Chapter 16: Calleigh

"I need to get some groceries," Eric announces after breakfast the next day while flipping through the sports section of the Miami Herald.

"I think I'm going to visit my dad," you reply, finishing up your toast. "Maybe after lunch."

He looks up. "Want me to come along?"

"Nah, I'll be alright." Standing, you pick up the plates and move to the sink to wash them. "I have to call Alexx, too, to arrange that dinner. When are you free?"

He leaves his newspaper behind to help you with the dishes. "Anytime," he replies. He chuckles when you shoot him an unconvinced look. "Really, anytime," he insists.

"Eric," you sigh, "I don't want you to put your life on hold just because I'm here."

"Hey, you're staying, right?" he asks, thought you're not quite sure what that has to do with anything.

You nod. "My stuff's getting moved over, my apartment's getting rented out, so yes, I'm staying."

"Okay, so how am I putting my life on hold?" he asks with a quick wink. He leans over and lands a quick kiss on your cheek. "This is my life now."

You can't suppress the grin that spreads across your face. His point makes you a lot giddier than it probably should've, and for some reason, it doesn't scare you. It sounds nice, the way he had put it. And when you really think about it, this is the way it should be. It feels too right for it not to be.

"I also have to call a couple of my friends to let them know what's going on," you add, finishing up with the plates. "And I guess I'll get started on that transfer request. My old boss wants something official by Monday."

He dries his hands and begins to pour you a second cup of coffee. "Are you getting your own place?"

"Are you kicking me out?" you shoot back playfully.

He chuckles, pulling you into his arms. "Might consider it if you keep handcuffing me," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss you. He trails his fingers down your cheek as he does so, and you tilt your head up to grant him the best possible angle.

Before he can do much more, you pull away and smile. "You enjoyed it," you whisper, your arms snaking around him.

"Would've enjoyed it a lot more if you let he handcuff you," he complains, planting a lazy kiss on your nose.

You laugh softly. "Not happening anytime soon," you tease, detaching yourself from him and using his disorientation to pull his cell phone out of his pocket. "I need Alexx's number," you explain.

He nods. "Might as well use my phone to call, too."

Flipping it open, you quickly locate Alexx's home number and press Eric's phone to your ear. A few rings later, a young female voice – definitely not Alexx's – answers.

"Could I speak to Alexx please," you request politely, your heart suddenly pounding when you realize that you are probably speaking to Alexx's daughter for the first time in what seems like ages.

Thankfully, if it even is her, she doesn't seem to catch your anxiety or recognize your voice. "Sure," she replies pleasantly. There's a short, muffled conversation, then Alexx's voice comes across the line.

"Dr. Woods," she greets, all seriousness.

"Hey, Alexx," you reply. "It's Calleigh."

Immediately, she places her professionalism aside. "Oh, hey, honey. I was worried you weren't going to call."

"No, I just got caught up with… things," you reply, cringing at your words, hating that they sounded so much like another weak excuse. Too firm a reminder of the first time around.

Alexx seems to pick up on the tension. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, everything's good." You watch as Eric wanders out of the kitchen to give you some privacy, though you hadn't really needed any. "I was just calling to see how things were with you. How are the kids?"

"Well, that was Janie you just spoke to," she mentions, confirming your suspicion. "They don't know you're in Miami yet. I wasn't sure how long you'd be staying."

There's melancholy there, and you can't help but think it has something to do with her not wanting to disappoint her children in case you decide to run off again. You suddenly wish Eric was still in the room with you.

"Alexx, I—" Hesitating, you decide to chase a different route completely. "Couple days ago, you mentioned dinner, and I'd really love to take you up on that offer."

"Oh, of course. Does tomorrow work for you?" she asks. "It'll be Sunday and Charlie wants to try out his new barbeque."

"Yeah," you nod, "I'd like that."

"Is it okay if I call Eric and ask him to join us?" she pries, almost as if in search of something.

