Almost two days later, and Shepard lay on the couch inside the safe house, staring up at the ceiling. She was a doer; she tackled problems head-on with only a cursory thought of consequences. When it came to James, though, she was agonising over the consequences.

She hadn't said more than five words to him at a time since the elevator. She'd kept her tone brisk and impersonal, as if he were a bureaucrat she had to tolerate. It had been harder to ignore him than she'd anticipated, but James had kept to himself too. He'd smuggled in two six-packs of beer with his gear and spent most of his time out on the porch, pretending to keep watch. When the setting sun forced him back inside, he'd sit in front of the fire with his attention fixed on his omnitool. He was always there if she needed him, but never imposed when she didn't.

She shook the thoughts from her head. She was getting nowhere.

Shepard swung her legs off the couch and glanced at the empty fireplace. They needed more wood.

With a resigned sigh, she stood and walked out the front door. James reclined on a chair on the porch, his legs crossed and propped up on the railing, an empty bottle of beer on the floor next to him. The door slammed shut behind her and he started, nearly falling out of his chair.

Shepard walked past him and he stood. She waved her hand at him. "Just chopping wood."

"With your weapons and armour?"

"Precaution, warmth, strength enhancement."

Over the crunching of her boots on dirt, she heard the creak of him sitting down again and the thump of his feet going back on the railing. She could feel him watching her as she began chopping wood into smaller pieces. When she had enough to keep the fire going for the rest of the afternoon and into the night, she gathered it up and walked back to the cabin.

James had his arms behind his head and was staring out at the trees like they were far more interesting than Shepard. She wanted to kick his chair over.

The door slammed shut behind her again. Now, she'd have to figure out how to light the fire. James had always done it, and she'd never bothered to watch. Fireplaces were for people who lived in houses. Shepard had only lived in prefab units, the barracks, and ships.

She dumped some logs into the fireplace and pulled some kindling out of a box next to it. After placing the the kindling under the logs, she lit it and sat back on her haunches, pleased with herself… Until smoke started to fill the cabin. She covered her mouth with her arm and rushed to the sink. She filled a bowl with water, coughing all the while. Running back to the fireplace, she dumped the water onto the smouldering wood. The fire died with a sizzle.

She waved her hands in front of her, trying to get the smoke to dissipate. It was no use. She was going to have to go outside, embarrassed and annoyed, with smoke trailing behind her.

Shepard plodded to the front door and opened it. She flapped her hands, trying to push the smoke out the door.

"You don't know how to start a fire, do you?" He turned to look at her with a smug expression. Oh, now he wanted to show some emotion.

"You do it then," she said, glaring. She tried to suppress the cough that was threatening to ruin her glare. She failed.

"Drink something warm. It'll help your throat," he said as he stood. He picked up his chair and propped the door open with it.

"I know how to recover from smoke inhalation."

She followed him into the cabin and went to the kitchenette, filling up the electric kettle and turning it on. She made more noise than necessary looking for a mug and some hot chocolate. Before the almost-kiss in the elevator, he would have matched her irritation with his own. His patient helpfulness threw her off-balance.

"You see this?" Shepard looked at James, who had his back to her but was holding up a brown block. She kept silent and James continued. "It's a starter block. You light it first and hot air fills the firebox so the draft goes up into the chimney, instead of the cold air pushing the draft down the chimney and filling the whole cabin with smoke when you try to light a fire in a cold fireplace."

She resisted the childish urge to argue that the fireplace didn't come with instructions.

By the time James got the fire going, the smoke had cleared and she'd shut the door. The cabin still smelled like smoke, though. She was sitting at the little dinner table, hot chocolate in front of her, when James turned from the fire and raised an expectant eyebrow at her.

She rolled her eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The crackling of the fire and James busying himself in the kitchenette filled up the silence between them. Soon, the smell of cinnamon and apples chased away the smoke. Her stomach grumbled. James had found the apple pie that she'd smuggled in with their supplies. She knew she should have hidden it better.

"Here. Maybe pie will make you feel less stupid," said James, placing a large plate of steaming pie and a fork in front of her.

Her eyebrows shot up. This had to be a trap.

She narrowed her eyes at him. She picked up the fork and gingerly speared a tiny piece of the pie before touching the tip of her tongue to it, testing it. James sighed and grabbed the fork from her, cutting a chunk of her pie for himself and shovelling it into his mouth. He chomped on it before swallowing and opening his mouth for her to inspect.

Shepard pursed her lips in displeasure. He'd taken almost a quarter of her pie in one bite.

She snatched the fork back from him and began eating. Real apples went into this pie; she could tell the difference after so long on reconstituted stuff. She ate in silence. James sat across the table from her, watching and distracting her from savouring her first real apple pie since she'd been awarded her N6 badge at the Villa.

"Stop staring," she said, looking up from the pie. "You want to talk, don't you? That's what you've been oh-so-patiently waiting for. Fine, we'll talk. After all, I'm an adult, and you're an adult—sometimes."

"This is the first time you talk to me normally in almost three days, and you're already throwing around insults?"

"That is how I normally talk to you."

James paused, then shrugged in agreement. "So talk."

Shepard hadn't planned on being the first to talk. She'd hoped James would have something to say. He usually had an opinion on everything, whether she asked for it or not. She looked away, chewing her lip as she wondered where to begin.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see James watching her expectantly. The silence dragged on as she tried to shuffle her thoughts and feelings into order.

"Okay, I'll talk." His voice betrayed his exasperation as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "That day in the elevator, you were being an ass, and things got heated. I almost kissed you, and it was a stupid thing to do. I'm sorry. Again."

