Kate curls into the corner of the couch, wrapped in one of his old shirts like the coward she is. Stealing his clothes, his heart, but never giving anything in return. But it helps in his absence, helped calm her down at the cabin when she was immersed in panic attacks all night. Shrugging on the shirt she stole from his closet all those months ago, burying her nose in the collar like she could still catch his scent in the fabric, helped.

It helps now as she sits alone in her apartment after her fourth day back at work, after dealing with 'Iron Gates' and the boys and the tremors that make her hands shake every time she holds a gun.

She lays her head to the arm of the sofa, closes her eyes. If he would have been there with her-

The knock on her door is sharp, startling, and her head jerks up at the noise. There's only one person it could be... well, not true. It could be the sniper still out there trying to kill her, but she doubts he would have the courtesy to knock.

But Castle said he needed time and while that may not match the same three month timeline she had, she assumed it would take more than a few days for him to come to terms with his feelings, how she crushed them.

She rises curiously from the couch, popping her toes on the hardwood before padding across the expanse of her apartment to reach the front door. Part of her doesn't want to look through the peephole, doesn't want the disappointment of seeing it's not him. To hell with it - she closes her fingers around the handle and pulls.

Her heart manages to rejoice and clench painfully at the same time.

He looks startled by the abrupt swing of the door, but the expression slips from his face, subdued behind a mask of indifference.

"Beckett," he greets, her surname like an insult. After the freezer, after she just couldn't find a way to get warm without him, it was only Kate. She almost forgot what it sounds like for him to refer to her as anything else.

"Rick," she says in contrast, his name simultaneously like a prayer and a curse on her lips.

Castle's eyes flash to hers, a flare of a blue flame flickering, before they fall to her chest. His brow furrows.

Oh no-

"Is that my shirt?"

Kate pointlessly follows his gaze, down to the worn plaid flannel draped over her shoulders, and swallows hard. How can she play this off without looking as pathetic as she feels?

"I didn't even realize-"

"No, it's good, actually. Now I know for sure that you must have my scarf," he chuckles, but there's no warmth or affection to the sound. If he would have caught her wearing his clothes before - before the shooting, before the summer - he would have been over the moon, teasing her while preening with delight. Now he just looks bitter and amused.

"What scarf?" she mutters, suddenly self-conscious, wishing she had something on beneath his stupid shirt so she could take it off, give it back.

"Striped and blue. Alexis gave it to me years ago, I've worn it a few times throughout our years working together," he explains, rocking back on his heels.

Ice water trickles through her insides, the same way it did on the night she stole both his shirt and his scarf.

She wasn't thinking about the origin of the accessory when she shoved it in the duffle bag kept under his bed from nights spent with him; she was only thinking about how blue and boyish his eyes looked every time he wore it.

No, she wasn't really thinking at all when she left him. But she rarely is when it comes to her mother's case.

All she wanted three months ago was a name. Instead, she got a dead captain and a bullet to her chest.

And a man who was willing to stand with her through it all, who wanted nothing more than to be allowed to stay with her.

"Kate?" She blinks, the tightness in her scar unwinding just slightly at the sound of her first name back in his mouth. But Castle is watching her with a mixture of concern and wariness, still standing stiff and awkward in her doorway. "You okay?"

Her mouth feels dry. She hasn't been okay for over three months now.

"I - maybe I grabbed it by accident," she lies instinctively. It all comes so easy to her now, doesn't it? Lying to him.

I love you. I love you, Kate.

I don't remember much of anything.

She bites her bottom lip and takes a step back, leaving the door open for him, up to him. "I'll go check, just to be sure."

She's turning away before he can respond. But who is she kidding? He has nothing left to say to her.

He swears it was panic flaring through her eyes, flashing her skin pale, for just a heartbeat when he asked about the scarf. But maybe he's reading her all wrong. It's been three months since he saw her last and apparently, he was never great at reading her signals to begin with.

Otherwise, maybe he would have seen it coming when she left him for an entire summer without a word, when he thought they were... when he thought nights in his bed and morning in hers for nearly a month straight meant something to her. When he thought it became about more than sex after a case that left them both frozen to the core and eager for warmth.

