Hey y'all - thanks for the continued wonderful response here. I thought we'd take it way, way back this time. I hope you enjoy. As always, would love to hear your feedback.

December

"So the ACN holiday party is Friday," Don says casually, like he's remarking on the weather or debating Vietnamese vs. pizza. It's a Saturday morning, and if you had asked Sloan Friday morning if she had intended to spend the following day in Don's bed — or, even more broadly, with Don — she would not have known the answer. And she probably would have been pretty indecisive. But now that she's here, and she can see the branches encased in ice outside, and Don is being a responsive, pleasurable furnace, there is nowhere else she'd rather be.

"I know, I saw the email from Charlie. And the one from Mac. And the one from Elliot," she says, adjusting herself to face him. There are multiple ACN parties during the holiday season — each show does something for its staff; Mrs. Lansing hosts a senior-staff-only sit-down black-tie dinner at her apartment, which is basically located on top of the world; and there's Charlie's fancy-dress office blowout on New Year's, which is only attended by the youngest staff, those dating co-workers, or those with nowhere else to go. But this one is the middlebrow division-wide party, the one everyone is mandated to attend and the one where everyone always ends up a little too drunk on too-cheap wine, and hungry despite eating too many crudites. It was a generally pretty miserable experience.

"Mmm, the best night of the year," she jokes, burrowing deep into his covers. It's surprising, how amazing his linens are. It's not something you would immediately associate with him, but they're awesome. She could stay here all day.

"It's not that bad," he defends. He's close to her but not quite touching, as if he's a little unsure what the exact boundaries are. She tangles her legs with his, just to make a point.

"Last year, Martin hit on me. Full stop. Said that he knew I probably thought he was too young, but offered to 'rock my world,'," she laughs. "He then threw up in a urinal. I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember. For his sake.'

"So you're going this year?"

"Of course. It's mandatory."

"Yeah but not really."

She quirks an eyebrow. "Really? Tell me more."

"There's not much more to tell. If you don't go, what do you think will happen?"

"Mocking and misery," she suggests.

"Right. Well there is that."

"I'm not saying it's a night at the Roxbury, but why not go? It's free booze and people you generally like."

"I'm not saying I don't want to go, I …"

Oh. Right.

The two of them have been doing this for just over two weeks. She can use just one hand to count the number of times they've spent the night together. While she is very fond of him and does not plan on entangling legs with anyone else in the near future and likes this and has been having fun, they haven't told anyone from work, due to some mutual unspoken understanding. (Well, Will might have picked up on it because he's scary perceptive), and they haven't even really had a conversation about, well, anything. She supposes they could just be sleeping together, but it feels more serious than that, possibly because they have known each other for so long. But it also feels painfully new and delicate — even raw.

So she does the sensible thing. She gets up. Swinging out of bed, she says, "Come on. We need food; specifically, French toast. Let's go get brunch." She's got jeans from last night and a plain white tank top from her gym bag, but the sweater she was wearing is now wrinkly, so she swipes one of his seventy-three flannel shirts. He laughs as she buttons it halfway, tucks it in front and rolls up the sleeves. It's too big to be exactly stylish, but it does the trick. And actually, she kind of likes it. Her hair gets caught up in the collar, and he pulls it out, laughing.

She pulls on her coat and boots, because even though it's probably in the mid-thirties she will still be freezing. She's not sure if they're hand-holders, or even at the stage where that's acceptable, so she walks with her hands firmly in her parka's pockets the entire time. They head around the corner from his place to Market Diner, which is only half-full since most of its clientele is the late-night post-college crowd. But they've got cheap challah French toast, for her, and eggs Benedict, for him, so they're set.

As he settles in next to her, she realizes that it's their first meal, in public, together, in this context. They've eaten way too many midnight meals, and oh-shit-it's-5-pm-where-was-lunch meals, and have gone out together and separately as friends … but they're not friends anymore. Well, they are, and they're more. And before she can stop herself, she says this observation out loud after the waitress has taken their coffee orders.

He looks startled. "No way this is our first date," he says. "It's in a diner."

"So this isn't a date?" she challenges archly.

"No, this is a date," he corrects quickly, clearly worried she might get offended, or think they're not there as … to-be-determined, but qualitative, thing. "I mean … Order of things a little mixed up. But. Wait. Is this a date?"

She's now confused. "How are you defining date?"

"Well, there are multiple contexts. Generally I would say the criteria is doing something of mutual interest with someone you're interested in … you know, as more-than-a-friend. But 'first date' implies awkward, implies getting-to-know-you, and I did not feel awkward until you said it was a first date and now I don't even know."

