Notes: Hi! Look. Relatively timely? And some of you are still reading! I'm flattered? Surprised? Definitely undeserving? I seriously can't believe you've held out so long. THANK YOU.

Anyway, not too much to see here, just some Beckett family bonding and a tiny bit of progress for Castle and Beckett.

Chapter Eight: I choose to be a figure in that light.

At least her surgeon had kept his word about discharging her the following day. It was a Tuesday and she was turned on her side staring at the sun glaring at her through the window when they came with the last of the paperwork. It was as unfair as it was inviting; the weather never seemed to co-operate with her turns of romantic fortune as it did in the movies. She scrawled her name on the last of the papers and handed them back to the nurse.

Her father was waiting with a pink bag with her name on it. Beckett regarded it with a distracted curiosity. "What's that?"

"The things you had on you when you came in."

She gestured for it and ripped it open, the contents spilling across the mattress. They'd cut her out of most of her clothes and they were long gone with the surgical waste, but the contents of her pockets were there, and so was her father's watch. The ring, however, was missing. She picked everything over one more time to be certain. "No, no, no," she groaned in panicked frustration. "It's not here."

"What isn't?" Her father hovered at her shoulder. "They said this was everything."

"Mom's ring." She frowned. "I was wearing it like I always do. I can't imagine why wouldn't be with everything else. Hell, the only other thing missing is the gun, but I assume Ryan or Esposito or a uniform took that." She picked up her badge and ran her fingers over it. "They probably should've taken this too."

"Maybe it was ... misplaced," Jim said gently. "It was all very chaotic for a while there."

She sighed and clutched the guts of the destroyed plastic bag. "I know."

(She didn't though, not really. And while everyone else in her life had a common experience, hers was a unique perspective. It set her apart, and she felt it, but it was a distance she was trying not to dwell on. It felt too much like she was indulging herself. And besides, Castle wasn't the only one who could imagine.)

"Come on." He helped her gather the few odds and ends that remained. "I'll ask at the nurse's station on the way out. Maybe it'll turn up."

She reluctantly agreed.

Lanie had brought her a change of clothes earlier in the day and they felt like an inexplicable luxury, but she still felt a little uncomfortable, as though everyone looking at her could tell what lay underneath. She touched her hand to the dressing. The bulk had decreased considerably since she had first woken up but she could still feel it there, beneath the sports bra Lanie had insisted would be more comfortable than anything with an underwire. Her friend was probably right. She had already started to feel sore where it pressed against her wound.

At least they weren't going through the ridiculous rigmarole with a wheelchair and fussing. As soon as the paperwork was signed, they let her walk out, with her father reminding her every half mile to stop and rest. She scowled when he did; every day she grew more impatient with her physical limitations.

Despite her earlier thoughts, the Brooklyn sunshine was a relief after nearly a fortnight in the hospital. Beckett breathed it in and lingered, falling into one of the benches just outside the automatic doors and squinting up at the sky.

Her father sat next her. "Good day for it isn't it?"

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "You have no idea."

He laughed.

"What?" She pulled back and blinked at him.

"Katie, everybody had some idea."

She made a face. "Are you saying I complained too much?"

Her father laughed again. "I think we were all relieved by it… that was the first moment I really believed you'd be okay." He hugged her against his side. "You haven't changed much. You could never sit idle for more than a minute; you always had to be doing something as a kid. It drove your mother up the wall when she tried to work from home when you were younger."

She suddenly had the sense someone was watching them. Instincts kicked in, but she tried to hide it: there was no need to panic her father. Goodness knows he'd had enough of that in the past few weeks. It hadn't escaped her notice that he looked tired, the kind of tired that a week of sleep couldn't shake. She glanced around furtively but relaxed when she realised it was just the protective detail they still had on her.

Gates had some ring in from another precinct investigating the shooting, to avoid conflict of interest and satisfy internal affairs. Two cops dead from the same team tended to raise eyebrows and rumours of a connection were rife. And accurate, but she'd steadfastly denied any of it. Ryan and Esposito had been unhappily compliant but no one had resisted as thoroughly as Castle. Without new leads, they would close the investigation by the end of the week, which she knew, but nothing was worth Montgomery's reputation in her eyes, not a sniper who would be another dead end. He had disagreed, said they didn't have to play their whole hand. As it was, he was only play half of his, though it had still escaped her notice. The fear that motivated his arguments didn't though, but she hadn't known how to answer it, to reassure him.

