Hour of the Wolf

"Have you ever heard of the hour of the wolf? My father told me about it. It's the time between 3:00 and 4:00 in the morning. You can't sleep, and all you can see is the troubles and the problems and the ways that your life should've gone but didn't. All you can hear is the sound of your own heart….In times like this, my father used to take one large glass of vodka before bed. To keep the wolf away, he said. And then he would take three very small drinks of vodka, just in case she had cubs while she was waiting outside. It doesn't work." ~J. Michael Straczynski, Babylon 5

January 1989. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

The ride back to the William J. Green Federal Building was grim and deathly silent as reality slowly settled onto the pale and haggard faces in the van. The only agent who seemed to be even remotely alert was Markum, who was driving—the rest stared blankly ahead, all too shell-shocked and too deep in their own heads to speak or even register what was going on around them.

The van hit a particularly nasty pothole, physically shaking everyone from their stupor.

Dave Rossi looked across the van at another blond agent with deep-set blue eyes, Dave Wallander, aka The Other Dave, and for the first time, he noticed the thick red crust oozing down his neck. The Italian sat up, suddenly alert, "You get hit, Wallander?"

"I don't think so," the other man's hand automatically went to his neck, the area where Rossi's eyes were fixed. He inspected the drying blood that was now on his fingertips. "This ain't mine. Must've been from that guy Alec blew away—he was right over my shoulder."

God, it had been an absolute blood bath. They'd gone in to arrest someone who was possibly in connection with a terrorist group, and they'd been met with more resistance—and more men with guns—than they'd anticipated.

"Someone had to have tipped 'em off." Another agent, Talladeris, spoke up, his dark eyes still focused on the metal rivets between his feet. The implication behind his words settled like a stone in everyone's stomach. There's a rat in the Bureau.

Next to Talladeris, looking impossibly small in her large bulletproof vest and FBI windbreaker, Erin Strauss nodded in agreement. Her face, too, was covered in a fine mist of small red dots, and darker, thicker stuff was oozing from a cut near her temple.

"Strauss, y'okay?" Rossi asked, leaning in her direction.

"It's just a cut, from a fall," she answered, her fingertips lightly feathering the area. With a shaky motion to the rest of the blood stains on her body, she added, "The rest…the rest is Martin's. He was right in front of me when…"

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. Even if they didn't see it happen, they'd all seen his body lying on the concrete floor afterwards, his face blown away.

"How did that bullet not get you, too?" Wallander asked, leaning forward so that he could see her past Talladeris' hulking form.

"I must have ducked in time," she admitted, almost shamefully. However, her colleagues saw no shame in her actions.

"Well, you got that bastard back," Wallander gave a curt nod of approval.

"Yeah you did," Talladeris smiled for the first time, giving her a playful nudge with his elbow. "I didn't know you pencil-pushers could aim like that."

She gave a small, almost embarrassed smile, shrugging lightly with feigned nonchalance, "I'm a woman of many talents, Tally."

And why, of all times and places, Rossi's mind flashed back to a steamy night in New York less than two months ago, he couldn't even fathom—but god dammit, it did, and he knew the truth behind her words. Many, many talents.

He cursed his uncouth mind and its horrible timing.

"Well, one of those talents kept me alive today," Wallander was speaking again. "So thanks."

"I'm pretty sure you saved my ass a couple of times out there, too," she returned quietly, and he simply nodded in agreement.

For what seemed like the hundredth time, Rossi noted the similarities between Wallander and Strauss—their light eyes, their pale skin, their blond heads, their aquiline features. They were both from the D.C. office, looking like the golden epitomes of some Norse gods, the perfect models for two agents straight from the nation's capitol. Amongst their comrades on the task force, they were known as the Scandinavians. With Talladeris' mulatto Hispanic-by-way-of-the-Bronx looks and Rossi's unmistakable Italian heritage, the van itself was a lovely little American melting pot.

The van came to a stop and Markum turned back to them for the first time since they'd left the scene, his voice filled with something akin to regret as he softly informed them, "We're here."

With a deep breath, Erin Strauss reached forward, opening the large double-doors at the back of the van. The four agents carefully reassembled on the street corner, their breaths creating white clouds of smoke in the chilling evening air. In unison, they all turned to the looming building, knowing they had to enter, but not wanting to face the reality that awaited them.

