Signed, Sealed, Delivered

"No longer alone, I'm coming home."

~Alex Max band.

Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.

Hotch and Garcia didn't even try to keep pace with Reid and his bodyguard—once the young doctor knew JJ's room number, he was flying through the hospital corridors like a bat out of hell.

JJ gave a crooked grin when Spence appeared in her doorway, "Glad you decided to finally stop by and visit."

He ignored her joke and simply sat on the edge of her bed, gingerly enveloping her in a hug. JJ gently pushed him back to arm's length with her one good arm, giving him a critical once-over. "You OK?"

"I'm OK." He nodded quickly, his throat tightening. "You OK?"

"Getting better by the minute," she drawled. She made it sound like a joke, but it was entirely true. She glanced towards the hallway, where Spence's bodyguard was quietly waiting.

"I'm under protective detail," he answered her unspoken question. Her one visible brow raised in surprise.

"Spencer Reid: from homegrown terrorist to FBI VIP."

He rolled his eyes at the moniker, too tired to even address that particular subject. He glanced around, "Have Will and Henry already gone home?"

"Yeah. It's been an eventful few days, the boys could do with some extra sleep."

"Hotch and Penelope are on their way," he nodded vaguely in the direction of the parking lot.

"So's the rest of the gang," she informed him. "Hotch already told the others that you were released and coming here, so they decided on a family reunion."

"How'd you—"

"Emily told me. She wanted to make sure I was up to it." JJ gave a small smirk. "Besides, she's learned the hard way that I don't take kindly to being left out of the loop."

"Left out of the loop about what?"

"You. No one wanted to tell me where you were, or what was happening—they thought it would be too much stress."

"It probably would have been, JJ. You just survived—"

"I know. I was there. I remember, thank you very much," her words were quick, but not unkind. She reached out to gently take her best friend's hand. "I knew something was wrong. I know you, Spence. And I know there isn't anything in the world that would keep you from being here, when I needed you—well, almost anything. I knew it had to be something bad, and not knowing was worse, because I imagined…Spence, I was so afraid that something else had happened and you were…that you'd been—"

She stopped herself, looking down at her own hand. It was a thought she couldn't voice aloud, even when he was sitting safely in front of her, real and alive and perfectly Spence.

"I couldn't…I couldn't even handle the thoughts in my own head," she admitted, her voice little more than a rasp as tears tightened her throat. "I kept thinking of the day we had to tell Emily that she was dead, that we'd already had her funeral and put that awful casket in the ground. I never want to know what that feels like, with you."

"I wish I could promise you that you never would," he answered with childlike sincerity, and that only brought another onslaught of tears to her eyes.

"C'mere," she pulled him into another fierce hug, one that stung her ribs, but she didn't let go, not for a long time.

There was a pre-emptory knock on the door as Hotch and Penelope blew into the room.

"Look at you, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed!" Penelope exclaimed with a knowing grin. Having her beloved Spence safe and sound and in her arms had definitely been good medicine for Jennifer Jareau.

"Let's not get too crazy with the compliments," JJ warned in a droll tone. "I saw my face in the mirror this morning. I look like I got hit by a truck."

Spencer perked up, "Well, the force of the fall would have been equivalent to—"

"To being hit by a truck?" She interrupted with a wry grin, gently patting his hand. He ducked his head slightly, realizing that she was subtly saying that she didn't want to go back to that memory, didn't want to dwell on the trauma her body was still experiencing.

"The others will be here soon," Hotch said, somehow making it sound like both a statement and a question.

Penelope wanted to ask if he was anxious to see any of them in particular, but it was a line she just couldn't cross—not with her darling valiant Hotch. She'd tease Emily until the end of time, making inappropriate asides, but the thought of making stone-faced Hotchner blush seemed cruel.

Hotch's words rang true, for there was a commotion building in the hall—the sound of many feet and several voices, murmuring amongst themselves. There was a light snort of a laugh, and Penelope placed it as Emily's, probably at the expense of David Rossi, knowing those two.

Derek Morgan appeared first, "Knock-knock, Pennsylvania…"

JJ gave a wry grin at her old nickname. Her reply was drowned out by the next wave of greetings, from Callahan and Rossi. Emily didn't have time to say hello—she made a beeline for Spencer and the two met in a hug, chests thudding together with the force of their movements as they embraced, like soldiers separated by a decade of war.