And so, they'd had it out over it on Sunday night, albeit in hushed voices and furious whispers, because it didn't seemproperto argue in a hospital. She hadn't seen him since.

Still, she was adamant. It wasn't only the memory of her mentor. There was also the connection they had to the conspiracy, and if it were exposed, her life would be harder not easier. They had leads and as soon as she was back to full strength she intended to follow them. Beckett didn't need her new boss stonewalling her while she couldn't fight back.

(There was another reason, one Castle probably would've been convinced by, that whoever was pulling the strings would become even more dangerous with the threat of the truth being exposed, but she still couldn't bring herself to talk about things so plainly. It wasn't just memories that it brought back, but her own fear, and she wasn't ready for him to see that.)

Her father followed her gaze. "They said they'd be keeping an eye on you for a few more days, just in case the shooter decided to …"

"Finish the job," she supplied gravely. "Makes sense. It was all over the papers. They must know by now that they didn't succeed."

"They." Her father's mind was turning behind his eyes. "If you think you know who did it why did you lie to that detective that came around?"

"Because," she said. "This goes back to a couple of dirty cops, and I'd hazard a guess we'll be finding a few others before we're done. I don't want to tip my hand. They'll either find the shooter or they won't. If they haven't yet, I'd say he's long gone. That's incidental. There's a bigger game in play – whether we like it or not dad, so don't start about stopping. I don't think we could now, even if we wanted to."

His mouth set in a thin, disapproving line she'd come to loathe as a teenager, but he nodded slowly. "I never could tell you what to do."

"I always appreciated the advice you know." She gave him a small, amused smile. "I know I didn't always show it."

"I don't know. A few slammed doors and the loud, angry music beg to differ."

"Just because I didn't agree with you doesn't mean I didn't take what you said under advisement. And I have this time too." She finished the sentence quietly. "I promise. That's part of the reason I lied to Detective Phillips. Castle said it best I think. He said we can't run at it head on anymore. And we won't. For now, I'll focus on getting everything back to normal."

Her father gave her a conspiratorial look. "Speaking of Rick."

"I know, he hasn't been around in a few days. It's fine. We just… had a disagreement, that's all. He'll come around. Or I will."

"Not what I was going to say." He was teasing her, she understood it now.

She gave him the most deadly of warning eyebrows. "Dad."

"I'm just asking."

"I'm not sure there's really anything to tell," she told him, "Besides, I think we're well past the age where you get to ask."

"Gotta know who to keep my eye on Katie." He was smirking and she found herself amused in spite of herself.

"Yeah well, an eye on Castle never went astray," she said. It was dripping with sarcasm. "Just not for that reason. And for the moment, you don't have to keep your eye on anyone."

"Is that why you've been so quiet this morning? Has something changed on that score?"

"You're worse than my girlfriends, you know that?" She gave him an exasperated look. "Just like Lanie, nose for all the gossip. Yes, Josh and I -" she made a parting motion with her hands, "- broke up. No, I'm not quiet about it. It is what it is. You don't have to worry. I'll get over it."

He reached out and hugged her briefly and awkwardly, in that way only fathers could. "I'm sure you will."

She pulled away and cleared her throat. "Now I think I'll go trouble our shadow over there for a ride home. No use paying a cab fare from Brooklyn if we can get more value out of our tax dollar."

They took the Brooklyn Bridge and she let her head rest against the window, looking up at the arches passing overhead. It was one of those perfect days late in May where it was warm enough to feel like summer but not yet so humid it was oppressive. It was cheesy, stereotypical maybe, but she felt a newfound appreciation for it.

Sometimes still in the middle of the night the weight of it all would hit her and she'd be gripped by panic and grief in equal measure, but she'd learned a long time ago that nothing could break her. After her mother's death, even on the worst of days, she felt a steel to her, something that told her she could withstand it. It wasn't that she was hard – as much as she hid it, the work did still get to her sometimes – and resilience wasn't the same as playing tough anyway. It was just that she had an unwavering self-belief. That mettle had never been truly tested since her mother's death, or at least, not like it had been lately.

In that moment though, she felt at peace with it all. Staring back at where they had come, she welcomed the challenge and turned to look forward at the sun glinting off the glass buildings of the city.

