In all of his imaginings of her, the one thing he had never done was conjure up her new home. They were always in his house, in his bed, doing what he wanted to do. She was an extension of him; his officer, his analyst, his girl. As if to underscore his thoughts, Harry placed his hand possessively on her lower back guiding her as they strolled up the path to her flat. Perhaps he had never thought of this new place because it housed a new Ruth. He preferred to remember her old place. A kitchen in the dead of night, an amber glow, a glass of scotch and a particularly unwelcome visitor. A visit in the early morning, the room filled with a watery half-light, sweet tea, and consternation. He had often thought of that day, of the myriad of choices that had unfolded before him, the decisions that he had made. If only he had stayed with her in that kitchen, how events would have played out differently.

So lost was he in thought, he stumbled into her, clipping her heels when she paused before her entrance to rummage for her keys. After a murmured apology, she fumbled with her clutch, withdrawing her keys, her hand hesitating on the lock.

"I haven't been here long." The key slipped on the lock, teeth rasping against metal as he fingers fumbled. "It's all very new."

He placed a reassuring hand on top of hers, steadying the key, helping her to turn it in the latch. "Yes, it is."

Her eyes remained on his hand. "I'm still getting used to it."

He bent close to her ear, sensing she was talking about more than the flat. "Give it some time." He pushed open the door with her.

Her clumsiness, the note of rambling apology in her voice, all comforting hallmarks of her former self but at the same time clues that he found singularly worrying. On the journey from his house to hers, the ease that they had felt with each other had slowly dripped away, the conversation becoming stilted as they drew closer to her flat. They were both suffering from nerves, he cautioned himself and every new relationship stumbled awkwardly at first. The Grid had defined them for so long, they would have to get to know each other in their new roles.

She walked ahead of him into a small corridor, flanked by even more doors. There had been only one entrance to her old flat, here there were doors upon doors. How many did he have to open to find her? There had been compensation for her loss, a resettlement package, various security measures taken on her behalf. How much of this flat had been her choice?

The keys jangled as she opened another lock and she led him across the threshold into her life. Harry quickly glanced around, scanning every feature, assessing the layout as he usually did when entering a room for the first time. It was brighter than her old place, with walls of white and yellow, blond pine on the floor, Scandinavian in its character. Placed on top of the modern sensibility, were objects belonging to another time, flowing brocade curtains, a tapestry couch, an overstuffed chair. It felt strangely inviting and impersonal at the same time. He drove his hands deeper into his pockets, feeling out of place, trying to figure out where he belonged in her world. Was he also the past, imposing himself on her present?

She walked through to the kitchen and he trailed behind her, stopping when he realised he was behaving like a pup following his mistress. He leaned against the doorjamb, attempting an air of nonchalance that belied his inner nerves. A bottle of red wine sat on the counter and beside it a half-empty glass. She quickly crossed to it, dumping the contents of the glass into the sink, and washing it out under a blast of water.

"Help yourself to anything." She deposited the glass in the dish rack and using her body to mask her actions, she surreptitiously placed the bottle in a lower cupboard. "I don't have much in the way of food..."

"I'm sure I can find something."

Opening and closing doors, she moved around the small kitchen with the industry of an ant scouting for food. "We could always go out, there's place around the corner, they make marvelous pastas."

"Ruth."

She ignored him, carrying on with her foraging, opening the fridge door, revealing glaringly empty wire shelves, and quickly closing it before he could notice.

"Ruth."

She fluttered past him and he reached out, grabbing her wrist. Her arm was slender in his fingers, the bone prominent beneath his palm. He wanted to tell her that she needed more than a bottle of merlot in her pantry but that was not his place. Her eyes darted about and wrinkle of distress moved quickly across her brow.

"I haven't felt much like cooking lately," she said, explaining away the lack of food.

"I haven't either until today."

Pulling her closer, he tried to read her face but her eyes remained lowered. He bent his head, brushing his lips along the corner of her mouth. She stiffened, her head canting back, her hand coming up to rest lightly on his chest. Not an outright refusal but enough to make him question his actions. Her palm pushed gently against him.

"I should get changed."

She gave slight twist but his grip tightened, his other hand coming up to rest on her hip, his palm fitting perfectly on the curve. He didn't want her to change, to erase the scent of him that still clung to her. He nudged her toward him, his fingers sensing a fissure of resistance.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I just haven't had much company, that's all."

