For the sweet woman to whom I can't wait to come home to every day.
kairos
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He can't sleep.
He's exhausted, has written for hours after he came home from the precinct, jittery with scenes unfolding in front of his inner eye. Fidgety until he felt the smooth, comforting familiarity of his keyboard beneath his fingertips, sank back into his desk chair and let his fingers fly with the clash, sprint, burn, tumble of the words racing through his mind.
It purges him, usually. Leaves him drained, thoughts finally quiet after the images are poured out onto the page but not so tonight.
He's restless, his legs twitching as he tries to get comfortable. Too hot underneath the comforter but too cold without it. He flops onto his back, stares at the ceiling, watching the silhouettes painted onto the white surface, the shadow puppets penciled and smudged by the cavalcade of New York colors and lights, hazy tonight as they sneak their path through the wintry-wet fog.
He stretches his arms out high above his head, then flaps them down to the side, up and down, making snow angels on the white expanse of his sheets.
The bed is too wide, too empty.
He's waiting for her.
He's tried to deny it, to ignore it. Tried to tell himself that he shouldn't, that there's no guarantee that she'll come by, tonight or any other night, but it's no use. His need for her grows by that upon which it feeds and now that he's had her in his bed, held her in his arms, twice, there's no going back. He wants her close, all the time, feels lonely and forlorn without her, yearns for her in that stark, forever kind of way.
He reaches for his phone, unlocks the screen, staring at his messages. He locks the phone, throws it on the pillow beside him, then turns his back to it, squeezing his eyes closed as if that can force him to just finally fall asleep. But his pulse keeps racing, his senses heightened to every sound and sensation, a creak in a floorboard and the hum coming from the heating vents, the muted whirr of the city traffic that seems too loud for his ears and at last he turns over again, grabs his phone, and opens the message app.
Are you awake? His thumb smudges onto the 'delete' key and holds.
Come over. Delete.
I miss you.
Fingers clamped around his phone, he freezes, stares at the message for a long time until the letters blur and run together in front of his eyes. They just don't do this. He wishes he could just say it but words aren't a part of this intrinsic dance they've perfected over the past few years. It's an odd kind of situation, he thinks, a writer unable to use his words but nobody has ever made him feel as tongue-tied as Kate.
He lets out a deep breath and then he locks his phone; slowly, decisively puts it back on the nightstand.
Rolling onto his side, Castle grabs for the pillow that he now thinks of as hers and snuggles it beneath his chin, folding his arms tightly around it. He thinks he can still smell her scent even though the sheets have since been washed. He buries his nose in the fabric and wishes it was her.
.
"Castle. Castle."
Her voice, oh so mellifluous. Whispers in the dark, like fall leaves that rustle in the breeze. Warm like sunshine on his back. Thick and sweet, like honey licked from the edges of the spoon.
He's drifting, neither here nor there, trawling through the depths of sleep, can't seem to find the edges of reality.
Not that he cares. This is so much better. He reaches for her, his hand fumbling through the darkness toward the sound of her voice and then she's really there; warm, silky skin beneath his fingertips, the slender circumference of her wrist that fits so neatly within the cradle of his hand.
"Kate," he sighs, drawn-out vowels melting into the darkness as he hauls her against him, chest to chest, arms cradling her back and a leg draped over her hip, enfolding her in a snug embrace. And she lets him, burrows her face into his sternum, her breasts flattened against him.
He can't see, it's pitch-black or maybe his eyes are still closed? But he can feel - the warmth of her skin through her shirt, the soft sigh that falls from her lips. The way her ribcage expands with it, then sinks within the circle of his arms wrapped around her; every small nuance of her presence stark and real and encompassing.
"Sleep, Castle," she whispers, her breath seeping through his shirt, like wide, damp brushstrokes painted to his skin, her mouth so enticingly close that he thinks he can almost feel her lips touching him despite the fabric that separates them.
"Stay," he mumbles, not sure if he said it out loud, too drowsy, too content, a bone-deep sensation that drags him under, his body heavy, so heavy as it sinks into the mattress. He tightens his limbs around her, arms and legs, the thinness of her folded against his chest, close and safe.
Her palm cradles his ribcage, fingers splayed against his bones, and "I missed you too," she sighs, so quiet it's barely there, or maybe he just imagines the words, the thickness of sleep clutching at him.
His chin resting on top of her head, he breathes her in, inhales the indescribable comfort of Kate in his arms.
"You smell like snowflakes."
And then he's out.
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Thank you for reading and the lovely words and comments you've been sharing about this story.