Her father installed her in her apartment and insisted on staying, even after her repeated assurances that she would be fine. He was right when he said she didn't know what she'd need help with yet, and despite her desire to tough it out, there were some things that the pain made impossible. She was annoyed at herself, but by the time she'd sunk into the sofa her exhaustion was overwhelming and she found herself closing her eyes.

Her father rustled around in her kitchen for a while before disturbing the cushion beside her. "Kate." He nudged her awake.

She blinked. "What is it?"

"Go to bed." He offered her a hand to help her stand.

"You don't need to stay while I sleep," she argued, knowing he would stand his ground.

He did. "It's fine. You've got a week's worth of crosswords at your front door and there's a game on in a little while."

There were disadvantages to disagreeing with your family members; stubbornness was apparently genetic. She'd always thought she'd gotten her tenacity from her mother (and when it verged on bullheadedness, her father had always been happy to agree with that assessment) but apparently it came from the Beckett line as well.

Beckett rolled her eyes, privately, and started towards the bedroom. "Fine. Don't look in the fridge; it'll only make you worry." If she recalled correctly, she had several biology experiments ongoing even before the two weeks in hospital.

She lay in bed for several hours but slept fitfully. It was too quiet. Somehow, she'd managed to adapt to the muted noise of the hospital and without its comforting lull her mind found time to hypothesise. Wild theories were more Castle's domain, but in the blur between wake and sleep she found herself confused by the distinction between fact and fiction. When she woke properly, from a nonsensical dream, she felt her heart racing. It calmed as she took in air and her ceiling. Hers. She was in her apartment. Nothing was amiss.

The sun was low in the sky, casting her carpet and the lower half of the mattress in warm, golden light. Wiggling her toes, she curled into the duvet cover pleasantly. Despite her unrestful sleep, it was still good to be home.

Her father was sitting in front of the television unblinking when she slowly eased her way across the living room. Her healing muscles were sore from sleep and she didn't want to jar them. She rolled her neck from side to side, chancing pain in her sternum to brace it with one hand. "What are you watching?" she called to announce her presence.

Her father turned to face her. "Re-run of the last game in the 2009 world series. Carlos Ruiz just made his triple at the top of the third."

"I'll join you in a minute," she said. It was definitely time for another dose of the magic pills that made the pain subside. She made it to the kitchen and braced herself on the counter for a second, catching her breath.

"What are you doing in there?" Her father appeared in the doorway.

"Meds." She held up the bag and tried to look cheerful, but he wasn't buying it.

"You could've asked."

"I can get them myself."

Kate Beckett mentally reminded herself that she was lucky to be alive and so many people in her life that cared and a father that was there and who loved her and it was a small price to pay really, a few weeks of being babied to breaking point. She clenched her fist around the glass of water he handed her and tried to silence the less grateful parts of her personality. The taste of the pills washed down with the taste of sleep as she gulped down the water.

"Thanks."

It was a forced a smile, but the sentiment at least was genuine.

He answered with a knowing smile of his own. "I'm driving you crazy."

"You're not the only one." Her smile was a shrug.

"It's only for a little while," he reassured her. "They said six to eight weeks, and it's already been two."

Beckett changed the subject. "I was going to make tea, but I suppose you'll do it."

"Watch that tongue young lady."

"And in my own home." She sighed melodramatically and began her slow shuffle back to the couch. "Cups are above the microwave," she called over her shoulder.

Just as she was about lower herself into an armchair, someone knocked at her door. Her father poked his head into the room but she waved him off. "I can get it."

When she opened it, Castle was standing in her doorway, brandishing flowers, not unlike he had months before, and, just like before, she was surprised and a little bit pleased.

"Can I come in?" He didn't hand her the bouquet, but shuffled awkwardly until he was bracing the door open instead of her holding it there. Her hand fell to her side and then rose again to her chest, resting over her healing sternum.

"The doctors would've said no heavy lifting," he told her, another well-intentioned reminder, and she nodded.

"They did." She stepped back to let him past. "But how do you know that?"

"I've been consulting Doctor Google," he said.

She smiled. "Thank you, for the flowers."

"These ones even come in their own vase, because I thought you might be running short." He set them down next to the only arrangement she'd rescued from the hospital room. It was from Lanie, and she'd liked it because it had some kind of bloom with a delicate fragrance to it. "Besides, I didn't bring you one in the hospital."

