He really hadn't meant to kiss her. Not now, not like this. But she looked him dead in the eye and told him his life, and through her eyes, he'd seen it all laid out before him—the future he's been struggling to get a grasp on since he saw her gorgeous, infuriating face all those months ago—the plan that's been eluding him all year.

He's been flailing around for months—going from one disaster to the next—one wesen problem after another—and he's had a looming sense of what he's been missing—the cohesive vision that might help him find his place in this brand new world full of factions and rules he knows nothing about—but until today, until Adalind, he's never been able to crystalize it into something real and viable. He's beginning to realize that what she has is a gift. She can see the shape of things—of nebulous potential—and in seeing that, she can make things real. Make them whole.

Sitting there outside of Rosalee's shop in his Land Cruiser, he'd understood, suddenly, why Renard had found her so useful, and just as suddenly, he'd understood what Renard never could. That she is magic, inside and out, with or without her powers. Henrietta was right, death and manipulation are not Adalind's gift. Creation is. Giving potential form is. She's destined to be a mother—not just of the kid they may or may not have, but of every single idea that sparks her interest—that moves her to create something new. And suddenly he'd been desperate to create something new with her, too.

Which is how he ended up here, with his tongue in her hot, wet mouth and his fingers under her skirt, sliding up her hot, wet thighs. He's absolutely dizzy with the heat of her—the spark of life pulsing under her smooth, glorious skin—and then she gasps as his fingers brush against the very center of her, and he can't bite back the groan that escapes him.

It's quick work, really, taking her apart with his hands. She's slick and ready and wanting, and his fingers fill her so well, it's like they were made for this—the two of them—made for each other. He finds himself trailing open mouthed kisses down her neck, sucking a hickey into the soft place where her pulse beats under his lips, while she gasps and rolls against his fingers, her own hands buried deep in his hair, holding on for dear life.

She comes like a tidal wave. It's cliché, maybe, but there's nothing else for it. She's full of oceans—vast depths of creative potential—and they all swell and crash while she comes in shuddering waves that very nearly drag him under, too. He only narrowly avoids coming in his jeans, and for one blinding, confused moment, he almost forgets why that would be such a bad thing.

Eventually, they make it to the other side—gasping and clinging to each other like they've just survived a shipwreck—and then they collapse back into their seats, wrung out and more than a little punch drunk.

"Well, fuck," she says, sounding a little hoarse. Her lip is bleeding again from where he bit it last night, a drop of vibrant red that glitters in the early afternoon sun streaming through her window. He catches himself wanting to lean in again and lick it.

"That's my line," he tells her instead, grinning again, feeling the pull of the reopened split in his own lip. He hasn't smiled this much since he met her, but it's easy now, when it's just the two of them.

"We need a new line," she says. "You need a hand with that?"

He doesn't need to look to know what she's talking about. He's hard as a rock in his jeans.

"I'm all right," he says, because strangely, he is. He wants her, but he also wants it to be right. The next time he fucks her, he wants them to be sure. He wants it to mean more than just getting off.

"Good," she says, "because 'Lawyer Caught Blowing Cop on the Street in Broad Daylight' would be one hell of a headline."

And just like that, he's got a brand new fantasy of Adalind taking him apart with her vicious tongue in a whole new way, and he groans again.

"Thank you for that," he says, "I'm never leaving this car."

"Buck up." She grins and pats his leg, which is very much not helping. "Wanna go see a man about a bullet wound?"

That only slightly helps, but by the time they've straightened themselves out—smoothing down her skirt, finding a wet wipe for his hands, putting concealer on her neck—he's got sufficient blood flow to make the attempt.

Monroe meets them at the front door of the spice shop, but he takes one sniff and makes a face.

"Really? Again?"

"Don't ask," Nick says, feeling his neck go bright red.

"Don't worry," Adalind says, "the jury's still out on the baby. Things just got a little wild on the way here."

"You're right," Monroe says, "I don't want to know. Come into the back, and try not to jump each other or anything. I've already seen enough bloodshed for one day."

Nick draws his gun the moment they step into the back room. His murder suspect is standing right next to Rosalee, and Nick's ready to defend her immediately.

"Don't move," he shouts, while Monroe and Rosalee starting shouting as well:

"Wait! Wait!"

"This man's wanted for murder," Nick tells them. "I found his passport next to the bartender that he shot."

"Ian lost his passport when he got shot," Rosalee says.

"Nick, put the damn gun down," Adalind says, coming to stand right in front of him. "If you shoot the Resistance in the face, we can kiss Switzerland goodbye."

He's thought about killing Adalind plenty of times, but the sight of her in front of his gun with her hair still tousled from his fingers and her skirt still creased from their shared heat makes his whole body lurch with fear. He puts the gun away as carefully as he ever has. He still doesn't know what their plan to get through life without their powers will be, but he's suddenly sure that whatever it is, he's depending on them figuring it out together. He really doesn't want to do this without her.

"Thank you," Adalind says with a little smirk that makes something in his belly clench, and then she turns to approach the rest of the room, who are all staring at her with varying levels of shock, confusion and apprehension.

"I'm sorry about my partner," she says to Ian—so casually, Nick almost forgets they haven't even discussed what being partners might mean. "Grimms can be so twitchy, can't they? I'm Adalind Schade, and I believe you could use the advice of a good lawyer."

