She checks in at a nearby motel, they both agree that the children won't be able to handle her sudden presence in the morning if she had stayed.

Initially, he visits her every day before and after work. He doesn't stay long in the morning, just a few minutes, and it soon dawns on her that he's simply checking to make sure she hasn't disappeared again. Her chest always tightens at the thought that maybe he needs her too; in every intense look he sends her way, in the sly touches to the small of her back, her knee, her neck.

After work, he always lingers a little longer, but never long enough.

A week into their routine, she begins to think he doesn't want her and she's so shocked that she's even thinking of that again, but it's Dexter and he would never ever hurt her.

He's washing the dishes despite her vehement protesting, while she packs the leftovers and puts it away in the refrigerator. Their eyes meet for a moment, but it's enough.

She gazes into his muddy depths and she feels her breath quicken as she's slowly consumed by the growing darkness in his eyes.

She swallows.

Steps forward.

And the dam breaks.

He abandons the dishes, doesn't even dry his hands before they find the skin of her hips, sending both an icy chill and a burning fire up and down her spine. His lips find hers with an ease that doesn't surprise her.

There's no hesitation to his kiss, and it's only then that she realizes that he has been waiting, and she can't help but moan into his mouth. He's always waiting (for her, for them) and the only insistence he exhibits is in his touch, firm and assured on her waist, her back, her nape. Her arms coil around his neck as her head tilts at an angle that deepens the joining of their lips.

She hears him whimper (so quiet) and she presses herself closer, breaks their kiss, resting her forehead on his heaving chest. Her eyes are half-shut and his arms are tightly swathed around her torso.

She brushes her mouth into the spot below his ear that makes him quake and murmurs his name so low she feels her throat will be sore for days, "Dexter."

She feels him tremble, lifts her chin and kisses her with a passion only she witnesses. She returns it; she's never needed anything (anyone) as much as him, and she too quivers at her desperation for something she never thought she'd want again.

She then feels his hands drift downward, resting on the back of her thighs and it's only natural that she allows him to lift her up, that she snakes her legs around his waist so he can carry her to the bedroom.

And when he places her tenderly on the bed, he looks down at her and asks – without uttering a single word – for her permission. She replies by pulling him down, kissing him with all the love she doesn't think she's capable of, reaching for the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. He mirrors the action, his lips hovering over every inch of skin that's exposed, and she has to stop the tears that suddenly burn behind her eyes, because how could he possibly think he's a monster?

No monster could ever be so tender.

And she had left.

She quavers as he kisses his way up her body, stopping at her forehead. Always there.

And it's too much.

Her eyes are squeezed shut and she clutches his back (tight), choking on her traitorous tears, "I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry."

He kisses her forehead once more, before dropping his lips to each eyelid, catching the tears hanging on the thread of her lashes, whispers, "Open your eyes."

Her lower lip trembles, and as she slowly obeys his bidding, she's pinned down; by the hand that comes to rest above her heart, by the intensity of his gaze, shining with a love he doesn't think he's capable of either.

Then he pushes inside her.

She gasps. He releases a breath.

No one has ever been so painstakingly gentle.

No one else will ever be.

And she knows she doesn't deserve him. But she also knows she's selfish.

Eventually, he may grow tired and weary of her and he may very well chase her away.

But she will stay for as long as he will have her.

So she moves with him, legs locked low on his back and arms fastened around his shoulders, giving as much as she takes, saying – without speaking – how so very much he means to her. And as they draw closer and closer to the euphoria that awaits them, she can hear him repeat her name like a mantra in her ear. She's never heard her uttered with such reverence and it steals her breath and moments before she is swept away in a whirlwind of ecstasy, she arches up into him.

"Dexter."

They then ride the waves of their passion as one, spilling forth into each other until it's indistinguishable where each other ends and the other begins.

His lips form her name once more and the hand on her chest, its twin splayed possessively on the side of her face, fingers cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips, reassures her more than any words ever could.

I won't let you go.

TBC

A/N: Dedicated to Jack E. Peace - for being awesome and it must suck to be snowed in.