"Liar." She grinned at him, leaning against the wall beside the bureau as he set down his flowers beside the others. "I could barely see through the windows for the height of the arrangements and balloons and get well cards. None of them had your name on them, but it reeked of you."

"Well maybe I did open a tab at the hospital gift shop so that your colleagues could send you whatever they wanted to," he admitted, sheepish. "But I didn't want them to have to worry about money."

"Just like you and Josh colludedto get me a private room and extended stay?"

He gulped. "Yes well... the doctors thought it would be good for you to stay and I ... please don't hurt me."

"You're lucky they have me on restricted physical activity." She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Don't doubt it."

"Uh. If it makes you feel better these can be 'I'm sorry I was jackass' flowers instead of 'get well soon' flowers." He suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands. They hung lamely about his pockets. "Because I am sorry, about being a jackass, for everything I've done since I've met you really, but especially the other night."

She grinned and let her teeth sink into her lip. "Everything you've done since you met me huh?"

"Well." His apprehension turned into curious scrutiny for a brief moment, and then he smiled, slyly, catching her meaning. "Are you flirting with me?"

Beckett raised her eyebrows at him and said with false innocence, "I would never."

He opened his mouth to follow up on that remark but her fingers pressed against his lips, relieving him of the chance.

"Don't." It wasn't reproach though; she was smiling. In fact he had the sense that even before he'd apologised, she'd long forgiven him. "My father's here and whatever you have to say, I can't imagine you want him to hear it."

As if on cue Jim Beckett appeared behind them to see who her visitor was. She pulled her hand away and shoved into the back pocket of her jeans awkwardly.

"Hey dad, just Castle." She managed to say it with only the hint of a squeak. Castle was probably the only one who noticed and she hoped he'd have the good sense not to comment.

They exchanged a familiar greeting and handshake, which she observed with her detective's eye and she was suddenly suspicious that they'd been talking a great deal in her absence. It made sense of course: there had been a lot of lurking in hospital corridors done by both of them. Their common ground was her, and Beckett made a note to press Castle for details or, more specifically, which embarrassing stories from her childhood had been told so she could make it explicit just what would happen if any of it showed up in a novel. Still, she wondered if she was where it ended as well as where it started.

Beckett had never really thought much about how they'd get along, Castle was a house on fire with almost everyone anyway, and her dad was ... her dad. It had never been easy to predict where he would bestow approval, but he'd taken to Castle when they'd first met, during the investigation of Raglan's murder. Now, though, she found herself curious about the extent of their interaction.

Jim Beckett moved towards the door. "You're out of milk or at least, milk that isn't nearly a month old. I thought I'd go pick up a few things."

She nodded, grateful for the privacy. After she'd locked the door behind her father she turned to Castle and they both stared at each other, deciding on what to do about the silence.

Finally, she swallowed and gestured toward the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Sure."

He followed her into the other room. She let her weight rest against her shoulder as they moved into the room. "By the way, I'm sorry too." She was alluding to their earlier conversation. "You weren't really wrong… I just disagreed with you."

"We don't always have to agree," he told her.

The kettle clicked off. She laughed once. "That would be kind of freaky actually," Beckett said as she poured the water into another mug.

Her hold on the kettle was two-handed, and he noticed the way she focussed on it and moved it with slow, deliberate precision. It didn't seem wise to offer assistance though: he already knew to pick his battles there. If only, he thought, he could learn where to pick them everywhere else.

"Maybe we should find less spectacular ways to disagree though." She set it back down and left the mugs to steep. "Come on. We'll wait for dad to get back."

He followed her to the sofa and watched curiously as she painstakingly lowered herself into the armrest. He sat beside her carefully. "Are you okay?"

"I'm tired," she admitted. "I thought, in the hospital, that I just couldn't wait to get home and get back to everything, but it's more exhausting than I thought it would be. The pain isn't too bad, if I'm careful. But sudden movements?" She shook her head. "Definitely not an option, at least for a while."

He left his arm resting along back of the chair, fingers within in whispering distance of her hair. She smiled to herself at that newfound habit.

"So, six weeks at home." He gave her a sly smile and observed, documentary-style, "However will the Beckett cope with her confined quarters?"

"With Richard Castle's latest novel, of course." She smiled at him. "I like it so far."

