He gets that she's hurting, fragile, lost. She's told him as much, and it's been apparent since he first laid eyes on her, but this? That she is even more private than he thought? "But- me. You told me? Why?"

Her face softens, she sips her coffee, thinking. She smiles, jokes. "Probably because you're tall?"


Kate doesn't know why she told Castle, or how. She's kind of going out of her mind. Sitting here calmly drinking a coffee instead of going to work, talking to this man- as though he's her friend, her partner, her something, her someone. Walking his daughter to school. Kissing him good morning. As though her life is just so normal, and she's struck by how wrong that is, and how right it feels. And it's freaking her out.

And she hasn't even slept with him. That is freaking her out most of all. They shared a bed last night, a kiss or two- but that was it. Not that she has a lot of sleepovers that involve staying the whole night- usually there's sneaking out involved- but she doesn't think she's ever spent the night with a guy and just slept.

Kate realises Rick is staring at her. "What?" she asks guiltily.

"Where did you go? Just then? You didn't hear the last three things I said, did you?"

She shakes her head. "Sorry. Sorry- just-"

"Just freaking out?" he asks. God. Could he read her mind now? She sinks a little lower in her chair, blushes.

"Just freaking out," she confirms.

He shrugs, runs his hand through his hair- she's struck by the urge to run her hand through his hair- "Me too, Beckett, me too. I haven't exactly dated anyone like you before-"

"Dated? We're dating?" She can't breathe. Why can't she even breathe? "No. Not dating. We're… something. Something- not dating."

"Right." He smiles. Reaches over, strokes her wrist. "Check. Not dating, Beckett. Just… something."

She sighs, exasperated. With him, with herself. She doesn't even know. But his hand on her wrist? In spite of herself, it's calming, and brings her back. His hands are gentle, and he's- well, he's nothing like she thought. Kate takes a deep breath. "Right. Something. Okay. New subject. Quick. Distract me!" She's laughing and she's kidding, but she means it, too. Distract me quickly, before I realise that I do not do this. Ever. She wants to be caught, to be something more. To be the kind of girl who doesn't go in to work on her day off. To be the kind of girl who is friends with the M.E. and hangs out with her cop friends and the kind of girl who goes spends time with her boyfriend. If only. Distract me. "Tell me how you started writing?"

So he tells her.

She finds herself calming down. Listening to him talk about his lucky break with finding a publisher, the headache of writer's block, the balance between creating fiction, and fulfilling a legal contract. She asks the right questions- pulls herself back into the conversation.

"What about A skull at springtime?" he asks. "What did you think of that one?"

She senses it's a trick question, can't for the life of her work out what the trick is. "I don't think that's your best, but…" she trails off, he's chuckling. "What?"

"Just working out how big a fan you are, Beckett. That sold about ten copies, and basically sucked. The only people who have ever even heard of it are the hard core fans." He nods, knowingly. "So now I know just how hard core you are."

Kate shakes her head in dismay, raises her hands above her head. "You got me. No coming back from that one. So let me be honest. A skull at springtime sucked!"

"Ouch. And, agreed. I wish I'd never written it, and I wish it had never been published. At least that's not the one you were reading the night we met."

"Oh. That. Yeah." She chuckles too. At least he'll never know that she was carrying his book around to make herself feel safer. And she promises herself that he'll never know that she read A skull at springtime twice.


To Rick's dismay, Kate insists on heading home after they finish their second coffee. He sees her into a cab and realises as the cab drives away that he doesn't even know where she lives. He's smiling as he walks back to his place and when his phones buzzes, it's Kate, thanking him for the coffee.

He settles in front of his laptop at home, with the intention of knocking out another Storm chapter. But that other file, from the other day, is open too, and before he knows it, his hot detective character has a back story and hell, before he knows it, he has a first name for this character, and another chapter written, and then another.

Rick pauses to take a call from his mother- she's calling to glean information about Kate, thinly disguised under the veil of offering to look after Alexis "if he needs some time… to himself, or otherwise", and Rick assures her he has every intention of collecting on the offer if necessary, but manages to avoid incriminating himself directly. His mother is the last person to judge- or, well, she judges, but he's a pro at ignoring much of her judgment, all things considered- but he is certainly not going to tell his mother that he and Kate have progressed to sleepovers, albeit non naked sleepovers that involve, of all things, sleep. For what it's worth, he can tell his mother liked what she saw of Kate, because if she hadn't, the phone call would have been a reminder that he needs to look after his daughter rather than gallivanting around town. At the very least, he interprets it that way, because that had been her reaction to seeing him on page six with Gina a few months ago.

He's back writing before he knows it, ignoring the signals from his stomach that cry lunch! and he peels his fingers away from the keys only when his alarm goes off, reminding him to collect Alexis from school. It's been a long time since he's needed the alarm to tear himself away from writing. When did he last get so pulled in, he wonders? And he doesn't even know if he's being pulled in by the writing, or by her.


For the first time in a long time, Kate has a day off but she doesn't have the urge to go into work. Not that she doesn't want to work on the case, and not that she's not curious about it. But she's oddly happy to wait until tomorrow to find out. In the meantime, she wants to get reunited with her apartment. It's kind of stupid, how much she loves her apartment but how little she's there. She can be in the darkest recesses of her mind, and still she feels calmed by the white walls, bright colours, the spacious and open rooms, so much bigger than the tens of apartments she had looked at before choosing this one.

It's a much nicer apartment than she should be able to afford, but for better or for worse, she's not short on money, thanks to her mother's life insurance. She's grateful, at least, to have her own space, that she doesn't need roommates like most people on her kind of salary in New York City. Doubly grateful that she doesn't live with her father anymore. She's humming as she moves around the space, straightening things up. A skull at springtime stares at her from the bookshelf, sandwiched between A rose for ever after and Flowers for her grave. She rolls her eyes at herself, rueful that she has been caught so easily as such a fan. It's not like Castle's the only author she's into, she is a fan of the genre after all. But she doesn't own every Patterson, doesn't read every Connelly twice. Doesn't lurk on King fan boards. Nope. That stuff? That's just Castle.

Kate checks her phone, but there are no messages. None from Castle, none from anyone else. Not that there are many other people who message her. She had called her father the week before, only to find his phone had been cut off. She sighs. She'll have to go over, check on him, but she's dreading it, tells herself the neighbours will call her if they need her, tells herself he'll be fine. Kate remembers the days when her phone would beep constantly, too much. Messages from Royce, always mixed, always inappropriate. She should be thankful he left, knows he was on a downward spiral, but mostly she just misses him. It was some kind of fucked up relationship, she knows that, but he meant something to her, she thought she did to him too. Huh. But, as Lanie pointed out last night, apparently Mike hadn't been quite as much a lone wolf as he'd let her believe.

Kate steps into her shower, at last shedding her clothes from last night. She imagines, just for a second, that it's Castle undressing her, imagines his hands on her. She wishes he was her, or that she was there. Longs for him, as she stands in the steam and imagines that she's pulling him into the shower with her. Still, she's perplexed at how slowly things are moving, physically. She doesn't know what to do, feels unequipped for this. It's a relationship but not. Never before has she been able to spend the night with someone, talk over coffee for hours, but not… fuck. This is a big deal to Kate. She should have called him when she got his number, gotten him out of her system. Now, it's gotten weird. It feels almost like a relationship but not quite. And, Royce aside, Beckett doesn't do relationships. Doesn't do the distraction. And god knows she's distracted now.