"This is always the worst part," Wallander intoned mournfully.

"No," Rossi retorted gently. "The worst part is later, after all the paperwork's done and the questions are answered, and you're stuck sitting alone in a hotel room, wondering why the hell it had to happen today."

Next to him, Erin Strauss gave a small shiver. He was certain that it wasn't from the cold.

The next time they saw each other, they'd both been given a set of clean clothes and the blood and dirt was washed from their faces. He spotted her at the end of the hall, and for some inexplicable reason, he began walking towards her, and she moved towards him as well, a strange look of relief in her grey-green eyes.

He didn't know why he felt the need to comfort her, or to be comforted by her, because God knows, they couldn't stand each other most days. In many ways, she reminded him of a little sister—they fought endlessly and violently, they had an uncanny knack of being able to push each other's buttons (despite the fact that they really didn't know each other that well), and yet, at the end of the day, when it came down to the heart of the matter, they bonded together with surprising camaraderie.

Of course, the things he'd done to her in New York—the things she'd done to him—were not the kind of things you did with your sister.

She spoke first, her gestures slow and halting, as if she were still emerging from the strange cocoon of shock.

"They…they made me wash away—wash away the blood—Martin's blood, on my face." She looked down at her hands, as if she were still holding something, "I just…stared at it, the smudges on the paper towels. And they expected me to just throw them away—to throw him away. I didn't know—I couldn't—how do I—"

She was still trying to make sense of something that was truly senseless, to find meaning and understanding in the simple chaos of violence and death.

"They put my clothes and the paper towels, all of it, in a bag—some kind of—they said it was a biohazard. But I just…I don't know how they could just—"

She made another futile gesture with her hand, and his heart broke for her (because he, too, had been there once, looking at another man's blood on his hands and wondering how he could just wash it away, like it was nothing, because it was something that didn't belong to him, it wasn't his to destroy, to discard, to devalue).

Erin and Martin had been working together for several months now, and David understood the bond that developed between agents on a case—it was the same kind of bond developed between soldiers during warfare, the same you-and-me mentality of the trenches. Experience had taught him how to deal with such things, but she was still so young (not even thirty yet!), still so new to this world and its sudden, visceral shocks. Experience had also taught him that there were no words that could soothe the raw ache, or answer the crying questions.

So he didn't offer words. He merely pulled her into a hug.

For a split second, her body stiffened, but then her muscles relaxed as she accepted his silent comfort. She didn't cry, and part of him admired her for that—she was one tough cookie, that Erin Strauss.

After a few moments, she pulled away, giving a slightly embarrassed smile as her smoothed the front of her button-down shirt again.

"Your cut looks better," he spoke for the first time, and her hand automatically went to her temple, which was now cleaned and bandaged.

"Tis but a scratch," she adopted a British accent.

He took a moment to look at her in surprise—did the woman just seriously quote the Black Knight from Monty Python and the Holy Grail?

"Please tell me you got that reference," she said, in her usual tone.

"I did," he admitted.

"Oh, good. I do so hate to waste on a good joke on the uncultured."

Now he let out a laugh, because he knew that was a barb aimed at him—for weeks now, he'd made snide remarks about her country club upbringing, her pristine bloodline and her family money.

There was a beat of silence as her smile faded and she surveyed his face. Quietly, she asked, "How are you holding up?"

He gave a heavy sigh before he answered. "I'm used to it by now."

"That's not what I asked," she pointed out. He didn't reply and she realized that he was silently informing her that the conversation was over.

A door opened down the hall, and another agent motioned for her to return. With one last soft touch at David's elbow, she turned to leave, "Thank you. For, you know."

He did know, and he simply nodded in acknowledgement, his dark eyes following her down the hallway. Suddenly, he had the urge to run after her, to wrap her in his arms again, to whisper soft, comforting things in her ear until the haunted look in her eyes disappeared. He wasn't sure where those strange emotions came from, and that bothered him, because he prided himself on being an expert in human behavior and motivation. He never understood how she could get under his skin so effortlessly, slipping in so quietly that he never realized it until she was already too deep in. She shouldn't be able to do that.

She shouldn't be able to, but God knows that Erin Strauss seemed to defy every law of reason, because she did—she got under his skin and burrowed in deep, so deep that there was no way he could ever erase the mark she'd left.

