Gabi stayed to help him clean up after their friends left Horatio and Phyl's anniversary party, many of them raving about the "Slutty Brownie Cake" she'd made, modified from an internet recipe which called for a layer of brownie, a layer of a chocolate chip cookie cake, and a layer of oreo cake, held together with buttercream ganache, which she'd made at CHEF's commercial kitchen earlier in the day.

"The cake lived up to its name," Josh told her as he held open a trash bag for her to shove the last of the stray plates into. She raised an eyebrow. "Went fast and easy," he offered.

She laughed. "Did you doubt it?"

He left her wiping down his kitchen island to drop the trash down its chute. When he came back, he grabbed her arm in mid-swipe from where she was rubbing at a stubborn sticky mess of someone's spilled cocktail. "Hey. I've got extra cleaners coming in to help Yolanda with this tomorrow. So… come sit me on the terrace a while—friend?"

"I—OK. No need to ask me twice. Long day." She threw herself on the lounger theatrically. "In fact, you would not believe the day I had—friend. My former boss and ex-boyfriend is totally houndingme to quit my day job—"

"He sounds like an asshole," Josh said gravely. "A good-looking, successful, charismatic asshole."

"Something's wrong with your ears." Now it was his turn to chuckle. "Meanwhile, my current boss wants me to take off Monday so I can work two twelve-hour shifts on Tuesday and Wednesday."

"Yeah, that sounds like a great job, you should definitely keep that one—"

"Josh."

"Sorry." He tossed his head up and looked at the sky. "Really. I get it."

She nodded, mollified. "Then I had to bake two layer cakes and come to a cocktail reception and no one fed me anything but appetizers and so now I'm cold and hungry."

"But so brave with it." Josh's inner boy scout had set him on his feet practically before she'd raised the stakes. "Be back in a jiffy, princess."

He was, and when he was, he was carrying two things: an over-sized, homemade blueberry muffin, courtesy of his morning insomnia, and a familiar hand-crocheted throw blanket over his left arm.

"I have other dreams, Gabi." He draped the blanket over her shoulders and pressed her suddenly nerveless fingers around the muffin. "Than CHEF. You said earlier—I couldn't step down because it was my dream. But… I have others."

She dropped the muffin onto his wrought iron patio table. "You know what? So do I." She stood up, shook the blanket from around her. Let her fingers stroke idly over it, watched Josh's eyes follow them hungrily as they did.

When she finally spoke, she said the last thing he expected. Gabi. "There's been—no one else—since Hawai'i?"

Josh felt like someone had simultaneously dropped a heavy weight on his chest, and like he'd tied his own heart to a balloon, and let it float off. So Sofia had told her, about the blanket, about what he was doing, all his—waiting without waiting. His changing. "No. God. No one."

He watched her breathe that in, deeply, once and then again. And then, all in one lightning-swift Gabi motion, she whipped the blanket around his shoulders and used it to pull him close. "Me, neither," she whispered above his lips.

That pulled Josh out of his reverie. "You—no—but—what about the golfer?"

"Nope. C'mere."

"The… the bartender?"

"Ugh. No."

"But—what about your gynecologist?"

"She's a woman, Josh. I just said 'he was getting all up in my pecan tart' to torture you."

"It worked."

"I know." She shrugged. "It's a hobby." She pulled on either side of the blanket to wedge him firmly against her. "Josh. I want you more than CHEF. Or… or food. Or…"

Josh felt the words in his knees, which threatened to give way. "I know," he managed to say. "I want you—more than anything."

Gabi's eyes, usually so much like the Pacific during a hurricane, caught the moonlight. They glowed. "Have you had anything to drink tonight?" she asked conversationally.

"I—no. Well, yes, a beer when the party started like three hours ago… You want… a glass of wine or something…?"

"No. I had one glass—one glass—earlier." She started laughing. "I was just making sure we're both gonna remember this in the morning."

"Damn straight." Finally, he thought. Thank God. Finally.

She slid open the patio doors and ducked inside, leaving him staring after her. "Race ya!" she called over her shoulder. And bolted up his stairs.

To his bedroom.

Gabi.

He stood on the terrace for longer than he should have, took in the stars and the moonlight, memorized the feeling of standing there, heart tied to a balloon and drifting above him, a bright moon on his face, the evening's chill on his cheeks, his hand-crocheted blanket like a cape around his shoulders. He filed it all away, as a kind of emotional profile for a feeling with no name.

And then he went after her.

"It's not a race," he said in the doorway of his bedroom. Seeing her sprawled out on his bed made him almost eat his words.

"You're just saying that 'cause I won."

"Gabi." He knelt down on the bed next to her, trailed a hand across her belly. Saw her tremble there. "We're both gonna win."

He took her mouth—or she took his—it wasn't long before he was hazy on the details. He noticed, vaguely, when her hands slid up his chest, when her leg came creeping up around his hip. Dimly, he became aware of the taste of blueberries.

"When did you have time to eat that muffin?" he asked thickly.

He felt more than saw the impish grin that stole her lips from him. "You're getting slow, old man. Can't keep up with my muffin."

Josh felt soft yarn pooling on his right side, spread it out, and rolled Gabi once, twice, into the nest it made. "I'll take care of your muffin, sweetheart. And you're gonna be glad I'm slow."

Her laugh quickly turned into a low, feminine groan.

After that, there were colors. The peach of her skin, the riesling and whiskey of her hair, the strawberry shades of her bra, her mouth, her tongue.

And there were textures. Skin, yarn, lace, underwire, skin, the cool cotton blend of the sheets, the leather of his headboard. More skin, hot and damp like her breath. On his skin.

And, oh, God, there were sounds. Her gasps, his short groans, her keening cries, the slight swish of cotton on leather, the clap of skin on skin like primal applause. His shouts—her screams, interrupted by more gasps—the word "yes" tumbling over both of their lips again. And again. And again.

For Josh, the world eventually reduced to the throbbing insistence that this woman, his woman, had built inside him, and to her smell—sweat and lilacs and sex—and her taste—blueberries and sweat and honey-sweet cinnamon.

They showered, touching each other all the while, little aftershocks of pleasure tingling through them. When Josh turned out the lights, and got Gabi tucked firmly in his arms under all their blankets, he felt like he had crossed, momentously but seamlessly, from one part of his life into the next.

"I've never heard you go this long without talking," he murmured.

She snuggled closer. "I always say the wrong thing."

"We both do." Josh kissed the top of her head. "You're right. Tonight, we'll just… be."

She nodded into his chest, and threw one of her legs over his to twine further into his body. And she woke him up once more during the night, as hungry for him as he was for her. They'd been starved for so long. Per their agreement, they said little with words.

When morning came, Josh slept later than he had in weeks. But—as he'd expected before he was fully awake, before he'd even fallen asleep—Gabi was gone. And she didn't leave a note, a stray stitch of clothing, nor so much as a crumb.