"I'm so glad you're here," he mumbled into her shoulder.

"Me, too," she admitted, her voice thick with tears.

JJ was beaming at her two friends, so enthralled to have most of her work family together again. A small noise from the door grabbed her attention—she turned so that her unbandaged eye could take in Alex Blake, standing awkwardly in the doorway like an uninvited guest.

"Blake!" JJ's one visible eyebrow shot so far up that it disappeared into the bandage around her forehead. "When did you get here?"

Now Alex glanced over at Hotch, and JJ understood. She split her slightly-angered incredulity between Hotch and Prentiss as she huffed, "Jesus, how many secrets did you keep from me? Should I expect any more surprises?"

"No more surprises," Emily promised, reaching down to pat her friend's shoulder affectionately. "Well, at least not of the colleague based variety."

JJ took a measured beat to size her up, though it was more for show than anything else. Emily bit back at grin at her friend's irritation. If you weren't bandaged from head to toe, I'd totally call you out on your bitchiness right now.

JJ being faux-catty was a good thing. It meant that she'd had rest, that she was truly feeling better. Emily took it as a win.

Alex was at JJ's side now, dropping down into a squat so that she could lay her hand over JJ's, looking into her face with concern, "How're you feeling?"

"Better every second," JJ informed her with a grin. Quietly, she added, "I'm glad you're here. I'm sure you've been a great help."

Alex ducked her head, as if made shy by the compliment. "Yeah, I—uh—I did my part, in a way."

"When I was being interrogated, I used Morse Code to get a message out to the team," Spencer piped up, beaming at Alex. "Blake was there to crack it."

JJ laughed at this—at the absurdity of it all, her life, their world, their situation.

"Granted, the others figured it out eventually," Rossi added, not one to let the boy genius bask in his own glory.

"It was still clever," Blake pushed back with a gentle grin. Oh, how she'd missed this.

Derek Morgan pulled up a chair for Penelope, silently directing her off her feet. With a sigh, she sat down. He reached down to gently rub her shoulder, half-distraction, half-affection.

The blonde felt her whole body surge with love for this man and all his kindness. She loved him even more, knowing that he'd feel this same concern and compassion for a stranger on the street. She reached up, placing her hand over his, giving it a squeeze of affection and reassurance.

Then and there, she knew this stupid plan to back off emotionally was never going to work. It had been doomed to failure before it had even been thought into existence. Why had she ever thought they could be anything other than this?

But you could be something other than this. The small voice in her head whispered. Something more than this.

She quickly punted that thought away.

Behind her, she felt Emily and Hotch shifting, slowing making their way out of the room. She glanced over her shoulder to see the two stealing out the door, into the hallway. Hotch wore a serious expression, so it must have been case-related. But my, wouldn't it be nice if they were simply sneaking away to makeout?

The second that Aaron's hand slipped to the small of her back, Emily Prentiss knew that he hadn't pulled her away from JJ's bedside to ask about the case. She leaned back slightly, pressing into the touch as they rounded the corner of the corridor. Hotch slowed his pace and she matched him, finally coming to a stop and turning further into him, so that his hand was still on her lower back but now his arm was wrapped halfway around her.

"What's up?" She asked quietly, fingers instinctively going to feather the edges of his coat lapels.

"Jack's having a sleepover with a friend tonight," he informed her. In usual Hotch fashion, he didn't waste time with preludes.

"And you decided that you'd like a sleepover with a friend tonight, too?" Emily couldn't resist the chance to tease him.

She was leaning in now, and Hotch took the chance to kiss her, quick and light, not nearly enough. She could feel him smiling against her mouth, and it made her grin in turn.

"I have to attend the briefing in an hour," he kept his voice low, pulling her closer. "After that, I'll call you?"

"What, and I'll just come running?" She took a step back and set her hands on her hips in mock defiance. "Do you really think I'm that predictable?"

He grinned, because they both knew that's exactly what would happen. "It's no different than showing up on someone's doorstep in the middle of the night, knowing they'll answer the door and let you in."

"Touché," she laughed, turning back towards JJ's room again. She lightly bumped her hip against his as they walked side by side. His hand reached out, lightly tracing the outline of her ass before slipping back up to the small of her back, weighted and warm and right.