He shouldn't feel that way about her. She had a husband and he had a wife, and what had happened in New York was a fluke, an accident, a bad decision, a mistake, a fall from grace, a moment of madness, temporary insanity at its finest. It was a sin.

And yet, he hadn't confessed and repented of it. He knew that he should be wracked with guilt, that he should have been on his knees before God the next day, silently seeking forgiveness.

But he hadn't.

David wasn't exactly sure what that meant (wasn't sure he wanted to know what it meant), but he knew one thing—it scared the hell out of him.

That woman was dangerous, dangerous in a way that no other woman had ever been for him. She had a power over him that did not bend to the will of logic. Despite how he felt about her (how he thought he felt about her, how he told himself that he felt about her), she could send his defenses toppling like the walls of Jericho with a single glance, and then make him want to strangle her in the next second—it was an unhealthy, animalistic whirlpool, a discovery that should have never been made, a line that should have never been crossed, a cautionary tale that could never end well.

She was a fast and sweet ticket to hell. And truth be told, he was eager to go along for the ride.

If there were a direct portal to paradise, David Rossi was fairly certain that it was located between the soft and sturdy thighs of one Erin Strauss, which were currently wrapped around him, pulling him deeper into the pounding, pulsing vortex of hot silk and sweaty skin, muffled cries and tangled sheets, flashing eyes and biting nails.

After the debriefing, they had returned back to the hotel in dour spirits, everyone retiring to their separate rooms to drink alone and stare at the ceiling until morning. Around 3:00am, he had heard a knock on his door, and he'd set down his beer to peer through the peephole. As if she could sense his gaze, Erin Strauss was staring straight back into his eyes.

It had taken less than two seconds for him to make his decision—he had opened the door, opened his arms for the blonde to launch herself into, opened another sticky can of worms that shouldn't have ever been opened again.

She was obviously drunk, and he was, too, and he'd known that they'd probably regret it in the morning, but dawn seemed a lifetime away, and in that moment—the only moment that truly mattered—she was looking at him with silent, pleading eyes burning with a strange fire and she was touching him in that aggressively soft way that turned his own skin to molten liquid, tumbling and receding like wave of electricity, and dear God in heaven, could any man ever resist this woman?

He hadn't asked questions, and she hadn't offered explanations, and soon they found themselves in their current positions. He could taste the bitter bite of vodka on her tongue, but underneath it lay the strangely sweet flavor that was uniquely Erin, and he continued searching for it with his own tongue, unable to be satisfied with just one more taste. His seeking hunger was equally matched by Erin's own; her back was arched as she tried to pull him closer, to feel more of his hot skin against her body, her hands were moving, roving, feeling and grasping, desperate for more.

A low keening noise was building in her throat and he quickly recaptured her mouth with his own, muffling the sound (this hotel had paper-thin walls, and Talladeris' room was right next to his).

She understood his action, because when she broke away from his kiss, she whispered in a ragged breath, "I'm sorry; I'm trying to keep quiet but—oh!"

He couldn't help but feel a measure of satisfaction at her sudden reaction.

"Do you really want to have to explain all the noise to Tally tomorrow morning?" He asked, not even trying to fight the grin slipping over his face.

"Golden has me on the first flight back to D.C.—I won't be around to explain anything," she returned with a sly grin of her own. Her eyes lit up with devilish glee as she added, "But if you'd like, I could really give him something to talk about—"

He stopped her words with his tongue, and he felt her laughing into his mouth. It was an empty threat and they both knew it, because she had just as much to lose, but she was so delightful when she was teasing him like this, and right now, they both needed the distraction.

Erin closed her eyes as she felt the familiar rippling through her body, the first small waves that would build into something bigger, as her mind breathed, Thank you, thank you, thank you...

Why in hell Erin Strauss was silently thanking David Rossi was beyond even her own comprehension, but here she was, thinking nothing but the kindest thoughts towards this man whom most days she could strangle with her bare hands. But today wasn't like most days, and right now, by some sick twist of that bastard Fate and its equally bitchy sister Karma, the dark-haired man on top of her (inside of her) was the one person she felt that she could turn to, the only one who wouldn't ask questions or judge her or push her for anything more than exactly what she wanted and needed.

