Rick awoke to the sounds of birds chirping, ocean waves crashing, and the soft breathing of his lady love. He opened his eyes and gazed down at her body spooned against his. Her hair was a wreck, her eye makeup smudged, but she never looked so beautiful. He snuggled his body closer to hers and heard her exhale a happy sigh.

"Good morning," he said and kissed her neck.

"Morning," she sighed then covered her mouth to yawn and stretch out her legs. She rolled over to face him and gazed up with those disarming pools of chocolate brown. "Sleep well?"

"Very. You?"

"Very," she echoed. She gazed in to his eyes for a moment and reached up her hand to brush back a floppy section of hair dropping over his forehead. With a soft smile she asked, "Can I tell you something?"

"Always." He tucked a hand under his face to prop it up off the pillow. He sensed a story coming; he loved stories.

"You remember the night we met? Your book release party when I came to ask you questions about that copycat murder?" He nodded and she continued. "That wasn't the first time we met."

"It wasn't?"

She shook her head. "Four years earlier I got a Derek Storm novel signed by you at the Barnes & Noble on 5th," she confessed while biting on her thumbnail.

"You're kidding!" He was astounded that he did not remember. True, book signings typically involved a heavy amount of chaos and he did sign hundreds of books—ninety percent of them for women—but he could hardly believe his past self hadn't taken one look at her and forgotten how to breathe.

She shook her head. "Nope. The book is under my bed under a bunch of old sweaters."

He laughed. "Why?"

"Because I was embarrassed! I mean, back then I stood in line for over an hour all giddy that I was going to meet my favorite author and now…well, now that I know you it's embarrassing."

He grinned impossibly wide. "I'm your favorite author?"

Her cheeks gained the slightest hint of pink. "Maybe."

"Why Kate Beckett, you flatter me."

"There's more," she told him.

He gave a giddy little laugh. "Well do go on."

She snuggled a little closer to her pillow and tucked her hands beneath her head. "When my mother died, I was in a really dark place. My father was drinking all the time. The cops had no leads. I was so alone I just…I didn't know what to do with myself. One night I was walking through a book store and I saw a display of the latest Derek Storm book. I though…why not, but I wanted to start at the beginning of the series, so I bought the first book and I finished it that night. The next day I went back to the store and bought all the Derek Storm novels, read them all in less than two weeks, and then bought everything else you'd ever written.

"I needed answers. I needed a "who" and a "why." My mother case didn't have that. I needed to know that somewhere, somehow this would make sense. Those books…they made sense. They saved me from spiraling away in to…" she paused to rub her brow. "I don't know what. I just…I needed you to know that."

Once again at a loss for words, Rick did the only thing he could think of. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against her forehead for a full minute. Her confession alone was touching, but coming from her—the woman who played everything close to the vest—it meant even more. "Thank you," he said, "for telling me." She merely smiled in response.

"So…Breakfast?" Rick offered sitting up in bed. "Pancakes?"

"Sure," she responded. She watched as he stood from bed, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt, and flashed her a cheeky grin before leaving the room. Once he was gone, she rolled over on to her back and stretched her body out full length. Then, dorky grin on her face, she slid out of bed and reached for her suitcase.

Kate's Saturday was what could easily be described as a rare, perfect day. Rick made her huge, fluffy pancakes for breakfast with fresh strawberries and blueberries on the side. As they ate, she quizzed him on his culinary talents. He explained them by informing her that a writer with writers block did just about anything to avoid staring at a blank computer screen.

After breakfast, she headed out to the beach while Castle excused himself to his laptop, stating that he had a brilliant scene idea he could not let escape. She wandered aimlessly across the private sandy area for almost an hour before she spotted him coming out of the house with beach chairs in tow. They sat together on the sand and had a picnic lunch until a mid-afternoon storm forced them inside. As lightning and thunder crashed overhead, they made love on the couch and discussed their favorite childhood vacations.

For dinner, Chef Castle prepared one of his signature dishes—spaghetti and meat sauce. She insisted on washing the dishes since he had been in charge of all the cooking. As she washed, he sat at the counter sipping wine and watching her with intrigue. Kate Beckett was a natural at many things; being domestic was not one of them and that amused him endlessly.

After their meal, he once again excused himself to his laptop while she snuggled up in bed with a title she pulled from his bountiful bookshelves. It was there she fell asleep only to awake hours later as he slid the book from her limp fingers and tucked her under the covers. When he joined her, she snuggled up to him and fell in to one of the most restful sleeps she'd had in years.