When he thought she might be falling in love with him.

Rick hesitates in the doorway, knows it's a bad idea to venture any further inside. This is all a bad idea. He should have just texted her about the scarf. He told her he needed time and he did, he does. Being here, hurting her with his sharp remarks and carving the frown even deeper into her lips, is proving exactly why.

He's still too wounded for any of this.

But he takes a deep breath, a lungful of air that holds her scent, and enters the apartment. The space is still gorgeous, but feels empty, almost like her. She'll never not be beautiful, he's always known that, but he doesn't think he's ever seen her so hollowed out, so... sad.

Is that his fault? No, no, she was shot and is probably just as torn up over her mother's murder as she was before it led her to the stand in the view of a sniper's scope. Where would she even find room in that recently repaired heart of hers to feel any sorrow over him?

Then why is she wearing your shirt?

That has to mean something, doesn't it? Kate Beckett wouldn't just thoughtlessly throw on his clothes. Not unless she's been missing him.

God, he hates himself for hoping for it. For missing her back.

She already knows where it is, but she takes her time opening drawers, slamming them closed, making a show of searching.

Eventually, Kate migrates to her closet, leaning against the doorframe with his scarf pressed to her chest, sealed over the still aching scar between her breasts. It hurts worse whenever she thinks about Castle, about the freezer and everything that came after.

It was all her fault. She broke things off with Josh before he left for Haiti, using his latest 'Doctors Without Borders' mission as a catalyst to end something that was over for a long time. Something that never really had the chance to begin, was only ever born from her own misplaced heartache for the man currently standing in her living room.

The man who held her in what she was sure were their final moments - freezing and going numb in the blue cave of the freezer. She wanted to tell him the truth even though the timing was all wrong, but if she's learned anything in this past year, especially where Castle is concerned, it's that there is no right time. There's only the moments they're given and she couldn't let that be their last without trying to get the words out.

But maybe it was for the best that they never made it past her lips. She couldn't have loved him right, the way he deserved, back then. Hell, she still can't now.

When she woke in the ambulance later that night, fingers and toes burning from the cold, it was with urgency embedded in her bones, singing in her blood and pounding in her chest. She woke with courage and need, with the exasperation that came with ignoring the cravings of her heart for so long. It was terrifying and frustrating and riddled with uncertainty, but her curiosity for what something more with Castle could be bloomed into a strong-willed want that refused to leave her and after nearly dying for what had to be the fifth (maybe sixth?) time in two years, she was sick of denying it.

What's the worst that could happen? He could break her heart like he did the summer before, without even knowing, he could leave another scar that may never heal, but she was starting to think that maybe Royce was right. Maybe risking the heart was worth it.

But saving the city came before her heart.

While she was able to see Castle when he woke, disorientated and calling for her, Fallon ensured their time together was brief, possessing an urgency of his own and hurrying them along in the hunt for the bomb. She couldn't afford to think of anything else then; it was easier channeling her mind, her energy, into a case anyway. It wasn't until Castle yanked the wires of that bomb free and and unknowingly became a hero to the nation - top secret or not - that all of her treacherous, ill-timed feelings returned to the surface.

It was the second time in less than twenty-four hours that she was convinced they were going to die and the relief bleeding through his eyes had her surging into him - arms around his neck, her gasping breath to his throat.

"I thought it was over," she exhaled in disbelief. "Thought that we were finally-"

"No, no, not over," he quieted her, one of his hands running through the wind blown curls of her hair. "Look at us, Beckett. We're practically superheroes, totally invincible," he teased, pulling back from her with a squeeze to her shoulders and a vibrant smile. But she couldn't manage to wipe the phantom remorse from her mouth. He noticed, brushing his thumbs back and forth along her biceps with enough reassuring force to feel through her coat. "Hey, look, we're okay. Everything's-"

"No," she sighs, shrugging out of his touch with the frustration bubbling up from her guts and seeping through her chest, through his joy. "It's not okay, it's not enough anymore."