"He's, um, he's here with me," you reveal, chuckling lightly. As if on cue, Eric wanders back into the kitchen and heads to the fridge. "I'm staying at his place for a while," you add, instinctively gravitating toward him.

"Of course you are," Alexx replies knowingly. "Ask him if he's free."

Bringing the phone away from your face for a second, you run your hand down Eric's arm to catch his attention. "Dinner tomorrow night at Alexx's."

He leans over and kisses you softly. "I'll be there."

Pressing the phone back to your ear, you grin gleefully. "He'll be there," you relay to Alexx.

"Wonderful," she replies. There's shuffling at the other end, words you can't make out. "I hate to have to break this short, but I have to give Bryan a ride to basketball practice. We're already running a little late. I'll see you tomorrow, honey?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to keep you. Later, Alexx."

You close the phone, but before you even have a chance to return the phone to Eric, he has you pressed against the counter. Laughing, you slip his phone back into his pocket and pat his cheek, feeling stubble underneath your palm.

"You're not getting lucky this morning," you inform him, but that does little to deter his attempts.

He leans in and begins kissing your neck, his hands keeping your hips still. "Says you," he murmurs.

Pushing him away gently, you smile. "Well, if you are, it's not going to be with me," you say playfully.

It still doesn't seem to have any effect, and as he kisses you again and slowly explores your mouth, you can feel the control slipping away. He drags his lips downward, neck, shoulder, collarbone, and he presses his groin firmly against you, letting you know exactly how he plans to spend the rest of the morning.

"Eric, I have errands to run," you protest halfheartedly, the words coming out in a hurry.

"That can wait," he mumbles against your skin.

"So can you," you reply, letting out a moan when he hits a particularly sensitive spot on your neck.

"I wanna handcuff you," he groans into your ear, his voice guttural, and that's enough to make you forget about every single thing you'd had planned for the day, completely obliterating your brain of any thought.

He grips your thighs and lifts you up, and instinctively, your legs wrap tightly around him. Clinging on to his shoulders, your lips meet and you kiss him back with equal fervor, suddenly wanting this as much as he does. Four years. It's been four years and two amazing nights together, but nothing is enough to satisfy your hunger for this man, and you get the feeling that it's very mutual. It had never been about merely release, and now, more than ever, you want, need, crave to show him that you haven't forgotten. He wants the same, needs to pour out his heart to you in the most intimate way imaginable, craves the contact that both of you have been denied for too long.

He begins to carry you toward the bedroom, stumbling slightly along the way from what you imagine to be arousal. Yeah, you decide when he places you gently on the bed and climbs over you, everything else could wait.

-/-/-

You'd begun to fall into a rhythm after that. The hum of normalcy, or something closely resembling it. Eric had spent his two weeks off taking you places around Miami, reintroducing you to the city you'd called home for so many years, showing you both what had changed and what hadn't, where you'd spent so many days, not nearly enough of them like this with him, and you know that he's sensed that. He'd taken those two weeks to fill the voids you'd left, a healing process for the both of you.

As the days begin to bleed into weeks, weeks to a month, then to two, there's something definitive in the air. Something so powerful you barely know how to handle it, but he silently reassures you that you're handling it perfectly, and you trust his assessment. It had been complex, what you had with him; still is, but nobody had ever expected it to be easy anyway. Growth. That's what it had been about, a culmination of things you'd understood then and things you'd been given a better chance to understand now. Improvement, one step at a time, and it reminds you of lame clichés, but one thing rings true and sure in your mind: this is it. For now, forever. You wouldn't hurt him again, couldn't; he trusts you not to and you'll guard that with your life.

Living with Eric is indescribable, as you'd known before but had suppressed in an attempt to forget. He's full of gestures that prove how much he really cares, how you've both changed but somehow have stayed the same. Everything about him that you had forced to the back of your mind had rushed back in a hurry, and it's still a little overwhelming at times, how he knows just what to do, when to do it, but it comes as little surprise that he often understands you better than you understand yourself.

But sometimes, there are still tiny uncertainties that expose the imperfections and remind you just how lucky you truly are that regardless of reason, this relationship has been given a second life.