This was easy, she realized. To fall into normalcy with him. To feel safe and comfortable and steadfast in her place of belonging. To feel as if nothing had changed, as if they hadn't even skipped a beat since Nairobi, since that day in the market when they wove through the crowds, like any other couple on a holiday.

And it was dangerous, because it made her crave more. More normalcy, more moments of simple togetherness, without adrenaline or badges or lives on the line. Just Aaron. Just Emily. Just together.

"Hey," his voice gently broke through her thoughts. Some of it must have played across her face, because he seemed to understand her mood. He quickly leaned in, placing a feather-light kiss on her temple. "See you tonight."

The certainty in his words made her smile. "Yeah. See you tonight."

They went back into JJ's room, and Hotch made his farewells, taking Kate Callahan and David Rossi with him to the briefing. Blake stayed behind, playing catch up with JJ and Reid, and Morgan volunteered to drive Prentiss and Garcia home.

"Surely this earns me a spot on Team Penemily," he said, motioning to his truck as they approached. "I mean, I'm at least support staff right? Chauffeur?"

"We'll take it under consideration," Emily informed him, opening the passenger door so that Penelope could climb in first.

Morgan simply laughed. "The things I do for love."

Derek & Savannah's House. Washington, D.C.

The door from the garage to the kitchen still needed its hinges oiled, Derek realized wearily as he entered the house. Might as well fix it now, while it was still on his mind.

By the time he'd sprayed it with WD-40, Savannah was standing in the kitchen, elbows leaned forward on the counter as she simply watched him. She waited until he was done to speak. "I'm sorry. About earlier. I was…that was childish of me. And not fair to you."

He took a beat to simply look at her—beautiful and sorry and still worried, still rubbing the pads of her thumbs together, the way she always did when she was anxious.

"But you still feel that way, don't you?" He quietly asked, already knowing the answer. "You still feel threatened."

She grimaced at the word, shrugging as she looked away, unable to maintain eye contact, "Not threatened, just…second fiddle."

"She's my best friend, Savannah."

"I know."

"We're supposed to have friends outside of each other. That's how healthy relationships work."

"I know." Then, after a beat, she added, "I'm just not sure that your relationship with Penelope is healthy."

"What?" Derek rocked back on his heels, as if she'd physically smacked him in the face. "That woman has kept me sane, kept me alive, kept me—"

"In the palm of her hand," Savannah interjected. "I mean, admit it—if she called you right now, with even the most minor of emergencies, you'd be out the door, like a flash."

"Of course I would—just as I would for Reid, or JJ, or—"

"No," Savannah shook her head, sadness invading her bones, weighing down her shoulders. "It's not the same, and you can't even admit it—can't even see it, which is even scarier."

"There's really no way for me to win, with an argument like that," Derek held up his hands in a gesture of futility. "I can continue to defend myself, but to you, it's just denial."

"Because it is denial," she returned tiredly. She finally looked at him again, and he could see the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. "You once told me that everyone has depths—everyone is capable of anything, but most of us won't admit that, because it scares us. You said there was nothing scarier than someone who didn't know their depth. Well, she's your depth, and you've never sounded it. You have no idea just how far you'd go for that woman, and for me, that's dangerous."

"Don't you think that's a little dramatic?" Derek knew those were the wrong words, the second they left his lips.

"Sometimes the truth is dramatic," she retorted, her voice sharp and thick.

"And being forced to choose between my best friend and my girlfriend is ridiculously melodramatic," he shot back, just as quickly. But his anger dissipated as he absorbed the truth of his own words—he was being forced to choose, and it was an impossible choice. Frustration melted to helplessness as he sighed, took a deep breath, and leaned back against the kitchen counter. "I don't want this. I don't want to be this couple."

"Well, I don't want this either, but—here we are," she flapped her hands out in exhausted exasperation.

"How do we make it right?" His voice quiet, his words still filling the space around them. After a heavy beat, he added, "You gotta help me here, Savannah, because I just don't know what to do."

Except that he did, she thought. And she felt another surge of anger—anger at him for his inability to truly see the situation, at his inability to fix it, and anger at herself for creating this scene in the first place, at her own petty jealousy that simply couldn't let this one go.

"I don't know, either," she admitted, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm sorry—again."

