The night that became the catalyst for this whole mess replayed in her mind more often than she'd like to admit.
It all started with a bottle of bourbon and really, she should have known then and there it couldn't have ended well.
He had shown up to her office that night with a bag of takeout and a far off look in his eye. It was only then that she remembered what the day was: the anniversary of Kate's death.
She supposed she should have remembered. But then again, she had acquired a lot of death dates in her head over the years. It was hard to keep track.
So she sat with him, doing most of the talking to keep him occupied and his thoughts away from his demons. She went over mundane things: cases of other agents, conflicts with other agencies, anything to keep the conversation flowing and the heavy silence away.
When she pulled out the bottle from her personal stash she had hidden in her office, it was all down hill from there.
They were each three glasses deep each when he leaned over and kissed her.
She should have pulled away then and there, told him that she meant it when she said no off the job and tried to forget the ordeal entirely.
But she was warm from the alcohol and her decision making portion of her brain was cloudy, and so she leaned into it.
"We shouldn't have done that." She had muttered with way less conviction than she would have liked.
"I know." He tells her, before leaning back in and doing it all over again.
When he brought his hand up to cup the left side of her face, thumb stroking her cheek bone, she was done for.
She's not entirely sure of the in between. Who's idea it was to leave and go back to his house, how they had the sense or self control to drive separately but dangerous fast all the same. What happened between the time they exited their cars and the front door.
What she did know was that when she woke up in the early hours of the morning, she was sprawled out on the opposite side of his bed. It took her a full minute to recollect what happened. She knew of course where she was the moment her eyes opened; she'd been there too many times before when they were together to not know.
Both he and the sun had yet to wake up, and so she took the opportunity to slip out from under his covers and to silently gather her clothes from where they were scattered among his bedroom. Her coat was crumpled into a forgotten heap on the floor just beyond the front door, and she realizes they hadn't been able to wait until they made it upstairs.
There was a guilt consuming her and she got dressed; a nagging in the back of her mind of how he would react when he woke up to find the left side of his bed empty. She hoped against all hope that he understood, that he knew she had to go home and collect herself and face the new day.
After gently closing the door and getting hit with a wave of cold air, she walked to her car, head hung low.
"I'm so sorry Jethro." She had said, more to herself than anything.