"Calleigh?" Eric asks one day after answering an unexpected doorbell. "Who's Robert?"

You find him standing at the doorway, examining two large suitcases. "Who?"

"Robert," he repeats, his eyes scanning a manila envelope in his hands. "Robert McConnell."

"Oh, Rob," you reply, meaning the friend who'd agreed to help you with your belongings from Boston. "Did he send over my stuff?"

Eric looks up and holds out the envelope hesitantly. "Yeah." He frowns. "Why does this Rob have your key?"

You take a few steps toward him, hiding your smirk. "I told him to ask my landlady for it," you reply with a feigned nonchalance, reaching to remove the envelope from his hands.

From the corner of your eye, you see him watching you as you tear open the envelope and peer inside.

"So did you, uh, did you work with this guy?" he asks, trying to appear disinterested in the contents of the envelope.

"Yeah," you nod, extracting a handwritten letter. You look up. "He was a DNA analyst."

"He wrote you a letter," Eric observes, struggling to hide his blatant jealousy. He crosses his arms across his chest and pretends to study the suitcases. "Who the hell writes letters anymore."

"Eric."

"You know who writes letters? My aunt Carmen. You've met my aunt Carmen? She's f—"

"Eric!"

"What?"

You smile softly. "Eric." You approach him, envelope dropped on the suitcases. "I came back for you," you reassure, threading an arm around his waist.

"I'm not jealous of some lab tech," he says vehemently

You smile, tiptoeing to brush your lips against his. "Okay," you reply, unconvinced.

He sighs and kisses your forehead. "You're mine," he murmurs stubbornly.

And as you realize that Eric's the only person who has ever made possessiveness sound so appealing, you nod. "Always."

The phone call to thank Rob had been equally interesting, with Eric sulking about how he could write letters too, better letters, more romantic letters. The next morning, you'd woken up with an envelope taped to your headboard. Drowsily, you'd opened the envelope to find a letter inside. It had simply said, Cal, wake me up. –Eric.

That had been it. Nothing more, nothing less. And after you'd woken him, he'd chuckled nervously and spoken of how he'd stayed up half the night trying to write you a love letter.

"It was so fucking cheesy, Cal," he laughs, a little too loudly to discredit his embarrassment. "You would've made fun of me."

You shake your head and sit up. "No, I wouldn't have," you reassure, meaning it and suddenly craving to read it. Taking a quick look around the room, you tap him lightly on the arm. "C'mon, where is it?"

He rolls his eyes and buries his face under the covers. "In my paper shredder," comes his mumbled reply.

Pulling the covers aside, you lean down to kiss his temple. "Don't make me dig it out and piece it together," you tease, though you probably would've done it if you had the time.

He smiles. "I can summarize," he offers.

Nodding happily, you settle back under the covers, resting your cheek against the pillow and watching him in anticipation.

He looks at you for a moment, then smiles and leans back against the headboard, arm snaking behind your shoulders and pulling you close. "Okay, you ready?"

Snuggling up against him, you smile. "Yes."

He nods. "I was just thinking, I'm so lucky to have you back. I don't think it's really hit me yet, even now." He smiles slightly and takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "I never got over you," he continues, his voice turning serious. "Never. I tried, but I knew I couldn't." He takes a deep breath, and you can tell by his subtle movements that he's digging deep past the surface to be able to admit these things. "I was ready to live without you, but I never wanted to." He pauses thoughtfully, looking almost surprised at his own words. "I'm not telling you these things to make you feel guilty, Calleigh," he insists just as the remorse begins to rise in your chest. "I just want you to know how much you mean to me, how much you've always meant to me."

Closing your eyes to grasp a handle on your tiding emotions, you take a moment to breathe. "I couldn't let you go," you whisper into the air. "I thought I did, I thought I'd moved on. I never did."

"I know." A moment passes, two. The tip of his thumb comes into contact with your cheek. "You just needed the time to figure things out."