In a strange moment of hindsight, Erin realized that this particular path was decided the moment she'd seen David in the hallway, during the debriefing. He'd taken one look at her and had moved towards her automatically, without hesitation, without giving a damn about what anyone else would think, and she'd done the same. Because despite their very different backgrounds and lifestyles, underneath the opposite skins of their personalities, they were the same creature. They sensed it, they knew it with a knowing that comes deep from the belly, the solid assurance of seeing yourself in another, the recognition that needs no formal acknowledgement, no words or greetings at all. Erin wasn't a vain woman, but she wasn't stupid, either—she could have picked any guy in their rag-tag team of interdepartmental agents. She could have had someone who was nicer to her, someone who didn't drive her absolutely bat-shit crazy sometimes, someone who was unlike David in all the best of ways, but she didn't. She chose David because despite all of those marks against him, he was the only one who truly saw her, who truly understood, because he was just like her (not in every way, not all the time, but in the ways and times when it mattered).

The thought was as scary as hell and extremely erotic, all at the same time. Erin couldn't think of a better description for David Rossi.

His back was turned to her, but he could feel her waking, could feel her shifting as she stretched her muscles, giving a small groan and mumbling something indecipherable. She rolled over, her left arm hap-hazardously flopping over his waist, pulling herself closer to him. She nuzzled the crook of his neck, kissing the red tracks left by her fingernails the night before. She didn't apologize for the marks, and he didn't expect her to.

David would have loved to roll over, to trace the outlines of that soft, warm flesh, to find one last measure of satisfaction in a woman who often was such a source of irritation, but it was daylight now, and it didn't feel right. They were sober now, there were no more excuses—they had survived the long dark night, they'd found a way to push back the tidal waves of depression and helplessness, they'd used each other as a means of distraction, and now that moment of weakness had passed, and their justifications disappeared like mist in sunshine.

He hated the fact that he was literally giving her the cold shoulder, but it was a necessary part of the process. Things were too messy, too complicated to make this into anything more than what it truly was—two people who came together in an attempt to shut out the badness of their world for a little while, two ships seeking refuge in the same harbor from the same storm.

She sensed his distance, because she pulled away suddenly, glancing at the clock and breathing a sigh of relief that she hadn't missed her flight.

"I'm going to take a shower," she announced, slipping easily out of the bed. He took a moment to study her face before she disappeared into the bathroom—she had her Mona Lisa mask back in place (she'd always done that, ever since he'd known her, and he wondered where and why she'd learned to hide her thoughts like that) and the lost woman from last night was gone.

She was made of stern stuff; she'd come out of this just fine. But deep down, he knew that there would be a few nights of sadness and futile questions flung to heaven before she was OK again. He knew it, just like he knew the sun would rise in the east tomorrow morning, and just like he knew that the world would continue on, without even stopping to notice the little tragedy that had unfolded in a warehouse in Philly or the subsequent little tryst that had unfolded in a tiny little hotel room.

Erin came to a rather startling discovery in the shower—she was officially engaged in an affair with David Rossi. Once was a mistake, but twice was a decision, and this marked the second time that she'd sought him out (both times knowing exactly what she was seeking, both times understanding the darker undertones of her wants and choosing to follow them anyways).

She wasn't that type of person. Well, technically, she was, but she didn't want to be. Last night, she'd returned to her hotel room, still numb and slightly in denial about the fact that this really was a scene from her life, and she'd tried to call Paul. He wasn't home, and that had bothered her, because it was already so late. She wasn't worried about his safety (he'd started taking late night drives to clear his head, over the past few months) so much as she was concerned about what his absence meant, although deep down, she had known that Paul would never be unfaithful (though she'd been, oh so unfaithful and unrepentant). In fact, the main reason for his late night drives was because they had been fighting a lot more recently—fighting over what she'd come to label the family issue.

Paul wanted children. Erin did not. Though in the end, she'd always known that she would bear him children (she wouldn't deny him that, because she knew that he'd make a great father), but she had hoped to put off motherhood for just a little bit longer. When they'd married, she'd said When I'm thirty, and now that her thirtieth birthday was less than a month away, she had suddenly realized that she was no more ready for progeny now than she had been all those years ago. It was different for Paul, who was thirty-five and well-established in his career, whose day job didn't involve the same stress and danger as hers. Holy hell, she'd just watched a man's face get blown to Kingdom Come—how could she possibly be mother material?