"Well, I think it meets your first criterion, and mathematically, it is the first time that we have done something of mutual interest with each other after clearly indicating that we are interested in each other."

"Well, no, because the other criterion for a first date is that the guy is trying to impress the girl. And I would definitely, you know, have put thought into that aspect, if this was a first date. So it meets neither criteria for a first date."

"It meets the chronological definition as the first time. Something has to be the first date. Looks like this is it, pal."

"Well, sure, if you're defining mutual interest as, you know, since we started," he lowers his voice to a whisper and darts his eyes around, which makes her laugh, "sleeping together. But I wouldn't necessarily draw the line there."

"Well, if you start counting 'mutually interested in each other' as a few months back, that means the tequila shots and tuna jerky we had in October at Hang Chew's could count. And if you're not interested in me right now and the first date is sometime in the future, I'm kind of offended. To be honest."

"Ok, a, it's been more than 'a few months back,' so —"

"It has?" she smiles, because that is validating.

He flails about for words a bit. "I mean, there were lines. But yeah, you're you, Sloan, there was never exactly a time when I would say I was uninterested."

She's struck. "We really need to work on our communication then."

"Probably. For the record, I like you. A lot."

She leans forward and kisses him. Their first public kiss (well, depending on your definition of public, since they definitely have made out in his office way, way late at night.) "I like you a lot, too," she smiles. "Enough that I am willing to give you a bye on the this-being-the-first-date thing."

"So I get a do-over?" he grins.

"Yup. Tonight. Make it count, Keefer."

After brunch, he grabs her hand as they walk back. The laze around his apartment for a while (he watches a basketball game that he recorded, which makes absolutely no sense, as she grades), but he kicks her out around 2 and tells her to go home and get ready.

"But what should I wear?" she teases as they say good-bye in his doorway.

He thinks for a second. "Something you like," he finally says, before leaning forward and kissing her. "Go. I'll pick you up at seven."

It's sweet, but supremely unhelpful, advice, she thinks as she stares at her closet four hours later. She can't really tell what direction Don will take their first date in - will it be old-school and formal, some nice restaurant with a wine list both of them will pretend to understand? Or will it be more casual, like ice-skating in Central Park. Should she wear heels? He seemed intent that a first date was impressive.

She settles on a simple black dress that will work in most contexts. It's comfortable enough for walking, and has a peekaboo back, with a vertical slit from her waist to a single top button at the base of her neck. It's a little shorter than what she would wear to work. She decides on her favorite black slingbacks, which are good walking heels that also do amazing things for her legs, though she seriously hopes there will be no outside component to the date. It's not a fancy outfit, but she really hopes that Don won't freak out create some stiff, fraught-with-expectations ordeal.

She needn't have worried. When Don knocks on her door (he insisted on coming up), he's not wearing a suit (if he had, she would have made him wait while she went to change), though he did iron his clothing, and he's holding a plant. "I didn't trust you to keep flowers alive for more than five hours, but that an impressive first date would have a floral component," he says. "The guy at the florist assures me that in the apocalypse, only cockroaches and this plant will survive."

"So it might last a week here, is what you're saying?"

"Exactly," he smiles.

"Well, thank you," she smiles. "So. Where are we going?"

"'inoteca," he says, holding up her coat for her.

She pauses. "Okay, not saying that that doesn't sound amazing, but I have been there and they don't take reservations and last time I went there with my friend Carrie we waited like, three hours for a table, and I'm just saying, that I kind of turn into the Hulk when I get really hungry —"

"Relax. I have seen you hungry, and will never forget it, so I would never intentionally put you in a situation where you'd have to wait three hours for food."

Her mouth is open, a little bit. "So you're taking me, on an impressive first date, to a place with a two-hour wait for a table on a Saturday night?"

"Hell no," he says, "I know a guy." With that, he tilts his head toward the door and begins to lead her out.

"You know a guy? You also know that you actually used the words, 'I know a guy,' right? It kind of sounded like you're in the Mafia."

"Well, Keefer is actually a shortened form of Keeferano." He rolls the last word, like a bad character actor might do.

"Seriously?"

"What? No."

"Who is this guy? And how do you know him?" she teases as they step into her elevator. This time, she takes his hand.

"He's a friend of mine from college. He did like, New York stuff right after college—"

"Wall Street?"

"Real estate, I think, technically. But after about eight years he freaked out, quit, started bartending, made a lot of friends, and then started investing in restaurants and overseeing their bars and liquor. This is one of the restaurants he's involved in."