You know that he's making excuses for you, but you appreciate it nevertheless. "I'm the lucky one," you murmur.

"Nope," he replies, sounding every bit the adamant four-year-old.

"Yeah, Eric, I am," you reinforce, searching for his eyes, needing him to know that he's been nothing short of amazing, both before and now.

He smiles. "Okay, well, we can argue about this all day, but I can think of a much better way of spending the time," he says, brows arching suggestively.

"You're hopeless," you chuckle, rolling over him and kissing him softly.

He reaches up to push your hair aside. "I love you," he whispers, and as many times as he's said it, the emotion he delivers behind his words never fails to leave you breathless.

"I love you more."

He grins. "Again, we could fight about who loves whom more, but I'd rather—"

Stifling your laughter, you lean down to silence him for good.

You'd returned to work around the same time Eric's vacation had ended, the papers filed without a hitch. The lab had welcomed you back with open arms, and within weeks, Horatio had arranged to have the ballistics lab returned to you. It's still strange sometimes, surreal that you and Eric would drive to work together on most mornings. One thing has changed however, and that's no longer having to hide your relationship from your co-workers, though you doubt the two of you had done a very good job of it the first time around.

And your father, well, as you'd been informed by his doctor, his health had been rapidly deteriorating, and of course, he had continued to refuse a live donation from you, so you had gone to visit him nearly every day, feeling closer to him than you've been in years, maybe decades. As painful as it had been to watch, you're appreciative of the precious time you'd had together. You'd been surprised that your mother, someone you hadn't seen in the same room with your father in decades, had temporarily displaced to Miami to take care of your father. Perhaps their wedding vows hadn't meant nothing to her after all. As far removed from your situation as that had been, it'd offered you hope.

Three weeks after your arrival in Miami, the phone call had come. Your mother on the other end, crying, and immediately, your own throat had closed up. As much as you'd tried to prepare yourself for the inevitable end, it hadn't seemed to ease the impact any. You'd been numb throughout the call, throughout the ride to the hospital, and you can't recollect much else of what had happened that day. Eric had been there, you remember, but even then, you cannot recall what he'd said, only that at the time, it'd been quiet, soothing, and his words had kept you grounded.

The funeral had been a quiet affair, family and friends and defense attorneys from his old firm. Your brothers and their families, too, though they'd been shocked and horrified to discover that your father had been sick in the first place. They'd handled it rather well, given the circumstances, but you know that they'd been cut deep by your father's secret, by yours as well since you'd hidden his condition from them. Still, it had been a fitting memorial for a strong albeit severely flawed man. You'd tried not to cry, had tried to hold on, just hold on for the day, but as person after person had stood up and had told stories about your father, you'd felt a tear roll down your face, then two, then a sudden cascade.

But Eric, he'd been right beside you the whole time, holding you up when you barely had the strength to stand, reminding you without actually verbalizing it that he'd listen to you when you needed to talk, wouldn't prod when you didn't, and he had paved the path to as smooth a recovery as you could've ever hoped for.

There's one topic, however, that you'd always been afraid to broach: children. It hadn't come up since the slip-up in the car after visiting your father at the hospital that first time, but it still makes you uneasy to think that your fear of… something – was it even children? – is keeping Eric from being the most amazing father to some lucky kids. That inevitable discussion feels like a ticking time bomb, but the numbers are blurred and you can't tell when or where or how it'll explode, only that it's due. Long due.

Late one night, after another dinner at Alexx's, after watching Eric interacting with her children and feeling your own heart soar at the possibility, something snaps. Clicks. Churns and churns and stirs up the internal battle you hadn't even realized you'd been having with yourself.

Curled up on the couch next to him, you realize that you've cloaked the issue far past its limits. It's time.

"The more time I spend with you," you begin tentatively, testing the feel of the words, "the more I think that it's right for us, and that terrifies me."

It takes him a moment to figure out what you mean, and though ambiguous, he does. "Why?"

"I don't know," you reply honestly, swallowing hard. "What do you want?"