Before Nick can even process what's going on, his suspect has lawyered up, and he finds himself dealing with the attorney side of Adalind again.

"My client was framed," she says. "The real murderer is still out there somewhere looking for Ian."

Nick almost sputters. "Your client? He hasn't even had time to retain you, Adalind."

"Ian?" Adalind asks, glaring at Nick with her hands on her hips. "Got a penny?"

Ian fumbles through his pockets with his one good hand.

"Will a euro do?"

"Sure," Adalind says, "I like to travel. Do you want to retain my services, Ian? I'm between gigs, and I'm offering you the exclusive rate of defending this entire case for one euro."

Ian looks to Rosalee, who shrugs. "I hear she's very good. Nick complains about how good she is at messing up convictions a lot."

"Okay," Ian says, "I guess I want to retain you."

"Wonderful," Adalind says. "Now if the Portland PD will kindly step outside so that I can conference with my client, you can tell me everything you know about who's trying to frame you and how we can help you get where you need to go next."

Nick just stares at her—beautiful and dangerous and absolutely maddening—and he's thinking about killing her again in a much more favorable light, but he's also annoyed to realize that he still wants to kiss her and find somewhere quiet to finish what they started back in the car.

"Ah, Nick?" Monroe at his side, taking his arm and leading him towards the front of the shop. "Why don't we get out of here before your eye stops twitching and just decides to explode. I'd offer you a drink, but Rosalee only stocks tea. Do you want tea?"

"Only if it's 80 proof, and even then, I'm technically on duty. I don't want my suspect's new counsel to bring up that the arresting officer was drinking on the job in court."

"So no tea," Monroe says. "I take it giving Adalind a ride home this morning kind of spiraled out of control?"

"Oh, it's under control," Nick says, fuming. "Once I get my hands around her scheming, little, pro bono neck, it will be completely under control."

"You mean the neck with the fresh hickey on it?"

Nick glares at him, and Monroe starts to laugh.

"Oh my God, dude, what did this chick do to you? Is the sex really that good?"

Nick thinks about the noise she made when he gave her that hickey not twenty minutes ago, and then he sighs and starts to laugh himself.

"Yeah," he says. "You wouldn't even believe how good if I told you—which I won't—but man, she is something else—we're something else when we're together and not trying to kill each other."

"Damn," Monroe says, "that sounds serious."

Nick winces and rubs the back of his neck where the hair is standing up on end. Because Monroe is right—it does sound serious—and even after everything, he wasn't expecting things to get this serious this fast.

"I think it might be," he says. "I really didn't know being with someone could feel like this."

"How's it feel?"

"Electric. On fire. Like half the time I want to kill her again and the other half I want to—" Make her come, is the thought that springs to mind, but he can't say that so he finishes lamely with, "really not kill her, I guess. And all of the time, I just kind of want her around. Everything is so much more interesting when she's there—unpredictable—volatile, even—but definitely more interesting. She looks at a problem and sees a solution I would never think of. It drives me up the wall, but it's also fascinating, you know?"

"No," Monroe says, "I really don't think I do, but I think you do. You're head over heels for this girl already, aren't you? I mean, I always thought you were kind of obsessed with her, but this—" he waves a hand in Nick's general direction, "—this is not obsession. This is infatuation, and you've got it, dude. You've got it real bad."

Nick takes a deep breath and lets that sink in. Is he infatuated with Adalind? A cursory exploration of the last eighteen hours of his life would say, yes. Beyond all reason, yes. But still, it's only been eighteen hours. How can it be infatuation when he could barely stand to speak to her eighteen hours ago.

Except that's not exactly true. If anything, he's been looking for reasons to talk to her since they met and finding them in all the worst places. He's reminded of a dinner last week, with Hank and Juliette and Adalind, and how he spent most of it finding ways to get Adalind alone. To question her, he thought, and with good reason, but now he thinks about fighting with her on those stairs by the restrooms and wonders what's really changed in the vibe between them since then other than she's not actively trying to kill Hank anymore.

"You don't think it's a love spell, do you?" Nick asks Monroe. "You'd tell me if you thought this was a love spell, right?"

"I don't know, man. Are you—you know—in love with her?"

"I don't know," Nick says, and it's the truth, unvarnished and raw. He doesn't know if he's in love with her, but he also doesn't know if he's not, and that's the real kicker.

"Then it's probably not a spell," Monroe says. "Not a lot of room for doubt with a love spell. At least not a hexenbiest spell. There's still the whole magic baby thing going on with you two, so we can't rule out that it's a bigger kind of magic—something earth based and sort of natural."

"Blood magic?"

"Maybe. I'm getting the sense that something really ancient came for you two up there in them hills, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's influencing the way you feel. If anything, I'd think magic like that would work with feelings already present in the world. Chemistry is it's own kind of magic, and you and Adalind have it in spades. And old magic—natural magic that's actually a part of the Earth itself—it's like any other force of nature—it follows the path of least resistance. So if old magic picked you two out of a world of billions to make this particular baby—I don't know, man. I guess I'd have to think that it picked you two for a reason."

A reason, Nick thinks, remembering the first time he'd seen Adalind. The bolt of lightning that had struck his gut when their eyes met—when her face changed—when his life changed with it. Had they always been destined for this, even then?

What had Henrietta said? That being a Grimm was a choice—one he chose, just as much as it chose him? He's beginning to think loving Adalind might just be a choice, too—one he's going to make, just as much as it makes him.