"No, don't apologize," he moved towards her, his face shining with earnestness. "Look, you feel that way that you feel, and while it doesn't feel good, it's real. I just want us to move forward—and I want us to move to a point where you don't feel this way anymore. I don't want you to feel like second place—"

"Second fiddle—"

"Same thing—"

"No, there's a difference. Second place implies that there was some kind of competition, and I lost—"

"OK, OK," he held up his hands in mock surrender. "Second fiddle. Not second place."

He was moving into her again, sidling up beside her at the kitchen island, and she instantly knew what was up.

"But…if it were a competition," the grin in his voice was positively wicked. "What would you do to win the judges to your side?"

She laughed silently, pushing away any feelings of anger or worry. She knew what he was doing—showing her that he still wanted her, above all others, above anyone, even Penelope. And while she knew that it wouldn't change how she felt about Penelope Garcia, she also knew this was an easy way to leave an endless fight, so she played along.

"Well, I do have a few special talents."

"Do you?" He leaned in again, his nose almost touching hers.

She hummed in affirmation, closing the gaps between their lips. He returned her kiss with passion and her head bubbled with desire and distraction. She pulled him in tighter, trying to telepath all the things she couldn't ever say aloud.

Please, get rid of Penelope—can't you see it's killing me? Can't you see that it's not worth the strain on our relationship? Can't you let her go, for me? Isn't this worth it, aren't I worth it?

She loathed how petty, how needy and petulant she felt. But she'd meant what she'd said—as long as that woman was around, she was an unknown factor in Morgan's life, and that made her dangerous.

"We're not finished with this discussion," he informed her, although his tone remained light and playful.

"I know," she answered. Truly, she hadn't expected any less. For all his blindness and faults, Derek Morgan was a man who never let something go, not when it was important.

"You do know that I'm here because I love you, right?" He asked, gently disengaging from her embrace so that he could look into her eyes, so that she could see the sincerity in his own. "I choose you, Savannah. Every day. And I want to keep choosing you, always. You know that, right?"

"I know," she repeated, pulling him close once again.

Oh, if only she actually felt those words.

Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.

Emily Prentiss was wearing lipstick. Lip. Stick. Someone was definitely getting lucky tonight.

Penelope Garcia was wise enough not to voice this observation aloud, but merely smiled at her best friend from her vantage point on the couch. Emily was zipping from room to room (not a particularly grand feat, considering Garcia's apartment only had four rooms, three if you counted the fact that the kitchen and living room were one big open space), muttering quietly to herself as she applied her makeup or made a cup of tea.

"What're you waiting for?" Penelope queried, snapping Emily out of another round of self-muttering.

"What? Oh. Ah, just…I have somewhere to be, in a bit." Emily stood in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water.

"Right." The blonde didn't have to point out what a terrible attempt at subterfuge that was; Emily's chagrined expression informed her that she was well aware of how lame her words sounded.

"Somewhere with someone?" Garcia ventured.

Emily hummed in confirmation.

"A special someone?"

Emily downed her water like she was taking a last shot of whiskey before her own hanging. "Yep."

Penelope wasn't stupid, and neither was Emily. They simply exchanged glances across the room, one dying to ask a question and the other silently begging her not to.

It was the pleading look in Emily's eyes that kept Penelope from saying anything else. She couldn't understand Emily's reticence, why she seemed so afraid of talking about it, as if somehow it would unleash some terrible curse, but she could respect her friend's boundaries, despite her incomprehension.

Emily glanced at the clock again, then disappeared into Penelope's room. When she re-emerged, she had her go-bag with her.

"I won't see you until tomorrow," Emily announced, although Penelope had already guessed as much.

"And where are you going, exactly?" Penelope asked. Feigning an expression of sweet concern, she added, "I need to know, for safety—just in case something happens, you know."

Damn, this woman really couldn't let it go. Emily had to laugh, out of exasperation and adoration, both instilled by the blonde currently grinning at her like a madcap.

"I'll be…" She gave a helpless flop of her arm, letting her hand smack back against her thigh. "I'll be exactly where I'm supposed to be, OK?"

Garcia didn't reply. Her grin only deepened.

"Good night," Emily opened the door. "I love you."

"Love you too, Emily dearest."

Halfway down the hall, Emily could hear Penelope's cheer of triumph. She ducked her head and laughed. She could only imagine that by the time she got downstairs, Derek Morgan would be on speed dial, getting all the juicy details.