Giving him a fleeting smile, she stepped back, and without missing a beat, he took a step with her. His hand slid around her waist, fingers splayed cross her spine, pulling her back to him but she remained tensely coiled. She shifted her head away and his hand came up to cradle her jaw. Finding the tender spot behind her ear, he massaged it gently, looking for the knot that would unravel her. His fingers drifted down to the ridge of the zipper, feeling the clasp that had revealed her to him.

"Ruth, it just us. There's no one else here."

"I know, logically I know that. It's just...it's..."

His thumb gently glided over her throat, catching the words before they spilled out. The past. How long could they skate around the edge of that particular pond before it cracked and they fell through into its unforgiving water? He pressed his lips to her cheek, tasting the familiar combination of guilt and regret. He was responsible for that guilt, he had to ask even though he dreaded the answer.

"Do you want me to leave?"

He held his breath waiting for her response.

"No, no, I want you to stay. I feel...disjointed. I don't know how to explain it."

With a sigh of relief, he leant his forehead into hers, closing his eyes as he pressed against her brow, willing himself into that teeming mind of hers. She was in there somewhere, the Ruth of his imaginings. He needed to know that he was not a regret or that their evening together had not fostered more guilt. He could not ask such questions, though, to do so would prove him weak and vulnerable. The language of emotion was foreign tongue to him, its various nuances lost on his inarticulate lips. His was a world of code and subterfuge; never let them know what you're truly thinking. His fingers glided along her shoulder retracing the skin he had caressed the previous evening, her throat, her neckline, the alluring swell of her breasts, satin sliding beneath his palm, leaving him to say the only words he could manage.

"No matter what, this will always be my favourite dress."

She gave a small sigh, her hand rising to his hip, as she swayed into him. He brushed her lips with the faintest of kisses, and then one more, pulling back, enticing her toward him, willing her to come to him. Her fingers pressed into his waist and she raised her mouth to his, but he teased away from her. She leaned into him, searching for a kiss, and feeling that she was unfolding, he obliged. His tongue ran across her lips, subtle, coaxing, searching for entrance and the key that would unlock her reticence, releasing the woman who had come to him last night. Her lips were supple but her body remained unyielding. He bent her back against the counter, his tongue insistent against her lips, refusing to lose her. With a tiny moan, she gave way, letting him in and he entered her with a desperate force. His hands moved down her back, his leg moving between hers, pressing her against the cupboard. The satin of her dress bunching in his fingers, ruched along her thigh as she pressed back into him. The last of her defenses crumbling, muscle by torturous muscle until she molded against him.

The novelty of kissing in her kitchen did not wear off and they stood, grinding against each other, young once again in their illicit tryst. He faltered as she pushed into him and he placed his hand on the counter for balance. The granite was cool beneath his palm, sturdy and secure. She was small, the counter was low, and with the right amount of pressure he could lift her on to it. He gave a small moan into her mouth. How many times had he done this? Used sex to avoid emotion, pain, the past. They would have to face it at some point. He gave her one last kiss and pulled away. She stood before him, chest heaving, eyes blinking.

"You seem to have a very healthy appetite."

"As do you, Miss Evershed."

She graced him with a smile that echoed in her eyes, so rarely seen, that he stared at her, completely lost in its warmth. Her hand slid around his hip, glancing across his back pocket and pausing to playfully pat the billfold that he kept there. The move left him both delighted and puzzled, his mind whirring with a question.

"How did you..."

"What?"

"How did you lift the USB stick from that Leslie fellow?"

"Oh, it's all about diversion. Fiona taught me."

"Well, Fiona had a lot of diversions."

Her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed in a moue of disapproval.

"Professionally speaking, of course." He turned away, looking about the kitchen. "Why don't I order something in?" he offered, deftly changing the subject.

"Yes, that's probably the best thing to do." She untangled herself from his arms. "I'm just going to..." She motioned down the hall. "Do you need anything?"

"I'll just wait."

He was very good at waiting.

...

