It had started out innocently enough, their relationship had. First, they were co-workers. Then they became friends. Only in Pete's wildest fantasies could they have become lovers. But they had.

Because Miranda was not always up for driving her car – oh, the memories! – Pete would sometimes offer to take her here or there, drive her to the grocery store, then keep her company during her errands.

But one night, after picking up some milk at the store, when they drove back to Miranda's house, it was such a "movie moment" night, as she would later comment. The rain was pouring down in sheets, the lights were flickering from the storm, and the phone lines were as good as dead.

So she offered to let Pete stay the night.

And it turned into lust.

She led him to the spare room, both holding a candle, and he had his hand lightly on her shoulder, as she was leading the way. Setting their candles down on a bureau, he surprised her by grabbing her hands and putting them around his shoulders, wrapping his own around her waist.

"It's such a perfect night for dancing," he whispered in her ear, so softly that it sent a shiver down her spine. "Don't you think so?"

True, it really was. The falling rain sounded perfect, and the barely-opened window let in just the tiniest bit of a cool wind. It was just dark enough in the room to send a romantic feeling to them. His body heat pulled her in, and the feel of him kept her there.

She gave in, resting her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as they swayed gently back and forth, the carpet soft under her bare feet.

"Miranda," he whispered after a few minutes.

"Mm?" her face was nuzzled against his neck, and she inched her mouth closer, kissed him, not sure why.

He was startled at the kiss, but didn't let it deter him. "Miranda," he pulled away from her, just barely, and she opened her eyes, blushed. Smiling, he kissed her cheek.

She blushed, although she begged herself not to, she did. But she kissed him once more, greeting his lips with hers. "Pete," she whispered, pulling away.

"Miranda, I…" he cocked his head to one side and stared at her, seemingly thinking, as if some great idea was filling his head, and she was his muse.

"Oh, get on with it, Pete! What is it?" she smiled.

He paused, licked his lips. "…This." And he gave her a kiss with such passion and promise that she had to hold tightly around his neck, her fingers trailing through his hair.

When they pulled away once more, it was then that Miranda took the initiative – and his hand – and led him to the bed, the covers spread out flat, with scarcely a wrinkle, and the pillows freshly fluffed. Everything smelled of stormy winds and fabric softener.

As with all couples, they had their ups and downs. Their ups were good sex, good conversation, and few arguments. Their downs were no sex, no conversations, and sometimes hiding away in the bathroom so they could cry in private.

When the downs hit, they hit hard. Very hard.

Miranda typically had more downs than Pete. There were so many triggers around her, and if she wasn't careful, she could get sucked into some terrible memory, something terrible being played over and over again in her mind. She'd come out of it crying, screaming, clawing at her hair, as if reliving the day she woke up in the institution.

Luckily, Pete had been there almost all the time when something happened. He'd pull her arms away from her face – she was no longer allowed to have long nails, because of one incident that left a scar by one temple – and push her back against the wall or the floor, pinning her under his weight, wait until she'd cried herself calm. Then he'd let her go, take her in his arms and hold her until she fell asleep.

But she was learning what her triggers were, and learning how to avoid them, so the incidents were happening less and less, much to her relief. She hated feeling scared and helpless, hated having to depend on Pete to stop her tantrums.

But Pete did have his downs, although few and far between, but far worse than Miranda's. Her episodes were over within a few hours. His could last for entire days. There was nothing around him that triggered him, but sometimes, he'd sit and think, too long and too hard, about something or other that happened to him that he wasn't too pleased with. Miranda was never sure what had happened to him when he was younger – he wasn't the type to always share information – but tried everything she could to help him. She found that what worked the most was a reassuring hug (he had a weakness for her hugs, especially if she hugged around his waist, because he said that sometimes, a man just needed a hug around the waist) and then some space and time.

He didn't prefer to talk about his past or his feelings. He said he was much better off keeping things inside him, not sharing his traumas with her. She argued that he was going to explode from keeping everything inside, so once in a long while, he would admit, "Oh, just thinking about when I was sixteen," or "the time when I was arrested." But he never went into details about those times, so she never knew what exactly happened.

These days, though, she'd noticed a few more mood swings with him. He'd be in a complete funk and then he'd do a sudden three-sixty and jump to his feet, smiling, saying he'd just been lost in thought.

And it seemed that that night would be another time when he was just 'lost in thought.'

When he thought she was asleep, he crawled out of bed, went into the bathroom, closed the door.

It was ridiculous – she'd told him time and time again that when he woke up, she did too. If he got out of bed, she would notice, but he still didn't believe her.

When there was no sound of a toilet flushing after a few more minutes than usual, she waited, and then heard something clatter, and him curse quietly.

But then tiredness overcame her and she drifted back to sleep, only to wake with Pete's arms around her, his eyes already open, watching her wake up.

"Morning," she whispered, holding the hand that was draped around her, kissed it.

"Morning," he whispered back.

"Why are you wearing long sleeves, baby? It's so warm in here," she commented.

He shrugged. "I was cold last night."

"I could've kept you warm," she pouted playfully.

"Mm, how about you do that tonight then? If the offer's still open, of course."

A few minutes later, he buried his face in his pillow, pulled his arm away and lay it awkwardly beside him.

"Are you all right, Pete?" she sat up, touched his shoulder gently.

He mumbled something that sounded a lot like, "Fucking rights I am," but she wasn't sure. "Pete?"

He lifted his head, pushed himself up with one arm. "What?" he snapped.

Miranda was taken aback. "What's wrong?" she whispered.

He lowered his eyebrows angrily, then cradled his left arm gently, his angry expression fading. "Miranda?" he whispered, grabbing into her left arm, his fingers tracing the scars, then holding out his own left arm, palm up.

Unsure, she started to roll up the long black sleeve, moving it up his arm. He looked away as she revealed his forearm and gasped silently.

Her fingers traced the cut marks from his wrist, halfway up his forearm, one extending over to his elbow. They were still slightly puffy and red, and he winced at the touch, closed his eyes.

"Oh, Pete…" she breathed. "Why?"

He pulled his arm away, took the shirt off entirely, dropped it on the bed beside him. She tried to not eye the faded scars on his body. "I don't…" He ran his fingers through his hair, nervous. "There's some thing I don't know how to cope with, you know that."

"Honey, we can talk about things. You know that. I will always talk to you. I don't want you to have to hurt yourself."

"But what if it's about something you don't understand?"

"Then I'll…"

"Analyze me?"

"Help you in any way I can," she corrected him. "I'm not going to play psychiatrist on you."

"Oh, good, good," he nodded sarcastically. "Dammit." He slapped at his left arm, stood up and walked into the bathroom, not closing the door.

From her spot on the bed, she saw him turn on the tap and wash his face, then dry it on a hand towel. He glared into the mirror, and in one extreme act, made a fist and hurled it into the silver glass.

Miranda didn't even have a chance to scream as he stumbled out, blood already streaming down his arm, dripping onto the floor.

"Miranda!" he gasped, slumping over, leaning against the wall, chuckling awkwardly. "Shit."

Grabbing the shirt off the bed, she jumped to the floor, held it hard against his hand, and he gritted his teeth, refused to cry out. "Hon, you stay right here and hold that there, and I'll be right back, all right?"

"Where are you going?" he asked quietly, suddenly afraid. Another piece of him pulled out of the depths of himself. "You're leaving me?"

"No, I just have to make a phone call, okay? At that phone right there," she pointed to the one on the bedside table.

"Okay," he gripped at one hand with the other.

Fighting back tears, Miranda hurried over to the phone to call an ambulance.