"So far? I'd have thought you'd be finished it by now."

She looked away. "I'm... savouring it. Besides, you did say I could make corrections."

He groaned. "Don't mention editing. Gina is still demanding rewrites and I'm still putting them off." He looked sheepish. "But I'd say there were extenuating circumstances. Speaking of which, if you're convinced they're not going to come back to take another pass at us, what was with the boys in blue outside my apartment? They haven't been there in a week but I can categorically tell you that's a waste of money that won't endear me to Gates. If you think we need it, I can pay people to do it privately."

She shook her head. "You'd have to vet them so thoroughly and even then I don't think we could ever be sure, and it was mostly a precautionary measure. Besides, it was only vaguely my idea."

"I'm going to choose to believe that means you think I could take care of myself," he remarked, "Not that you don't think I'm worth saving."

"I think I'll keep you around," she assured him.

"And I didn't even have to bribe you with Chinese food," he joked. "You're going soft Detective."

"I'm still open to bribes."

(The mere thought of food that didn't come from a hospital kitchen made her mouth water.)

"Well it's not food, but I did bring you something else," he remembered, reaching into his pocket.

"Castle, you can't just buy me things," she admonished, but she'd heard the hint of something serious in his tone, so it was muted.

"This is just-" he pulled out the chain with her mother's ring dangling from the end "-something I've been holding onto. They had to remove it in the ambulance in case they needed to defibrillate you, so I kept it."

She was suddenly frozen by the realisation that she was completely happy. It was enough to make her forget the shooting and the warehouse and Royce's death and the crushing disappointment each time a new lead led to nothing in her mother's case. Joy was simple. She usually liked to think she was too complicated for it, and maybe that was true, but not today. When she didn't move to take it from him, he reached out and pressed it into her palm, fingers lingering over hers.

"I thought it was lost," she murmured, turning it over in her hand.

She was dimly aware she was crying but she was smiling harder. With her head bowed, she wiped at the tears, then looked up. "Thank you Castle."

"I knew you wouldn't want to lose it," he said quietly, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ears even though it was secure. His fingers brushed against her cheek, tracing her path hers had moments before.

It was a moment that crystallised at least something. She had been wavering on the subject of their fledging attempts at blurring the lines between partners and lovers. There was a strong argument to be made that they had both, in their own ways, stepped over the line anyway and there was no use pretending that they could go back. On the other hand, so much was changing. She didn't know if it was the right time to test their foundation by pursuing something new.

Or at least, she hadn't. But when he reached out to help her slip the chain over her head when she couldn't quite stretch her arms far enough without pain, she realised. He did know her, in a way that still surprised her. He made her happy and she loved him and maybe all the rest could be noise.

Beckett clenched her fist around the ring where it sat against her healing incision. She was staring at him.

"What?" He made a show of looking behind him. "What is it?"

"About what you said," she murmured.

He didn't ask what she meant. He assumed it didn't matter, nodded for her to continue.

"Do you trust me?" she asked.

"Of course I do."

"I won't leave you," she promised quietly, teeth sinking into her lip as she struggled internally with how to continue.

"You do remember." Castle suddenly found the upholstery on the arm of her sofa incredibly interesting, couldn't look at her. It was a bend in the road and he couldn't be sure what would be around the other side. If it led to nowhere, he wasn't sure he could watch her say it.

"I'm sorry."

"Is this the part where I let you explain it away, tell me it was just because of the situation, the adrenaline?"

"I didn't do any of that." She let her hand rest against his arm. "I wasn't going to. Unless you'd like me to, in which case I'm sure there's a case to be made for temporary-" the grin she sported was wicked, to match her tone "- or at least mostly temporary, insanity."

"I know." He found his sense of humour, waggled his eyebrows at her. "Lucky you were unconscious. You would have killed me for ripping off your shirt in front of all those people."

"Oh Castle." She was, absurdly she thought, still faintly embarrassed. "I suppose there were mitigating factors."

"It was a nice view, even with all the blood."

"You didn't even notice," she accused.

"Sadly, it was wasted on me," he confirmed. "The whole ordeal is kind of hazy to be honest. After you passed out, Lanie almost tackled me to start CPR and it was all so fast."

"Luckily for me." She let her fingers creep towards his hand. "I know you meant it when you said it Castle, so I won't rationalise it or excuse it, but it's not life and death anymore. Meaning it every day is a lot harder."