He woke with a start, a hard object colliding with his lower vertebrae, sending vibrations through his spine. He knew exactly where he was, the scent of her was everywhere. The bed was softer, sweeter, far more inviting than his. He turned over, the sheets crisp under his skin, still new, yet to be worn in. She moving restlessly about, murmuring intelligible words in her sleep. He lay for a moment debating whether to wake her or to let the dream run its course. Her arm thrashed about hitting him in the chest and he placed his hand on it shaking it gently.

"Ruth."

She moaned in her sleep, pushing him away.

"Ruth, wake up."

"What?" Her voice was thick with sleep.

"You were having a bad dream."

"Harry?" Disoriented, she moved her head groggily, speaking into the darkness. "What are you doing here?"

His heart constricted at her question but he tried to make light of it. "Sleeping. That is until you kneed me in the back.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry." Her mind awoke, slowly filtering back into the bedroom with him. "I'm so sorry I didn't mean to."

The sheets rustled as she adjusted her position, moving away from him, a stream of cool air rushing between them.

"No." He reached out for her in the darkness and found her arm. "Don't go away."

Her breath broke the air with ragged puffs as she lay on her back but he couldn't tell if she was crying. Unsure of how to comfort her, he lay still, waiting for her to speak. She let out a long, slow breath.

"I thought I was back..."

She left the sentence unfinished. He knew what she meant. She didn't need to tell him her nightmare; he had lived it with her.

A sliver of light peeked through a crack in the drapes, allowing him to see the outline of her body underneath the sheets but not the expression on her face. Moving his hand up her arm, he found her face and traced it with his fingers, finding her cheeks reassuringly dry.

"Do you have the dream often?"

"Not if I have enough wine before I go to bed," she whispered.

"You shouldn't do that." He chided in a low voice, matching her hushed tone, though there was no one to hear them.

"Isn't that why you drink?"

"It doesn't stop the dreams."

The bed dipped as she turned on her side toward him. She raised her hand to his cheek, stroking his face in comfort.

"What do you dream about?"

"The bomb that killed Ros. Any number of people I've lost over the years."

She gave a soft hum of understanding as her fingers moved to the back of his head, looping gentle circles at the nape of his neck. They lay in silence, a whisper of wind rising and falling outside her window, occasionally rattling the panes, looking for a way in. His eyes drowsily closed, delighting in the feel of her fingers.

"Harry?"

He gave a small moan, not wanting to interrupt the trance her fingers had lulled him into.

"Did you ever dream about me?"

He slid his foot along her leg, cold toes on her skin. "Those were the dreams I didn't want to wake from."

In the sanctuary of her room, with her fingers working the muscles of his neck, the feel of her thigh against his, he would have answered anything she asked of him. Silently, he asked her the same question, afraid of the answer. There was no need to ask, she knew him.

"Yes, I dreamed about you. And I thought about you every day when I should have been thinking about other things." She sighed, her fingers sliding over his chin as her hand dropped away from his face. "Oh Harry, what are we doing?"

He found her hand on the counterpane and clasped it in his, bringing it up to lie between their faces.

"Exactly what we should be doing."

"But all the others-"

"Shh." He squeezed her hand. "Don't bring them in here. Let this be just for us."

"Nothing lasts, Harry. Especially for people like us."

"Don't say that."

Her warm breath washed across his knuckles, her fingers tense in his. She was thinking, even in the darkness he could hear the ticking of her brain.

"After the bomb," she whispered, "I didn't know what had happened to you. I thought everything was over. That I would have to start again. It's hard to live that way."

"You don't have to worry, I'm here." He pressed his lips to her knuckles, kissing the tiny ridges.

They lay for a moment, hands together, supplicants praying for relief from their dreams. She moved her hand in his, fingers winding into each other, her thumb running up and down his palm. She kissed the soft flesh at the base of his thumb.

"Don't make me more than I am. I don't want to disappoint you."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I've so many pieces missing."

"We all do."

She slipped her hand out of his and pressed it against his chest. "No, you're solid and whole."

She dragged her fingers through the fine whorls of hair, her thumb grazing his nipple. Scales built up over years of deception fell away under her fingertips. He wanted to talk to her, divulge all of his secrets, to be close to another human being without hiding behind lies and deceit. Her fingers followed the line of his hair down to his stomach, the muscles of his belly involuntarily contracting in anticipation. To his dismay, she detoured, venturing along his hipbone to his outer thigh, kneading the flesh between her fingers.