Sunday morning when Kate awoke she found herself alone in bed. After stretching and yawning, she slid off the mattress and shuffled her way in to the main room of the home. She could see him typing away on the other side of the staircase and decided not to disturb him. Instead, she went to the kitchen and began searching the refrigerator for something to make for breakfast.

A loud bang and the sound of a muffled curse pulled Rick from his writing zone. Curious, he stood from his seat and tip-toed towards the kitchen. There she stood, her t-shirt drooping off one shoulder and her hair dangling sloppily across her eyes, a mess surrounding her. Pure amusement crossed his face as he walked forward. "So, you're kind of bad at this."

She shot him a glare. "Shut up, Castle."

"I think it's kind of endearing," he confessed then approached her mess cautiously. "So what do we have here?"

Her shoulders dropped and she dropped the skillet in her hand do the stovetop. "I was trying to make omelets."

"Would you like some help?" he offered. She gave a begrudging nod and stepped back, letting him take over.

"I'm usually not this bad at cooking."

"Well, in all fairness, they do put the instructions for those frozen meals right on the box," he said pointedly. This joke earned him a punch in the shoulder and he recoiled, whining.

"Baby," she muttered.

As Rick finished cooking the omelet she started, Kate set out plates and flatware, thinking that was one thing she could do correctly. "You know," he began, "you don't have to go back to the city today. You could…quit your job and stay out here with me."

"Ah but then who would solve the murders of New York City?"

He shrugged. "Ryan and Esposito?" After a moment they both exchanged glances and shook their heads, "Nah."

"No, unfortunately, I have to go back. I ordered a cab for 11. That gives me," she paused to glance at the clock on the stove, "not quite two hours, but I have to pack and shower."

He arched a devilish eyebrow at her. "Shower? Well that definitely sounds like a two-person job." She smiled in response; who was she to argue with that logic?

An hour and a half later she was zipping up her duffle bag and putting on her shoes, her heart much heavier than it had been when she first woke up. He stood in the doorway to the bedroom watching her. She turned and gave him a listless smile. "So when are you coming back to the city?" she asked him.

"Oh, um…I'm not sure."

She gazed at him curiously. "You're not sure? You seem to be making progress on your book," she said, gesturing towards the office area.

He nodded. "I am. I'm just…I'm not sure."

"Well, um," she paused to slip her hands in her back pockets. "It hasn't really been the same without my partner."

Rick nodded sadly and folded his arms across his chest. "Partner," he said with irritation as though the word itself was mocking him. "Is that what I'm going back to, Kate? Just your partner?"

She sighed and dug her toe in to the floor. "Castle, we discussed this…"

"You're right, we did—we talked about it two months ago—over two months ago! You said when you went back to work after your injury you were going to focus on work and I agreed. Well, Kate, you've been back at work for two months and you're doing just fine, so what's your excuse now?"

Her eyes narrowed briefly at him. "You don't understand-"

"No, I don't think you understand, so let me make it clear to you. I don't want to be your partner anymore, Kate. At least not just your partner. I want you; I want us. I want this," he said, gesturing towards the bed where they spent many blissful hours that weekend. "Don't you see? Don't you see what we could be?"

She swallowed hard and took a step away from him. Why did he have to do this? Couldn't they just end their weekend with a pleasant goodbye? "I-I thought I was clear."

"Yeah," he said, taking two steps towards her, "yeah, you were clear. You were clear back in New York how you turned down every invitation I offered you and stopped smiling at me whenever you caught yourself doing it. That was pretty damn clear. It was all clear until this weekend."

"This was vacation," she said as though that were an irrefutable defense.

He shook his head bitterly. "Don't lie to me, Kate. You owe me that much. Be honest with me. Tell me how you feel. I know you're scared, Kate, but did it ever occur to you that I might be scared too? That maybe I'm scared because in my whole life I've never felt this connected, this in love with anybody?"

She held his gaze for a moment longer before looking away. The burn of emotion in the back of her throat was too strong. "I…I have to go." She took three steps towards the door and then turned back to look at him, the expression on his face making her heart break apart instantaneously. "Th-thanks for letting me stay this weekend; I'll see you back in the city." With that, she hurried out the door leaving him shattered in her wake.

She all but sprinted down the driveway and flung herself in to the waiting cab. The cabbie barely drove three blocks before she broke down completely, tears streaming steadily down her cheeks and her breath coming in short, ragged sobs.

He was right; he was one hundred percent right. She knew he had every right to be angry with her. Hell, she might even have been mad at him if he wasn't mad at her. Still, she stood by her decision to leave, to keep him at arm's length. For some reason she convinced herself that any romantic relationship they embarked on would end in a fiery catastrophe and then she'd lose him forever. At least, as her partner, she could keep him. That is, if he even wanted to stay.