"I know."

"And maybe we're not ready for that."

"Kate."

"But maybe we are."

He gave her the most hopeful look she ever remembered seeing. She found herself hiding her grin with her hand in the face of it.

"But that's why you have to trust me." She squeezed his hand. "Don't push. I can't do this if you push me."

"Is that your roundabout way of saying …"

"We can try to do ... this, whatever it is," she finished his sentence. "You and me. If I can lead."

"Was that ever in question?" He was trying to hide his smile, completely ineffectually. His mouth was slipping at the sides and besides, she could see it in his eyes. Then again, she knew where to look.

His arm slipped down her shoulders and encouraged her into his side. She didn't move though, except to nudge her elbow against him gently. "Castle."

"What?"

She looked pointed at his hand until he pulled away, looking a little bit wounded. She gave him a sad smile.

"I'm not ready to start something right this minute." She was hugging herself, and looked over at him, imploring.

"It doesn't really feel like we're starting."

The moment, it seemed, had shifted. She felt everything catch up with her after the brief respite. "We're not." She uncrossed her arms when he pulled at her elbow, shifting so her body faced him and bracing one folded arm on the back of the sofa. "But … there are things I have to do first. Not Josh, if that's what you're thinking. We – well. There were lots of reasons. But with everything that's happened, I'm still processing."

"Beckett, I understand. You need to put everything back in its place." He tapped at her temple. "Up here."

She nodded slowly. "And you need to rush at it headlong because you're afraid we'll miss our chance."

He looked incredibly guilty. "Well. At least we both know where we stand."

"Makes a change doesn't it?" She stretched her foot in a circle in the red-gold sunbeam cutting across the rug.

He stared at it for a moment. "Come on." He stood and offered his hands to help her rise. "I want to show you something."

She followed him over to the window. The shutters were drawn across her mother's murder board and he unfolded them to reveal the stained glass window but didn't spare a glance at the facts. Instead, he opened the window with a concerted tug and hung out of it. Reflexively, her hand grabbed at his shirt in concern. He laughed at her as he pulled his head back in. "Go on, look."

Bending forward in spite of her body's protests, she looked east along the street grid.

"What is it?" She turned the other way and shielded her eyes from the setting sun. "Oh."

He moved to get a better view from behind her, a hand at her elbow. "Manhattanhenge," he told her, raising his voice to be heard over the traffic.

She turned to face him, her hair catching the light. It was an image he didn't think he would ever forget.

"How long have you lived in New York Castle?"

The look she gave him was entirely incredulous, pure Kate Beckett. It made it much harder for him to hide his smile.

"Most of my life. Don't tell me you're too jaded to appreciate this Kate."

She turned back to the sunset, the light bathing the buildings in its brilliant glow. Above them the sky was streaked yellow and orange. She was smiling though he couldn't see it and leaned back into him, her shoulder finding the plane of his chest. His fingers slipped against her elbow. She pulled her head back inside the apartment after a few minutes, her body too stiff to maintain the position for too long, and he found her staring at him with a kind of wonder.

"Some things are always beautiful," he said after bumping his head slightly on the window as he drew it in.

When he was standing in front of her, close enough that he could feel her even as distance remained between them, she reached out and brushed her fingers along his jaw. Her eyes followed them, remained fixed, even though she could feel him staring at her as she considered logistics. Moving was too difficult, so she pulled his mouth to hers with her hand, thumb pressing into his chin and fingers curling into his neck. It was the barest of kisses really, experimental. Before he could close his eyes to it, he felt her watching him as her hands mapped his face, and met her eyes.

They stared at each other, lips still touching.

In her chest, her heart protested. She felt it stutter and raised her palm to her chest to feel it.

He pulled away. "Are you –"

"Fine," she cut him off. "Just … I feel it more, than I used to."

"Careful." He reached out to feel it himself and she trapped his palm against her chest with her own moving it slowly up to her neck, where her carotid pulse throbbed beneath his fingers. He finished his sentence, "You might be sending mixed messages."

"It's not," she told him with simple faith in her own opinion.

"Really?" He brought a thumb up to the underside of her chin, tracing its curve slowly. "What is it then?"

"A promise." She met his eyes. "That I'm alive and I won't leave you."

It was her way of saying something else. He held onto her hand and felt his chest full of it.