"You," he says without hesitation or pretense.

"How can you give up fatherhood for me?" you ask, barely managing to choke out the question.

He laughs softly and kisses your temple. "Because I love you."

"That's not a reason, Eric," you say, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

He frowns. "Why not?"

"A reason," you explain, "would be if we couldn't, and didn't have the money for alternate conception techniques. That's a reason."

"Calleigh," he protests, his hand finding yours. "I respect whatever decision you make."

You turn away from his selflessness like it could damage you. "It should be your decision, too."

He frowns in disapproval. "I'm not giving up anything, and I don't want you ever to think that." He pauses, gives your hand a squeeze. His voice softens. "Tell me what scares you."

You're not sure, and he knows this so he gives you all the time in the world to respond. How do you verbalize your fears when they don't even make sense to you? But at the back of your mind, hidden past the defense mechanisms with which you have become so accustomed, you know. You understand exactly what the answer is.

"What scares me," you begin quietly, not liking the way your voice had come out. You try again, settling on a louder, more confident tone. "I've been back barely two month and I'm thinking about whether or not I want children with you."

He smiles understandingly. "Nobody's rushing you," he reassures gently.

"I'm thirty-eight, Eric," you reply, suddenly feeling like you'd aged five years in the past five minutes. "I don't have many years left to decide whether or not I want this."

And that hits you pretty hard, that you've come this far in your life and have nothing except your career to show for it. And Eric, you remind yourself. Beyond that, nothing else matters, but that isn't exactly true. You'd been reluctant to settle down and have a family – had attempted to ignore the issue, actually – but the fact remains: Eric loves children. Children love Eric. You'd seen that for yourself countless times, with his nieces and nephews, friends' children, others while working cases.

Sure, you had never considered taking care of and understanding children your forte, but Eric had always been fantastic around them and as much as he'd like you to believe that he's not giving up anything to wake up next to you every morning, he is, already has, and as much as he'll have you believe otherwise, that's so incredibly unacceptable to you.

Beside you, he presses his index finger against your arm playfully. "You'll figure it out."

You frown. "What if I don't?"

He shakes his head. "You will," he insists.

"How can you be so sure?" you murmur, sighing softly.

"Because I know you," he replies simply. "You'll figure it out."

You chuckle mirthlessly. "You make it sound so easy."

"Maybe it won't be," he admits, "but when has that ever stopped you?"

He's right, of course. Always has been. There are ways, compromises that you have a lifetime to figure out.

"I can't believe we're having this conversation," you say thoughtfully with a small, disbelieving smile.

"Why not?" He frowns and runs his fingers evenly through your hair. "We don't have to talk about it now."

"No. Eric, it's not that," you reply with a quick shake of the head. You look up at him for a moment. Taking a deep breath, you lie your head against his chest. "I haven't even been back two month and we're talking about children."

"I've known you for nearly twelve years, Calleigh," he points out. "I think that counts for something,"

You nod, falling quiet as you listen to his heartbeat, then, "When did you know?"

He can't figure out what you mean this time. "Know what?"

"That you—" Lifting your head off his chest, you turn to look at him for a moment. "That this is what you wanted." Not liking how that had come out, you shake your head and rest your head against his chest again. "Never mind," you mumble. "I don't know what I'm asking."

He smiles and gently strokes your hair. He becomes quiet for a moment, then, "I think I always had a little schoolboy crush on you." He chuckles, and you sense a hint of embarrassment there, but then he sobers up. "I think that all changed with Hagen."

"His death?"

"No." He swallows and tenses up perceptibly, and you can feel the nervousness coursing through his fingertips. He stops stroking your hair and rests his palm against your chin for a moment. "When, uh, when rumors about the two of you started circulating."

Your head shoots up, eyes searching for his. "That long ago?"

The corners of his mouth turn up slightly, his attention focused on his lap. "Yeah."