Or maybe not. Penelope had told her about the agreement with Morgan, about deciding to scale back their relationship. Prentiss had bridled at the idea of anything or anyone making those two feel badly about their friendship, much less actually making them reconsider it. As much as she loved her connection with each of them, sometimes she was envious of their relationship with each other. Theirs was an unassailable bond, plain as day.

Except now it seemed assailable. Emily frowned at the thought.

Well, if Penelope felt the need to meddle in Emily's personal life, wouldn't it be appropriate for Emily to turn the tables? With a curt nod, Emily approved her own plan to set things right between two of her favorite people, as soon as she got the chance.

For now, she had other matters to attend.

Oh, Penny baby, she grinned to herself. You're about to feel the shoe on the other foot, and I'm gonna love every second of it.

FBI Academy. Quantico.

Tonight, the briefing took place in the conference room that had been dedicated to Linnea Charles' abduction. Jack Dawson saw quite a few looks of relief when the others realized there were enough seats for everyone—in the HQ, there had barely been enough room to stand, much less prop up your feet.

He waited for everyone to settle in. O'Donnell and Cruz never left their places at the table, still elbows deep in interview transcripts and maps of possible locations. Rossi, Hotchner, and Callahan had just arrived, and Macaraeg was close behind. Sura Roza rounded out the briefing team, closing the door gently behind her and turning to Jack with wide eyes. She was the only one who didn't take a seat—she'd been confined to her desk all day, not even leaving for lunch. Jack knew her restless leg syndrome would be excruciating tonight, due to her lack of circulation today.

She wouldn't complain. Not much, anyway.

"Alright," Dawson set his hands on his hips, cast a quick glance at the pin boards and white boards to his left. "Here's what we've got so far: Maura Morrow lost her son and husband in a freak accident, which for some reason is part of a confidential Bureau file."

He didn't use the word cover-up; he didn't have to. The people around him were smart enough to make the connection.

He nodded towards Scott, "O'Donnell is working his charms on the higher-ups, hopefully we'll have the file within the next few days."

David Rossi made a small sound that implied his lack of faith in the Bureau's desire to share such information in a timely manner. Given O'Donnell's expression, his lack of faith was well-founded.

"We are operating under the assumption that this is much more personal for Morrow. Which makes her more dangerous. We still don't have any concrete leads as to where she could have taken Linnea Charles, although we do have analysts working on projections of how far Morrow could drive before turning around to catch her flight to London. It's a wide timeline, so don't hold your breath on a small search radius."

No one was surprised by this announcement.

"Dr. Spencer Reid has been released from custody but remains under protective detail," Dawson didn't elaborate on the reasoning behind the protective detail. However he did add, with a weighted look at each individual in the room, "It is important that when Morrow is apprehended, we do not mention Dr. Reid's release. At all. Is that clear?"

Everyone nodded, although most wore looks of confusion. Thankfully they were too tired to question the situation aloud—too tired or too aware of all the moving pieces in play.

Dawson also brought them up to speed on the fact that the bomb had a timer, that the note in Reid's handwriting was officially ruled a forgery and there was definitive proof that his phone had been hacked, and that the current working theory was that Morrow and Fuller acted alone, with no other accomplices.

"Well, no other living accomplices," Rossi murmured to Hotch. With a dark look, he added, "This still has John Curtis' grubby prints all over it."

"We are still trying to determine the exact target of this attack," Dawson concluded, crossing his arms over his chest.

"The journals don't mention another individual, so far," Macaraeg spoke up, her voice laden with fatigue.

"I'm not expecting them to," Dawson admitted. "I think there was a specific reason that Fuller mentioned Agent Reid by name—he wanted proof of his involvement, or to frame him for the conspiracy afterwards. Given the forgery and the hacked phone, I believe it was the latter."

Several noises of agreement rippled around the room.

"Could we possibly have access to these journals?" Hotch asked, turning towards Macaraeg, who was seated at the opposite end of the conference table.

Mac's wolf eyes flicked back to Dawson, silently asking permission, which he granted with a barely perceptible tilt of his head.

"I can give you the ones we've already combed through," she informed the BAU Chief. "That'll be enough to keep you up all night."

Callahan knew that if they gave the notebooks to Reid, he'd have them devoured and forever committed to memory within three hours, tops. She didn't voice this thought, still unsure how the others would feel about Reid handling evidence, even if his name had been cleared.

