Jordan's POV:

He's sleeping on my couch. He barely made it through the door before the exhaustion took over. Woody looks almost angelic when he is sleeping. I pulled my favorite Patriots blanket over him; the blanket had provided me with so much comfort over the years. I hoped that tonight my blanket would provide Woody with some of the comfort he had been so desperately searching for.

I didn't know what to do next. I watched him sleep. There were a million other things to do, but none of them seem important right now. I wanted to be here for Woody, but I had so many conflicting emotions that I wasn't sure what to do or say next.

The loss of a mother is something that scars a child. The world is never quite right from that moment on. Woody's world must have been a disaster. My problems seem so minor in comparison; I suddenly felt a wave a guilt wash over me. I have been so selfish. I have burdened him with so many of my complicated messes. He's helped me out of the holes that I dug many times. He was such a good friend to me, but I wasn't a good friend in return.

"Cavanaugh," I said as I answered my cell phone.

"Hey, love. I just wanted to make sure that everything was okay . . . that you got home safe and all," Nigel said. It was three in the morning. He had to work tomorrow. Nigel was such a good friend; I worked so hard to be a good friend in return.

"Woody's on my couch," I replied.

"Well, that's unexpected," Nigel said. He sounded shocked.

"He was really upset about life . . . I couldn't let him be alone," I replied. My explanation sounded so mature; I knew Nigel could see through it. He would know the truth. I had worked so hard to bury my feelings for Woody; I pretended to move on with my life. I had even gone out a few very unsuccessful dates. I had a hard time kissing another man; I would think of Woody the instant I closed my eyes. It wasn't fair to my dates; I held them to a standard that I knew they would never attain.

"Be careful, Jordan. Be careful with your heart . . . I've seen what he can do to you. Don't let him ruin you . . . don't let him hurt you," Nigel said. His voice softened. I understood the conflicting thoughts. I knew he wanted me to be happy, but to attain the happiness I desired I might get hurt badly in the process.

"Nigel, I'll be careful. I promise. Now, go get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon," I replied. Nigel agreed and I hung up my cell phone. I was tired. My eyelids became heavy. I wanted to do nothing more than sleep. I retreated to my bedroom and pulled off my clothes. I pulled on my pajamas. These were the ones that Garrett bought me not too long after the Malden debacle. I hadn't done my laundry in weeks; at the time, all I could do was cry and pester my private investigator about trying to find Dad. Garrett bought me groceries, a robe, and pajamas. He said that those were the necessities; everything else could be taken care of during more peaceful times. He was right. Garrett was always right. Garrett told me to move on with my life; he told me to date . . . he told me to stay as far away from Woody and Devan as possible. He was right; it was his advice that kept me sane over the last few months. I knew that I should believe him, but I spent years being afraid of my feelings for Woody. I wasn't sure if I should listen to Garrett and run, or if I should try to sort my feelings out. I wasn't sure what would hurt me less.

I crawled under the covers. I was prepared to fall into my normal dreamless sleep, but I could hear Woody gasp for air. It sounded like he was choking; it was a noise that I hadn't heard since I was a medical student working with asthmatic children. It scared me; I was on my feet and in the living room before I was fully conscious of my actions. One minute I was in bed, the next I had my arms wrapped around Woody. His skin was cold, but wet. I knew what it was like to wake up in a cold sweat. I knew what it felt like to wake up with the expectation that I would be alone. I remember telling him that everything was okay; I remember whispering something else. I knew my words didn't matter; it was my presence that was important. We sat in the dark, my arms tangled around Woody's body, for nearly a half hour before words were spoken.

"I should go home," Woody said softly.

"You should stay," I replied. I ran a hand through his hair.

"I don't want to be a burden," he replied even softer than before.

"You couldn't possibly be a bigger burden than me," I replied. I knew it was the truth. I had a tendency to be a burden. I was careless and hasty. I hurt people to get what I wanted. I told myself that those were the characteristics of the old Jordan . . . the new Jordan wasn't like that. All those issues had been sorted through. I wanted peace. I wanted serenity.

"Jordan, why are you doing this?" Woody asked. I knew he was trying to gauge my sincerity. I often did that to people after they found out that my mother was dead. I knew he didn't want this to be out of sympathy. I didn't want him to feel like a charity case. I wanted him to feel safe.

"Because . . . I owe you. You were always there to pick me up when I fell," I replied.

"I didn't do anything for favors in return, Jordan," he replied. I couldn't see his face; I could always read his eyes. I didn't know if he was mad or grateful.

"I know," I replied, "You should stay the night."

"Jordan, this isn't a good idea . . . I don't deserve your kindness," Woody replied.

"Woody, I don't know why you think that. There were a lot of times I didn't deserve your kindness," I replied. He was still in my arms. I knew that if he wanted to leave, he would have been gone by now.

"Everything I've done for you was because I love you," Woody replied. I wasn't sure how to respond to that. I wasn't sure if I loved him. I always had a hard time loving; every time I loved someone got hurt. My Pavlovian response was to run; I knew that 'love' was the precursor to horrible things. Or at least in my mind . . . love had so many horrible connotations.

"You don't have to say anything, Jordan. I don't expect you to have a response. I don't think I deserve to be loved by you . . . I think I've squandered any chance that I had," Woody replied. I wondered what my silence had done; I knew that I was hurting him.

Without thinking, I kissed him. His lips were hot against mine; moving in the same hungry intensity. He didn't hold back like he did in California. I didn't know where this was meant to go. I didn't know if this was going to be a hurtful way of avoiding saying the words that I knew Woody wanted to hear . . . needed to hear.

His hands were warm against my skin. He ran his fingers through my hair and down my back. It gave me chills that I had never felt before. They weren't the 'I'm going to regret this in the morning' chills that I had so much experience with. It felt good. Everything about Woody felt good. I was sure that the regrets would come later, but I wanted this. I wanted to be stuck in these moments forever.

"Jordan, tell me when to stop," Woody whispered. His breath was hot against my neck. I hadn't realized that I was on my back . . . pinned between his body and the couch. I wasn't sure if I wanted to say 'stop.' I hadn't felt so alive in ages. I wouldn't say 'stop' tonight.