You touch his cheek gingerly, feeling it heat up against your palm. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Oh, come on, Calleigh," he dismisses, still refusing to look at you. "We were so different back then. I—" He chuckles. "Let's just say I got around. I don't think I was ready for this kind of relationship. I probably would've hurt you, and I couldn't live with myself if I did."

You contemplate that for a moment. "Maybe not if you had the maturity to admit that."

He breathes out slowly, and finally, he raises his eyes. "At the time, I don't think I even thought of that, but you were so…" He trails off, appearing slightly uncomfortable again. A flash of long-ago concealed feelings flits across his eyes, converting to something resembling jealousy. He shrugs. "I don't know, but you were with Hagen. I don't think declaring my undying love for you would've gone over well."

You frown, sensing the disappointment coupled with a tinge of regret in his tone even after all these years. "And when Hagen and I broke up?"

"I knew you didn't, you know, return those feelings until much, much later, probably not until after Jake," he dismisses.

His words catch you off guard. "No, Eric, come on," you say softly, feeling a squeeze in your chest. "It was before that."

He studies you for a moment, as if trying to make the correct answer appear miraculously on your face. "My shooting?" he guesses.

You have to admit that it's a pretty good guess, but you need him to know that it hadn't always been as one-sided as he seems to imagine it was.

"Tim's death," you correct quietly.

That seems to surprise him. "Really?"

"You slept on my couch the night of his funeral, remember?" you rehash, keeping your eyes on his. "I, uh," you continue, feeling a little self-conscious. "I watched you most of the night."

A wide grin spreads across his face. "Really?"

You chuckle. "That sounds kind of creepy, but yeah. I think—" Biting your lip, you run your finger down his forearm, feeling his muscles react to your touch. "I think you were having nightmares, which, you know, given the circumstances…" You trail off, knowing that if there's one touchy topic with him, Tim's death is it. "Anyway, I couldn't sleep, and I heard noises, so I came to check up on you. I almost woke you, but you'd calmed down before I could do that."

That isn't quite a lie, but not the absolute truth either. In all honesty, you hadn't wanted to return to bed alone that night, and you had known that if you'd woken him, there would've been nothing you could've done except that.

"So you watched me," he says rather incredulously. "All night."

"Well, for an hour or two." You smile, but it's sad, and you can sense that he's thinking the same thing you are. "Eric," you protest even before he's said anything.

"You should've woken me," he murmurs, closing his eyes and lying back against the couch. "I think we both needed to talk about it."

Leaning in to kiss him softly on his exposed neck, you reply, "Honestly, I don't think I was in any mental state to talk."

He swallows hard and pulls you close to him. "I still miss him so much."

"I know," you soothe. "I think he'd be happy for us."

"Yeah?" he asks, as if he craved the confirmation. "You know, I could never stand hearing him talk about you," he admits nostalgically. "I think he figured that out after a while."

"You were jealous," you tease.

"No," he replies immediately, an edge of defensiveness to his voice, but quickly, he relents. "Maybe a little," he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. "He knew so much about you and I was just the rookie from underwater recovery."

"I grew rather attached to said rookie from underwater recovery," you quip, smiling brightly.

He grins and leans over to capture your lips, the kiss growing heated quickly when he pulls you over him and slides his hands to your hips. He keeps you there for a moment, then pulls back slightly, gently pushing you onto your back. He climbs over you, trapping you against the couch, his lips wandering again. You squirm, craving the friction, and he grunts at your force, his hands slipping underneath your shirt to caress the skin there. His fingers are warm, his body heavy but not uncomfortably so, and the sensations never fail to take your breath away. Your fingers dip just beneath the waistband of his pants.

"God, Cal, marry me," he mumbles against your lips, fingers trailing down the side of your body. His touch burns your skin, and when his tongue requests entry, velvety against your lips, it becomes impossible to even think straight.

"Eric," you moan, fingers scratching the back of his scalp.

His lips trek downward, pausing at your neck to grant sufficient attention. "If I asked," he murmurs, lips vibrating against your pulse, "would you say yes?"