"I'm not as strong as you, Harry. I'm stumbling along."

Searching for her in the darkness, he kissed the hollow spot at her shoulder, the hardness of her collarbone beneath his lips. "Let me stumble with you."

"And if I fall?

"Take me down with you."

Now was the time to say. The words formed in his head, his breath knew their shape, but he couldn't say them. It was too soon, it was the last piece of defense he had left. He couldn't give it all over to her, it would leave him too exposed.

"Come away with me."

They weren't the right words, but the question rose from the swell of emotion inside him, falling from his lips before he had time to contemplate them thoroughly.

"On a holiday?" she asked.

"Something more than that."

She stiffened beside him, her fingers halting their journey. She had read his mind in the past; surely, she knew what he was thinking now.

"We've only just-

"I know. I know." He agreed softly, pulling the question back and laying it to rest. He ran his hand down her back, up and down the ridge of her spine and she shivered under his fingers. Her hands resumed their exploration, gliding back up to his chest.

"Don't ask too much of me, Harry. Not yet."

As long as her hands were on him, they were still connected; her hesitancy was a measure to protect herself and not meant to push him away.

In the time since they had awoken, the temperature of the room had dropped, and he pulled her closer, wrapping the sheets around them, a cocoon against the outside world. This time, she did not balk at his protection but pressed into him, finding shelter in his body. He held her close, hard bones wrapped in delicate skin, sleep having lost its allure, her body calling to him. His hands languidly roamed over her contours, relishing the touch of her until a hunger stirred beneath his feeling of contentment. He leaned across her in the darkness, missing her mouth, kissing her cheek, his lips sliding down to her ear.

"Is this right, Harry?" she whispered against him. "Tell me that it is. I want it to be right."

He didn't know and at that moment, in the warmth of her bed with her soft body under his, he didn't care. There would be other days to pick it all apart but not now. His lips moved at her ear.

"Let go, Ruth. Be with me."

Her mouth found his in silent surrender, and he groaned into her lips with thankfulness. She moved against his body, thoughts of right and wrong melting away. His fingers slid down to her thigh, flesh slick with desire. Her lips pressed under his jaw, planting open kisses on his throat. He rolled onto his back, bringing her over to lie on top of him, his erection pressing against her pubic bone. His hands smoothed down the slope of her back and she moved against him creating a delicious friction, his fingers digging into the swell of her backside. She brought her lips down to his chest, tongue flicking over his nipples. His finger found her shoulders, pulling her up to him.

The sheets fell away, air washing cool over their burning bodies. She straddled him, guiding him insider her, setting the rhythm as she curved above him. His hands were drawn to her breasts, molding his palms around them, marvelling at how she held within her equal parts sorrow and passion, making her all the more magnificent to him. Her thighs pressed against him as she swayed over him, her movements growing faster and faster. He gripped her waist, searching for control, wanting to make the pleasure last. This woman broken and bruised had total mastery over him. She was only doing what he had done so many times; assuaging the pain of the past by finding pleasure in the present. He pulled her down, her breasts pushing against his chest, her mouth at his ear, the tip of her tongue dipping in. A groan rose from the depth of his longing and he rolled them over, pushing her back against the pillows. Slipping away, they found each other again

In the darkness, they were nothing, naked and exposed, panting breaths and thundering hearts. No present, no past only the heat of the immediate. He hung on as long as he could, feeling her pulse around him, her limbs trembling with intensity and he followed her, falling over the edge, whispering her name.

Her head rested on his chest and he gathered her in, her leg sliding over his. He lay awake, looking into the darkness, listening to the soft sound of her breaths as they fell into an even rhythm. He brought his hand to her hair, smoothing it away from her face.

"You're still soft, Ruth."

She didn't hear him, sleep having claimed her and he kissed the top of her head. He found solace in the fact that he had given her a moment of peace. Staring into the darkness, he refused to close his eyes, afraid that he would wake from the dream. He had to find a way to make it real. The wind rattled the windowpane, followed by a soft moan when it found it could not come in. He drew the bedclothes tighter around them. At some point, they would have to leave the warmth of her bed. Earlier that day, they had struggled in the intimacy of her kitchen; he did not want to contemplate what would become of them in the cold light of day.