She didn't want an apology out of him. This wasn't just about the aborted kiss. It was about 'the chocolate thing', as he called it; her irrational anger as his flirting with the nurse; remembering her birthday and giving her a present; the too-comfortable sleeping bag arrangement; the 'stay with me' in the medbay after he'd been poisoned. It was weeks of forced company with almost no one but him, and the disturbing realisation that she'd enjoyed most of it. It was knowing what he smelled like, how his footsteps differed from others, what he preferred to eat. It was his body and his voice and, once he'd gotten over his initial hero-worship, the way he seemed to take it in stride that she was judgemental and controlling and incredibly volatile.

No, this was about far more than the attempted kiss.

"You didn't answer my question the other day," she said. James quirked an eyebrow, not comprehending. "What do you want from me?"

He looked at her like she was an idiot. "Was that not you in the elevator? Because I thought what I wanted was pretty obvious."

She frowned at him. "Don't answer my question with another question. I hate that."

He sighed and uncrossed his arms to rub the back of his head with one hand. "I'll do whatever you want, Shepard. I always do whatever you want."

Apart from that being a bold-faced lie, he was still avoiding the question. "If I told you to leave me alone?"

"I'd do it."

He looked her straight in the eye, his voice unwavering, and she believed him. She should have nipped this infatuation in the bud with that confirmation, but she never could leave things well enough alone.

"And if I told you I wanted something casual?"

He paused, glancing away, before hastily looking back at her. "I'd do it."

He was lying. Now, she knew what he wanted, and it terrified her. Nothing made Shepard freeze like being confronted by emotions—her own or someone else's. Her treacherous need for affection only reared its famished head when she found someone who could put up with her for longer than two minutes at a time.

She'd been standing on this same precipice three years ago, only then it was Kaidan. This wasn't the Normandy, but the same threats were still there: death, heartache, Reapers, the fate of the galaxy. The wound from that failed relationship was still healing. Was it fair to even contemplate starting something with James? It didn't seem fair to him. Hell, he probably didn't know what he was really getting himself into.

"I don't do casual," she said. The tension in his body relaxed and relief flitted across his face. "And I come with relay-sized amounts of baggage."

"I can handle baggage."

"I'm not just talking about Mindoir." She knew she should tell him about her unresolved issues with Kaidan, but the words stuck in her throat. "There's a war coming, James, one that I'm determined to win at any cost. I don't like starting things that I might not be able to see through."

"You're talking about the Reapers, aren't you?"

The way he said it, like it was a fact that the Reapers were real and they were coming, softened the tension she felt in her face. She was used to people saying 'Reapers' like they were fairytale monsters.

She nodded.

"You're not a weapon, Shepard." He leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table, his penetrating gaze fixed on her. "You're full of blood and guts and feelings, not targeting matrices and heat sinks. You got a second chance at life, and if you're convinced you're going to die soon, then you should live it."

His words were like a punch to the gut. She'd been on autopilot since Cerberus brought her back, but she hadn't realised it until now. She'd needed that connection—the one that went beyond friendship. On Horizon, she thought she could have found it again, but Kaidan's feelings of betrayal had shattered that hope. In the face of the Collectors, she'd buried her own feelings and continued on. She did miss the intimate moments that reminded her of what she should be fighting for, though.

"It feels selfish," she said. "I've seen what happens to the people I leave behind."

"I'm not a baby, Shepard. I know the consequences of war."

Shepard's chair scraped against the wooden floor as she stood. She must be crazy. Or maybe this was the first time in a long time that she could see clearly.

She reached across the table to hook a finger in the neckline of his shirt. His gaze never left hers. She leaned forward, bracing her other hand on the table, and stopped a breath away from his lips. She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat while she searched his face for any doubt, any inclination that this wasn't truly what he wanted.

"Remember, I warned you: baggage, Reapers, certain death. You should stop me if you want a happily ever after," she said softly.

He shook his head. "I'd regret walking away."

Her mouth tugged up at the corners and she pressed her lips against his, her eyes drifting closed. The kiss was chaste—closed-mouthed, delicate, unsure. There was no spark. She was expecting a spark. Perhaps they were making a mistake after all. She started to pull back, but his hand darted up, his fingers tangling in the hair at the back of her neck to stop her from leaving. His lips parted and, instinctively, hers did too.

At the first taste of him, she got fireworks.

Her reservations evaporated. She moved her hand from his shirt to his face. Her fingers traced along his stubbly jawline; her thumb brushed against the tapered end of the scar that ran across his cheek and nose. He tasted mostly of apple pie with a hint of beer and something uniquely James. She thought he'd be forceful, perhaps even pull her forward so she'd have to climb onto the table to keep kissing him. Instead, he seemed to be savouring this slow exploration as much as she was.

It could have been days or seconds later when they pulled apart. Her breathing was heavy, and the pounding of her heart was matched by a throbbing need elsewhere. When she opened her eyes again, his hand moved from the back of her neck to her cheek, his thumb running across her moist lips.

"Caray, ella es tan bella," he said, voice huskier than normal.

With her omnitool back on and transmitting to the translator implant in her ear, she could finally understand his Spanish. She smiled. It'd been a while since someone had called her beautiful.

"Compliments will not get you out of first watch tonight," she said, her lips brushing against his thumb.

He chuckled and planted a kiss on the end of her nose before dropping his hand from her face. The cute gesture made her eyebrows shoot up, her eyes going round, and her mouth dropped open.

"Compliments and a kiss will distract you from this, though," he said, and shovelled her last piece of pie into his mouth.