'm coming in, okay?"

"No-no!" Chandler yelled, his voice cracking. "Stay out there, man, I'm -- I'm not decent."

"I thought Joey was the naked sleeper," Ross laughed.

God, if he cracked that door an inch...

"Yeah, well, he seemed to like it so much, I thought I'd try it," Chandler called, staring at Rachel in catatonic shock.

Rachel scanned the room, leaping off the bed and ducking into Chandler's closet. Chandler sighed, messed up his hair, and opened the bedroom door.

"Sorry to wake you up, man," Ross said. "It's just... I really needed someone to talk to."

"Not a problem, not a problem..." Chandler steered Ross into the living room, as far away from the door as possible. "What's on your mind, man?"

"Well... it's Rachel."

"Oh," Chandler said softly.

"Yeah, I... hey, I brought a six-pack. You want one?"

"Yeah, sure... a beer sounds... great."

***

Rachel sank to the floor of the closet, pushing one of Chandler's dress shoes aside to make room.

How long had she been in here? Fifteen minutes? Thirty?

Or... a truly hideous, horrible thought... just five?

Twenty-seven years old, and she was hiding in a boy's closet, getting banged in the head by his belt collection. Rachel let out a soft sigh of self-disgust, leaning back against a suitcase.

And not just any boy, right? A boy with a girlfriend. Who was, right now, out there consoling her boyfriend, about her.

Was there some sort of "Miss Universe's Biggest Bitch" pageant? She thought she had a shot this year.

She could hear the familiar rhythms of Chandler and Ross' voices, but not words... pressed against the wall of Joey's room as she was, his snores obliterated all.

Honestly, he ought to see a doctor about that. He snored so fast, like double-time... he should see a sleep therapist, he might have apnea or something...

For distraction as much as anything, she pressed her ear to the wall. Maybe she could tell Joey what she'd heard, get him to go see a doctor...

Of course, how would she explain how she'd...

That wasn't just Joey.

What she'd thought was him wheezing was actually a second snore, higher, more girlish.

Well, of course Joey had company. He was Joey, after all.

Except that... except that she knew that snore. It was unique, high, softer, and she'd heard it before, heard it recently, heard it...

Heard it on Margarita Night, when Phoebe had finally fallen asleep.

Rachel's hand flew to her lips, and she sprang away from the wall.

***

Light in her face.

Rachel blinked against the brightness, consciousness bringing the realization that she'd been asleep in a tiny ball, and her everything hurt.

Arms around her, helping her up. Chandler. She let him pull her to her feet, wrapping her arms around his neck.

And then he reached behind him and gently removed them.

"Rach. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm... I'm sore..."

"I'm sorry about that. Really sorry."

"It's okay, it was my fault..."

"Rach. Look at me."

She raised her stiff neck slowly, meeting his eyes.

"We can never, never do this again," Chandler said firmly.

"Chandler..."

"I just spent four hours consoling your boyfriend, feeling like the shittiest human being on earth, and even shittier every time he told me how grateful he was to me. I can't... this can never happen again."

"I don't want him to be my boyfriend," Rachel whispered. "I want you to be my boyfriend."

"It's too late, Rachel."

"Chandler..."

"It's too late."

She leaned forward, trying to kiss him, but he stepped back nimbly, raising his finger in the direction of her own apartment.

"Rachel... go to bed."

"But..."

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, eyes closed, an expression of exquisite pain across his features. "Please. Please go."

"I..." She wanted to touch him, touch his hand, something to bridge the space widening between them... but he didn't want that. "Okay, I'll go."

He blew air out in relief. "Thank you."

And that -- that was the worst. His simple gratitude for her being gone. Her heart plummeted even lower.

She walked out of the room without looking back.