After staring blankly at the phone for a few minutes, she'd knocked back another shot of vodka (her personal go-to for whitewashing bad memories) and suddenly, she had realized that even if Paul had been home, he wouldn't have been much comfort—he wouldn't be able to comprehend her words, wouldn't be able to understand all the tumbling feelings of guilt and sorrow and shock that rolled around her alcohol-addled brain like a black hole, distorting the edges of reality and sucking away any brightness that remained.

Of course, at that moment, the proverbial light had clicked on—David Rossi would understand. He would understand better than most, because he'd gone through the same thing. The way he'd held her in the hallway whenever she told him about Martin's blood—he was silently telling her that he knew exactly how she felt, because he'd been there before.

And just like that, she'd taken two more shots of vodka (for courage, though a small flicker of knowing had told her that he'd never refuse her) and quietly marched her way to David's room, seven doors down from her own.

And now, here she was, in the impossibly tiny hotel shower, washing away last night's remains. There was still a delicious warmth simmering through her nerve-endings, and part of her really wanted to go back out there and re-entrust her body to Mr. Rossi's capable hands, but she knew she could never do such a thing.

In fact, she could never do such a thing ever again. Because this wasn't who she was. Right now, she was embarrassing herself, shamelessly letting her body's desire override her mind's logic. David Rossi was a lecher, a liar who'd say any honeyed words it took to get into a woman's pants (she conveniently forgot that he hadn't said anything last night, when she had shown up on his door step), a disrespectful person and a reckless agent to boot. She as acting like some good-girl Sandra Dee, bowled over by the dark allure of a bad boy—the problem was that they were far from high schoolers, and their actions could have serious real-world repercussions.

She turned off the shower and grabbed a towel, thanking the gods above that this was the last time she'd have to endure the rough pull of that fabric on her skin. The case had been on-and-off for over a year now, taking them on a winding path through D.C., New York, and Philly as they'd tracked their target through various shady deals. In New York, they'd stayed for a full week, and the hotel had been nice. Then the trail went cold and everyone had been shipped back to their respective field offices, giving them the luxury of sleeping in their own beds for a few weeks. But around Christmas, their guy was back in action, and they'd been called to Philadelphia—Wallander and Strauss hailing from the D.C. Office, Talladeris from New York, Rossi from Quantico—to join Martin and the rest of the task force, who were all currently stationed in Philadelphia. Martin had affectionately called it "getting the band back together". The thought of him brought a heavy sadness to Erin's chest.

They'd been in this cramped hotel for three weeks now, and though the case had ended on a mournful note, those who survived were relieved at the chance to finally go home.

Home. With Paul. That was where she belonged.

She padded back into the room, quietly slipping into her clothes. David watched her, his cautious silence informing her that he was already aware of her change in mood. Once she was fully dressed, she sat at the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath before breaking the stillness of the room.

"I think...I think we shouldn't do this anymore." She looked down at her hands, which were clasped on her knees to keep from shaking. She wasn't sure why she was so scared, because even though David had a horrible temper, she knew that he'd never do anything to hurt her. But maybe this fear was for her physical safety. Maybe it wasn't for her at all. Maybe it was something deeper.

David didn't know why he felt his chest tighten at her words, but he did. Still, he affected an air of total nonchalance as he spoke, "It's probably for the best."

She looked up at him, and he could tell that she was slightly surprised at his reaction. Her words were hesitant, almost pleading, "So...no hard feelings?"

"Absolutely not," he swore. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulder, "A fling's a fling, kid. No need for hard feelings."

He'd almost called her kitten, but he'd easily corrected to kid. He knew how much she despised the former moniker, and he didn't want her to think that he was taunting her (although deep down, she would always be kitten to him). Even though he often enjoyed teasing the oh-so-easily provoked blonde, now wasn't the time nor the place for such things. She was being vulnerable and making a true request, and he would give her the courtesy of kindness in return.

Erin flinched at the word—kid, that's what he sees me as, some dumb kid, some easy fuck, something inconsequential, someone not to be taken seriously, someone and something he can easily dismiss with a shrug of his shoulder and a pat on the head.

He saw something flash behind those green eyes, but he couldn't decipher its meaning. He'd come to learn that when it came to Erin Strauss, it was best not to try unriddling her nuances—she was a sphinx, she could drive a man to insanity if he tried to seek out all her mysteries.

"Right," she gave a tight smile as she rose to her feet. "Well, Agent Rossi, as always, it's been such an honor working with you."