Hotch merely thanked her, and the briefing continued with little more to add. Once they were dismissed, Rossi sidled up to Mac, offering to accompany her back to the main building and load the journals into his car.

Rossi took a moment to pat Hotch on the back, "Don't worry, me and Blake will look over the journals. I know you have more pressing plans on your plate tonight."

Callahan had no idea what that meant, or why—God almighty!—Aaron Hotchner blushed, but she was instantly intrigued. Hotch lagged behind, head bent as he focused on sending some text message, while Rossi moved ahead, trying to catch up to Mac again. Callahan pushed her stride to match Rossi's, opening her mouth to ask the question that burned the tip of her tongue. However, one look at Rossi's smug expression told her that she wouldn't get an answer. The man enjoyed his secrets too much. Still, there were other questions that needed to be asked.

"Why wasn't I included in this late night journal reading?"

"You want in?"

She shot him longsuffering look, as if he were stupid for even asking.

"Right. Name your poison, I'll make sure I have a bottle ready for you when you swing by the house."

"Are we gonna tell Reid? I mean, if anyone could breeze through them…"

"I think the boy wonder needs a night off," Rossi said philosophically. "He's certainly earned it."

The Hotchner House. Suburbs outside Washington, D.C.

It took Hotch a moment to process why Penelope Garcia's car would be parked on the street next to his house, but his brain quickly caught up. By the time he'd gotten out of his own vehicle, Emily Prentiss was sauntering up the driveway, bag in hand like she'd made this exact walk a thousand times before. Like she belonged here, with her sly smile and her dancing eyes.

She was wearing lipstick—a rare sight. Not that she needed makeup, Hotch mentally amended, but it added a sense of ceremony to the night. This was planned, chosen, actively sought—not some haphazard hookup, without thought or meaning.

He simply stood there, watching her move closer towards him and thoroughly enjoying the view.

Her smile never faded, but uncertainty slid into her eyes. He immediately wondered what had gone wrong in the last three seconds.

"I lied," she announced, dropping her back with an unceremonious thud at her feet. "Earlier."

His confusion was evident.

"Well, it wasn't exactly a lie," she amended. "But I was wrong."

"Emily, I really have no idea what we're talking about."

She smiled again, taking the final steps forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and sliding her body up against his. "Today, at the hospital. I joked about you wanting a sleepover with a friend, too. But the thing is, I don't want to be your friend."

He couldn't ask her to clarify—because her mouth was pressing into his, her tongue easily slipping past his teeth, and he knew the answer to the question that he never had the chance to ask.

I don't want to be your friend. I want to be more than that.

When they finally came up for air, Hotch quietly intoned, "I don't want to be your friend, either."

She laughed, a quick thing of breathless relief. He smiled at her now-gone anxiety—Emily, Emily, did you really not know how I would react to that statement? Did you really ever doubt how I feel, how I've always felt?

"Friends or not, we should probably get out of the driveway," he kept his voice low, nodding to the house across the street. "Mrs. Abelman has cameras, and her blinds are always open. She's head of our neighborhood watch, you know."

Emily laughed again, not at all embarrassed. "I don't care if the old biddy next door catches us kissing."

He leaned in, his breath hot on her neck as he whispered, "But what if I want to do more than just kiss you, Chief Prentiss?"

"She probably wouldn't mind that show, either," Emily was completely unfazed. She playfully tugged at his shirt. "I'm sure she's been dying to know what's going on under those g-man suits."

"Incorrigible," he pronounced, stooping to pick up her bag.

"What, you're gonna deny a sweet old lady a nice view?" Emily trailed after him.

He laughed at the quip, that short funny little laugh which was more precious to Emily than any other chuckle she'd ever heard—because she knew all the sorrow he'd endured, all the times he'd remained stoic in the face of adversity. And she'd given him this. This moment, this joy, this small remark that made him laugh.

This is what I want. To be more than just a friend, more than just an occasional lover. To be the one who walks behind you into the kitchen, making you laugh, bringing you joy in a thousand different ways, across a hundred thousand days.

"I didn't fall in love with you. I walked into love with you, with my eyes wide open, choosing to take every step along the way. I do believe in fate and destiny, but I also believe we are only fated to do the things that we'd choose anyway. And I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you."
~Kiersten White.