"You're actually avoiding me," she accused him pathetically, two mornings after they'd slept together for the first time. It was thoroughly satisfying and far from the conventional acrobatics some would associate with great sex. But it was great, in her book and his, she believed. Her conclusion was supported by his sweet groans and forceful thrusts, and by the three times they'd done it that night. He'd come inside of her every single time and had stayed inside for long minutes after.

But he got dressed too quickly the following morning while she was pretending to be asleep. He didn't even lean down to kiss her worried head before he quietly left her home. Her uncertainty flared like an inflammation, infecting every cell of her confidence in their new relationship.

"Contrary to our history so far, I do happen to have commitments that do not include you, Lizzie," he reasoned, looking at some papers. His composed form was perched on a bar stool in a relatively bare apartment.

"Do you regret what happened two nights ago?" she wasn't wasting any time at all. She wanted clarity as much as she wanted him.

"Oh, I regret nothing that happened during that night," he looked up from the pieces of paper he'd been holding and smiled a smile she recognized all too well. He was trying to appear indifferent. What angered her, she recognized, was how easily he thought she'd give up. He wasn't being genuine and she felt like choking the pretense out of him. She needed the real him to live and breathe.

"You think I'll buy this?" she questioned. Her scared little heart was about to leap out of her body.

Then, Dembe came in. It was urgent, he'd said. Something about the three of them being needed at the Post Office.

"We're not done," she promised Reddington lamely after he'd gotten up from the bar stool.

He barely looked at her.

But he didn't dare smile again, and his shoulders were slumped and sad.

She forced herself to move; her resolve followed suit.