"Are there any other guys you know?"

He shrugs. "My buddy Nick is the facilities manager at Madison Square Garden. He can get you tickets to any Knicks game."

"Ooooh, what about the Taylor Swift concert?"

"I mean, I have no idea who you would go with, but sure. He could do that."

"What about the Biebz?" she teases.

"Please stop. Please." She laughs.

Sure enough, when they get to 'inoteca, he just talks to the maitre d' and she leads them to a quieter table, away from the bar and by a window. She adores the mozzarella in carrozza, and feels zero shame in immediately starting them off with two orders. Don actually knows more about wine than she does, and picks out a very nice cabernet. His friend, Jonah, stops by to say hi, but otherwise they're left alone. Whatever potential awkwardness she was anticipating is nonexistent. It's the two of them, eating food, wearing nice clothes, and talking. And laughing. He makes her laugh. It's a relief, to know that they can work as friends and they can work in bed (they can really work in bed), and they can work as a couple on a date on Saturday night. She offers him bites from her fork; he wipes sauce off the corner of her lip with his thumb. It's nice. Afterwards they head to an underground, speakeasy-style bar, with gin-heavy old-school cocktails and fantastic live jazz. They huddle in a corner, and sometimes make out, but mostly they just talk.

They head back to her place, which is a little weird, since they haven't really spent consecutive nights together. But as he presses her against the back of the elevator and kisses her neck, he asks, throatily, "So how was this for a first date?"

"Impressive," she murmurs back. "And you know what the best part is?" she tugs him up to look at her by the scruff at the nape of his neck. "Since it's not actually the first date, I don't feel bad at all sleeping with you."

He laughs, nuzzling his nose into her neck. "Have I mentioned I fucking love how smart you are?"

The next morning, as he's doing the New York Times' crossword puzzle at her island in his boxers (which is bizarrely normal and weird at the same time) she finally says, "So, the party on Friday."

"What about it?"

"I … I like this," she starts, signalling between them as she sits on the second stool.

He smiles genuinely. "I like this too."

"I'm not sure what it is, but I'd like to — actually figure it out. If … If you wanted to." She feels like she's back in eighth grade, trying to negotiate a relationship with Chet, her middle-school crush who sent the worst mixed messages. The conversation never got easier.

He practically chuckles in relief. "I would … like that."

"Ok," she exhales. "But I think that … takes time. And I'm not a … If I ever had a … relationship that played out in public, in the newsroom every day, the way that Will and Mac's does? I'd be mortified."

"You know they're not technically a 'relationship' right?" he asks.

"So just think how unbearable they would be if they were sleeping together," she points out. "They already fight on air. Everything they do is on display, the good stuff, the not-good stuff. I couldn't do that." She's not sure if she's inadvertently drawing comparisons to his relationship with Maggie so she shifts away from the topic. "I just … need some space I guess. I think we need some space from … all of them. I don't want it to be a secret, I just want it to be — I'm happy, I'm not, I don't know, ashamed —"

"You just want it to be low-key at work?" he asks. "Skip the kissing under the mistletoe on Friday?"

"Yes," she says emphatically, relieved to be off the linguistic roller coaster she'd accidentally jumped on. "Are you OK with that?"

"Yeah, I absolutely agree," he says.

"You do?"

"Yes," she's a little speechless, so he elaborates. "We work together. You're on my show sometimes, and in those cases I have to be your producer. And even outside of that, there's a pretty good chance we're gonna argue about … something. We just will. At some point. And you have career goals and honestly, so do I, that a … a this … could complicate. There's those to consider. So it's … I'm not taking any of those things lightly. So I'd … like to figure those things out."

She honestly hadn't thought of the two of them in terms of her career — she suddenly realizes people could think she was sleeping her way up the ladder, or something — and she's not sure what that says about her. "I feel like I have to tell Mac though. And, actually, Will."

"We said low-key, not secret," he says. "I … kinda feel like it will come up with Elliot."

"I just feel like Mac would get mad, and yell otherwise," she explains. "And you should totally tell Elliot; he's your work husband."

"Please never use that term again," he smirks, kissing her lightly. "Anyways. I'm supposed to meet a friend for an hour of tennis in well, an hour, so … I should probably head out," he sighs. "What are you doing later tonight?"

"Dinner with my friend Erin, then I have a 5:45 makeup call for a morning shoot." He makes a face and she laughs. "Do you want to escape for lunch tomorrow?"

He kisses her, sliding his hands around her waist. "Sounds good."