There's an alarm bell, but it doesn't ring nearly loud or clear enough to make you step on the brakes. Everything's hazy, your mind's clouded over and the seriousness in his tone doesn't register immediately. "Depends—oh," you groan, eyes closing, as he surprises you with a wandering tongue. You breathe hard, trying desperately to grasp a semblance of control. "Depends how you ask."

His palms move up to cup your cheeks, his lips still incessantly assaulting your skin. "Will you marry me, Calleigh?" he whispers, shifting against you and tilting your face so that he can kiss you thoroughly. Softly. Gently. So slowly and attentively, but just as your hands begin to work the buttons of his shirt, he pulls away and grins. "That good enough?"

You shake your head, blood pounding against your temples, too caught in the moment to really think much of his words and the implications behind them. "No," you breathe as his hands slide underneath the hem of your shirt. Holding back a moan, you reach around to the back of his head and pull his head toward yours. "Ask nicer."

He lowers his lips to yours once more and brushes against them. "Marry me, beautiful," he says quietly, and as the sincerity in his voice finally registers with you, it slowly but surely puts you into panic mode.

Pushing him off roughly, you sit up, trying desperately to catch your breath, clear your head. Your heart races in your chest, its speed challenged only by how quickly your mind's running. If there's one emotion that sticks out from the rest, it's fear. The same fear that had always plagued you whenever intimacy between the two of you reaches a new level.

And really, there's never any need for that fear, because you do trust him implicitly, and you know that he'd meant it as a joke only, had never wanted to scare you. The problem, you realize, is that somewhere between his words and yours, you had heard something that you hadn't wanted to be a joke, and that terrifies you more than anything.

"Eric," you hear yourself croak, your voice cracking.

He's backed away to the opposite end of the couch, his eyes downcast, and he takes a deep breath and begins buttoning up his shirt. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, keeping his eyes straight ahead, and you can tell that he's blaming himself for your freak-out.

You shake your head and approach him carefully. "Don't apologize." Still trying to fully regain your breath, you reach out to take his hand in yours and lean in to kiss his cheek. "It's just that one day," you add, sounding braver than you actually feel, "I'm going to want you to mean those words."

He perks up. "One day?" he echoes, sounding hopeful and something else you can't quite pick out.

"Yeah," you reply with a nod, the panic slowly being replaced by calmness, "and if we joke about this, I'm not going to believe you when you really pop the question."

"You'll know," he reassures.

You smile in amusement. "How? Are you going to draw it out across the sky?"

He chuckles. "Well, damn, you've got me all figured out," he teases, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on your lips. "Besides, if I tell you, it'll ruin the surprise." Before you can retort, his voice turns serious. "But you'll know when I mean it," he promises, "and you're going to be shocked out of your mind."

His words send a silent shiver down your spine, but your voice betrays none of that. "Okay, Eric," you dismiss calmly, "but I don't know how shocked I'm going to be if you tell me I'm going to be shocked."

He's quiet for a minute, contemplative, his hand absentmindedly massaging yours. Suddenly, he stands and pulls you to your feet. He smoothes out your hair, then ghosts a trail down your jaw line.

"I love you so much," he whispers, looking at you with such adoration.

"I love you, too," you murmur back, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him softly. Something about his demeanor is off, though you can't figure out what it is. "Eric, are you okay?" you ask, a little concerned.

He releases you and takes a step back. Something changes in his eyes, and he seems nervous, like he's terrified out of his mind. As if in slow motion, his hand begins to fish around in his pocket. He keeps his eyes on yours as he extracts a tiny black velvet box and drops down on one knee, and even though at the back of your mind, you have an idea of what's happening, every cell in your body is paralyzed. Frozen stiff, unable to form any kind of reaction.

He snaps open the box, revealing a beautiful ring, but it's blurry because suddenly, your eyes are welling up with tears. Holding them back, you watch him struggle with his own emotions for a moment before he recollects his voice. "Calleigh," he says softly, a mixture of indescribable affection and so much hope. "Will you marry me?"

"Eric," you whisper, your voice cracking weakly, "oh my God."