The sarcasm in her voice did not go unnoticed.

"And if we ever meet again—"

"This never happened," he finished for her. She gave a curt nod of approval. Then she turned on her heel and left, without a backward glance.

If we ever meet again. As if they wouldn't. Despite its sprawling web of connected field offices, the Bureau could be quite small at times—David knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they'd meet again, many more times.

Now that she was gone (again), he could let his mind wander back to the conversation—why had he reacted so strangely to her decision?

It was just a fling. It was just sex—well, scratch that, it was great sex (part of him hated that it had to be so mind-blowing with her, of all people)—but still, the hopeless romantic within David Rossi truly believed that there was more to love and relationships and romance than just fucking, which happened to be what he and Erin had been doing (no strings attached, nothing but need and want and muddled minds and pounding bodies, heat without warmth). There had always been some kind of chemical thing between them, something in their skin that just connected with a little zap! and a soft oh!, but that's all it was—physical. Not emotional.

Which didn't explain why he'd reacted that way. In fact, it was in direct opposition to his reaction. The answer lay somewhere deeper, somewhere much more intricate and complex. The answer lay in the same reason that he'd taken her in his arms to comfort her last night, in the same reason he'd felt a wave of fear for her safety as they'd suited up yesterday afternoon, the same reason he'd been so relieved to see her alive (albeit frightened) face after it was all over. It lay in the same strange tenderness he'd felt towards her in New York, when her vulnerability had broken through his defenses and he'd caved in, falling into her bed and starting a journey that ended here today.

Oh, hell.

May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.

David rubbed his bleary eyes and tried to force himself to concentrate on the computer screen in front of him. After the flight in from Detroit, he'd spend the rest of the day at his desk, looking over consult cases and catching up on reports—now his lower back was not-so-kindly informing him that he needed to take a break and his eyes were protesting the strain as well.

He decided to get yet another cup of coffee, standing up and stretching his tired muscles. He opened his office door, not at all surprised to see that the bullpen was deserted and that Hotch's light was still on.

Hotch's door was also open, and from it slipped the familiar cadence of a low, feminine voice.

That voice. That voice could command armies, could raise castles with its lilts, could mimic Italian phrases with an adorably French quirk, could slice a man's skin, could easily soothe the wound again. It could build worlds, it could destroy them, it could be the beginning and the end, all and nothing.

David was slightly surprised to realize that he didn't feel any pain at the sound of her voice (for the past week, every nuance of Erin Strauss had been like a needle prick to his heart, but now, there was nothing). He simply stood there for a few moments, just listening to her voice—he wasn't eavesdropping, because he couldn't make out the syllables, and really all he wanted was to hear the familiar roll and tumble of her tone, finding some sweet nostalgia in it.

He missed her. He felt that with every fiber of his being. He missed all that they used to be, although he sadly realized that it could never be again. He'd finally had a taste of what life with Erin could be, and he still couldn't imagine not having her in his life. That was the part that scared him the most—after all these years, after all those silent hopes and those unspoken dreams that had finally been given some small measure of reality, how could he just walk away? How could he just abandon the path that he'd been traveling for almost half of his life now?

He saw the pool of light from Aaron's window shift, could hear the soft sounds of furniture moving, signaling that Erin was on her feet again and preparing to leave. David contemplated simply stepping back into his office, but he knew that she knew he was still here, and that was an act of cowardice. So, he simply made his feet move again, towards the stairs and the caffeine he so desperately needed.

She exited Hotch's office, and David's movement caught her attention. For a moment they simply stood on opposite ends of the landing, watching each other with quiet and careful eyes. Then, he offered a small, simple smile.

An equally small smile bloomed across her lips, and he noticed the slightest hitch of her shoulders, as if his gesture had lifted some invisible weight from them.

He was being civil and acknowledging her presence, which was an improvement, but Erin knew better than to push her luck. She turned and went down the stairs, not looking back, although she could hear the familiar tread of his footsteps as he moved behind her, could feel the shift in energy as he veered off towards the break room and she continued her path to the glass doors. She felt a small frisson of hope, though she told herself not to read too much into the gesture.

David watched her go, watched the familiar sway of her hips, the familiar set of that blonde head as she disappeared through the doors and down the hall.

And just like that, he knew that he would forgive her.

Eventually.