She still has no idea how he caught on so quickly in that moment, how his eyes sparked with immediate understanding as he looked at her amidst the chaos and instantly knew what she was referring to.

They were interrupted before Castle could speak, before he could call her out on her truths, but she already knew he would never let them go. And he didn't.

You two don't know how lucky you are.

Actually, I do.

He waited until after Fallon pulled them aside from their break room celebration, offered his appreciation for their assistance, and they were left standing alone by her desk.

"Hey, I know it's late and that we've had one hell of a day…"

"Hell of a day," she echoed with a twitch of her lips, watching his eyes light up at the hint of her smile.

"But I was thinking..." She held her breath, waiting, but something flickered in his gaze, dulling the desire she thought she so clearly read there.

"Castle?" she called, but she could already feel her heart sinking in her chest.

"I was thinking that maybe I should just head home for the night, get some rest." He glanced down to her desk and began to back away. "See you tomorrow."

She followed his gaze, down to the phone sitting atop her desk, silent but alight with an incoming call from Josh.

No.

Kate left her phone at the desk and strode after Castle, but the elevator doors were already sliding closed.

She wasn't giving up that easy, though. Not this time.

Beckett bid Montgomery and the boys a good night and grabbed her things from her desk. She took a cab from the Twelfth to SoHo, telling the driver to stop at his address. She held her breath on the elevator ride up to his floor and knocked on his door with her lungs constricted and her heart in a vise, her entire body trembling from nerves and chills that just wouldn't leave her.

He opened the door within seconds, curiosity and concern already etched into his features.

"Beckett?"

"I don't want to wait until tomorrow," she breathed, biting her lip as his eyebrows rose. "I'll just spend the entire night cold and anxious."

"Don't you have Josh to keep you warm?" he murmured without missing a beat, not unkind, not thrilled either.

She shook her head. "We broke up a few days ago, right before he left for Haiti. He was just calling because he has a connection in the FBI, heard about the bomb and figured I was involved."

"He knows you well," Castle chuckled grimly, but she only shook her head once more.

"Not really."

Castle eased the door further open. "Want to come in? I'm making stew, there's also tea and hot chocolate. Oh, and a nest of blankets on the couch. This could be fun, actually. Want to watch a movie on the projector screen? It's still up from the other night."

Kate stepped inside with the smile already blooming on her lips.

"Sounds perfect, Castle."

His hand brushed the small of her back before he used it to shut the door. "We'll have you warmed up in no time."

"Are you back to normal already? Warm again, I mean," she asked, taking note of the sweatshirt tugged over the sweater poking out from beneath.

He hesitated. "No, I can't - I still feel it, can't seem to get rid of the ice in my veins. And then there's this."

He lifted his right hand, revealing patches of red skin along his knuckles, the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, a few fingertips.

"Frostbite?" she questioned, stepping closer to inspect the damaged tissue.

"Frostnip," he corrected, wiggling the effected fingers at her, but she caught his wrist before he could draw his hand back. "It actually doesn't hurt too much, just keeps me from writing."

She frowned and skimmed her own fingertips, untouched by the bite of freezing temperatures, over the rough areas, the broken capillaries.

"Did the paramedics on the scene give any special instructions?" she murmured, glancing up to see him watching her.

"Just to stay warm and apply aloe vera every few hours," he shrugged, flexing his fingers within her grasp. "It'll be fine, Kate."

It sent a shiver wholly unrelated to the chill down her spine when he used her first name.

Kate sighed and drew his hand to her lips, skating her mouth over his knuckles and the spider-web of frostbite coating his skin before letting him go, before he could do more than suck in a breath.

But he raised his hand to her neck, draping his palm to the side of her throat, layering his thumb over the heightening beat of her pulse.

"What didn't you want to wait until tomorrow for?" he questioned, narrowing his gaze on her. His eyes were cobalt, hard and questioning, but his touch remained soft, tender and barely there, ready to fall away.

Her blood began to boil, a contrast to the ice still laced through her bones and leaching into her skin.

"To get warm."