She's not sure how to broach the subject with either Will or Mac, so it comes out spontaneously and fairly predictably: While she's at Hang Chew's with Mac waiting for Don to finish Elliot's show and listening to Kenzie bitch about Will and she's trying to get a word in, she finally yells, "Kenzie!"

"I'm just saying, he's the most pigheaded—"

"—I think I'm dating Don—"

"— man possibly who has ever — whatthefuck did you just say?"

"I think I'm dating Don?"

"What do you mean?"

"I … just think I am."

"Sloan, he knows you think you're dating him, right? Because it kind of sounds like he doesn't know."

"No, he knows," she smiles. "It started about … three weeks ago. We're keeping it … quiet for a bit though."

"Thank god! I knew it was going to happen!"

She tells Will at the ACN holiday party, where she and Don are there not-together but not-not-together. "You know how we've got the little sister-big brother dynamic going on?" she asks as she and Will hide in his office. The party is as predictably terrible as she expected.

"I didn't know that."

"Well, we do. You're the all-knowing gruff-but-teddy-bearish older brother, and I'm the wisecracking, precociously intelligent younger sister. And you know in the old movies, the big brother always kicks the ass of the little sister's boyfriend?"

"Is this about you dating Don?"

"What?"

"Is this about you dating Don?"

"Yes, but how did you know that?" Kenzie had been sworn to secrecy.

"Because I have eyes, Sloan," he says. "Would you like me to kick Don's ass?"

"No, I would actually like you to not kick his ass."

"Good. I didn't want to kick his ass either."

"He's a good guy."

"I know, Sloan," he studies her. "Are you happy?"

"I … Yeah," she smiles. "Yeah."

"Good," he says, nodding to the party. Kenzie is gesticulating, clearly trying to find them. "We should get back out there. MacKenzie is going to go all … Mac very shortly."

"Sounds good," she says.

"I will kick his ass, you know. If you need me to."

"I think I can handle it, but thanks, bro."

She feels strangely light as she grabs a beer and sidles up to Don, who was talking to Tess, who peels off fairly quickly. "So I talked to Will," she says casually. "He offered to kick your ass for me."

He laughs and steps toward her, then steps back. She raises an eyebrow. "I really wanted to kiss you just then."

"Ten more minutes and let's get out of here?"

"So sold," he breathes.

They spend four of the next seven nights together and the others texting and talking. On Friday he takes her out on their second real date, this time to dinner and a play she'd mentioned wanting to see three weeks earlier. He surprises her next by taking her to a hotel afterwards, since it's Christmas, and all. They exchange gifts that night by the room's fireplace, since she has a flight to San Francisco the next morning and he's driving down to his mom's in Philadelphia. She'd gotten him a camera, had asked the tech guys for advice on brands. He's enthralled by it, immediately starts snapping photos of her as she unwraps her gift, a simple, chic gold bar necklace. She examines the photo in the viewfinder a second later — she's surprised by how happy she looks, and kisses him deeply.

She's got a 8 a.m. flight out of LaGuardia the next morning, and has packed exactly nothing, since she assumed they were going back to her place. The alarm goes off at 5 a.m. and she groans, throwing her hand over her eyes. Don starts to shuffle awake and she presses him back. "You should get sleep. I'll see you on Wednesday when I'm back, alright?"

"Nope, I'm coming with you to your apartment. Then I'm coming back and sleeping," he says, strangely coherent despite having slept for four hours.

She drifts off twice in the cab, and Don has to keep prodding her to stay awake as she throws clothes into her suitcase. Finally, though, it's 6:30 and she has to get in the cab or she'll miss her flight. He walks her down the street, hails the cab, keeps her upright as they wait. "I love you," she says gratefully as he begins to shuffle her into the car.

Her words jolt her awake though. "Wait," she says. "I take that back."

"You take it back?" he says, amused but with slightly terrified eyes.

"Yes. It slipped out. I am tired, and you are warm, and wonderful, and thank you, and it slipped out. So I take it back."

"They're words. You can't unsay them," she can't tell if he's more amused than terrified, but at least he's not angry.

"I gave you the first date thing," she points out. "Please?"

He smiles. "Fine. Have a safe flight. Text me when you take off, alright?"

She kisses him as the cabbie honks. "Drive safely. I'll see you Wednesday, alright?"

She's still stunned by what she said as the taxi trundles toward the airport and she watches his shape get smaller in the rearview. It's early in the morning, and she's beyond massively tired, but as she touches the necklace, she wonders if there was more truth than not to her words.