He smiles up at you. "Shocked?"

"Speechless," you breathe, sucking in another breath of air, trying to stop your head from spinning and your heart from beating out of your chest. "Eric," you repeat, though you can't seem to utter much more than his name.

He fiddles with the box nervously. "I wanted to wait until we were in some perfect place," he explains, words firing rapidly. "You know, the beach or on vacation in Vegas or somewhere more romantic than this." He smiles and shakes his head. "But I don't care about any of that, Calleigh. I just want to spend the rest of my life with you." He takes your trembling hand in his and squeezes it gently. "I know there's a lot going on, but I don't want to wake up tomorrow morning with this ring in my pocket, with you not knowing how badly I want to grow old with you." He pauses to give your hand another squeeze. "I—I don't want to rush you, but you said one day, and I know you meant it, so I want you to know that I mean it, too."

A wave of emotion hits you square in the chest, and without warning, your cheeks are streaked with tears, which you try stubbornly to wipe away but to no avail. Your legs suddenly feel far too weak to support your weight, so you clumsily drop to your knees next to Eric. You're not sure what surprises you more: the timing or the proposal itself, maybe both equally. All you know is that this amazing, fearless man, who's put up with so much of your ups and downs, so much uncertainty and heartache, still manages to love you unconditionally, to reveal his heart despite the fact that you've shattered it one too many times. That absolutely blows your mind, renders you speechless.

You look into his eyes, wet with unshed tears, as you continue fruitlessly to stop yours. You open your mouth but nothing except a shaky sob escapes. He waits patiently, just as he's always done, for you to recollect yourself, and it's only then that you realize you haven't said anything yet and there's an incredibly slight but very distinct possibility that he'd take your silence and your tears the wrong way.

He doesn't seem to, as he runs the pad of his thumb across your moist cheek and kisses you softly. He's trembling – not as much as you are, but it's still perceptible, and the firm reminder of how open Eric can be, how in touch with his emotions, doesn't come a moment too late.

"Eric," you manage to choke out, "how did you…" Trailing off, you take a few quick looks at the ring, still unable to fully process the events of the past five minutes. "When?"

He smiles. "About six weeks ago, I went to visit your father, alone," he explains. "I knew his time was running out, and I just wanted to make sure he understood my intentions."

For some reason, you can imagine that conversation vividly, though it's still surprising. Your father had known, and that means more to you than you could possibly ever express. "Wh—what did he say?"

"He told me that you were the jewel of his existence, that he knew I'd take good care of you," he replies, smile widening. "As soon as I left the hospital, I headed straight to that jewelry store on Flagler. I think I went back there every day for the next three weeks, but I finally decided on this one."

"I can't believe my dad knew," you breathe, wiping away at your drying tears.

"Yeah," he nods, then grins cheekily. "Calleigh, you know you still haven't answered."

You laugh, tears stinging again, and you must've look like a mess, crumpled on the ground, makeup no doubt smeared, but he doesn't seem to care and neither do you. You're happy. More than happy. You can't remember the last time you'd felt like this, pure unadulterated joy.

"Yes, Eric," you whisper, still having a difficult time processing anything. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

He smiles and pulls the ring out of the box, takes your left hand in his and kisses it. He smiles again and carefully slides the ring up along your fourth finger until it's wrapped around just the right part, and he's managed to make it look like you'd been wearing it forever. Feels like that, too. Forever. There's a nice ring to it.

He helps you up to your feet, and your eyes are glued to the ring, heart glued to the man standing in front of you. He leans in to kiss you, so torturously slow but you wouldn't want it any other way. Your heart still flutters the same way it had that first time, however many days, months, years ago, and you marvel at the way that has never changed, would never change.

He draws away slightly, his breath mingling with yours.

"I can't believe we're here," he whispers, all wonderment and unabashed awe, his finger tracing your ring.

"I can't believe you're still my quiet lover," you reply, your voice just as low, and he laughs, he understands.

He would be your quiet lover until the end of time.