Update! This one's a bit shorter than the last one :) I'd love to hear what y'all think — I know the last one was super long, but I hope these aren't getting irritating or too trite/cute or too much or whatever.

June

Don's surreptitiously stabbing himself in the thigh with a pen during a ratings meeting when he notices an email from Sloan on his laptop. So jealous of them! He clicks.

It's photos from her parents' recent vacation. They're at a resort, on a beach, in a hammock, toasting over a dinner — it looks gorgeous. And restful. And like the opposite of this hellacious meeting. He notices she's online, and double-clicks her name to open a chat box.

That looks amazing. Where are they?

Costa Rica.

God. I would give a pinky finger to be there and not here right now.

Just a pinky?

Well. The others are a little more useful.

Ha. Say the word, and I'm down for a beach vacation.

Let's do it.

Are you serious? We have work — remember that thing?

Yes. Dead serious.

He's now amped up. This is perfect. Work has been crazy since they started dating, and now that the stupid Genoa nonsense is buried under the sand and the primaries are over, there is suddenly time. They've met parents, so a vacation seems is a breeze. They can do this.

We have plenty of vacation before the election. Fourth of July week. Let's do it.

I don't know …

He finds the resort online and clicks through to check availability. Yessss.

They have rooms. And oh my god. Sloan. Look at this. He sends her a photo of the grilled fish at the restaurant.

You know what buttons to push. Let's do it. OK.

Really?

Yeah. Costa Rica! You should talk to Charlie first though.

Sure. I will absolutely do that.

Tickets and rooms are booked by the time the meeting is finished.

Charlie's not exactly thrilled when Don fills him in, but signs off on it. "You know, I liked the dating-in-secret phase of your relationship a lot better."

"And if you learned to knock you might be back in those blissful days."

"Would have come out sooner or later," Charlie grumbles. "You're both too happy." Don smiles. He is a lot happier these days.

"We're good to go," he tells Sloan later right after her show.

She perks up as she walks off the hot studio. "Really? For real?"

"Charlie signed off. Brianna will be covering for you."

"We should book before he changes his mind."

"Yeah, about that..." He says as he opens the door to her office. "Already done."

"You booked before talking to Charlie?" He shrugs and she laughs. "You're sneaky. I like it." She kisses him. "Now shoo. I have a lot of shopping to do."

"Move in with me?" he asks as he leaves.

"Not till you upgrade your closets to fit all my new clothes," she singsongs.

He puts up with a fair bit of whining from Elliot about the unexpected trip, and has to beg Mac a little bit to loan him Jim for the week of vacation. Once she gives him Jim, Mac does a "dance of joy and glee" (her wording) about the "big step" they're taking, which makes him roll his eyes — they're basically living together, they're clear on their next steps, and vacation is just an excuse to have sex at 11 am on a weekday. When he explains that, though, Mac looks at him like he's clueless. "You think meeting her parents is a bigger deal than spending nine days together with just each other, don't you?"

"Of course it is," he says.

Mac just laughs. "More important, maybe, but trust me, this is harder."

"Sloan and I talk all the time."

Mac just laughs and walks away, leaving him with an uneasy feeling.

But soon they're packed, and Sloan has made reservations for dinner and ziplining (he's skeptical but he'll try it) and snorkeling and volcano hiking and a couple's massage and a cooking class (which is extra-hilarious given that he can at least saute a pork chop while she has trouble boiling water), and they're all set to take a taxi after Sloan's four o'clock.

Until they get the call that their connecting flight from Miami to San Jose has been delayed due to a tropical storm in the Caribbean.

"So what? Let's just get down to Miami and then we'll get a flight," Sloan says sensibly as she monitors stocks one last time. "Look at how well Xerox is doing! Hello, lover, I want so much more of you," she intones in a deep voice.

"Flying to Miami and waiting for a flight is just tempting to wrath of the god high atop the thing," he argues back, ignoring her burgeoning relationship with an inanimate stock.

"It's delayed for two hours. We'll get a margarita in the terminal and wait. It's fine. You need to chill."

"If we spend the first night of our vacation sleeping in chairs in Miami International because we didn't rebook, you are only wearing bikinis for the next week."

She smirks. "Those are the only circumstances in which I can wear a bikini for the next week straight?"

His mouth goes dry. "Well, not the only one."

"Good answer."

He's waiting for her, bags in hand, as she wraps up her show, and despite Jim following them out the door so that Don can continue to give him orders for the show, they're en route to La Guardia by 4:37. Sloan changes into jeans and a navy T-shirt at the airport, and spends the entire flight sleeping on his shoulder. He manages to relax enough to read part of The Passage of Power.

Once they land, though, rain is slashing against the terminal windows. His phone buzzes to let him know the flight has gone from delayed to canceled, though American has thoughtfully rebooked them on a flight leaving at five P.M. the next day.

"Seriously?" He groans, smacking the iPhone against his forehead.

"Let's go talk to the counter," Sloan yawns. "Maybe there's something going out tonight that we can upgrade to. And you have miles, right?"

"Sure if there are flights," he says. "It's already nine and our flight was leaving at 9:30."

"Well, a six A.M. would get us in eleven hours before the one they've put us on, so we do have options." She stops as she stares at the rebooking line.

"Great. It'll be you and me and the rest of humanity for the next two hours. Do you still have that neck pillow packed because we're going to need it?" he asks. He's tired, and he just wants to be on the beach, and he can feel his temper creeping in.

"It'll be fine," Sloan says, patting his bicep. "Come on. Adventure!" She extends her hand for him, and he threads her fingers through him before kissing her knuckles.

Forty-five minutes later, they're still in line, but at least Right Now is on to distract him. Jim's doing an OK job, but he's telling Elliot to be more combative than is good for Elliot, and is keeping him too long in segments. Don doesn't even notice he's yelling at the TV until he's pulling out his phone to call Jim during a commercial break and Sloan grabs it from his hands. "You need to chill out," she says point-blank. "You're being all angry and persnickety and it's Day One of our vacation and Don, I swear to god I will kill you in our sleep by Tuesday if this continues."

"I'm not being persnickety!" he protests.

"Don, everyone in this line now knows what the hell you do for a living since you've been shouting, 'Go to break' and '30 seconds too long!' and 'What the hell are you doing!' at the TV for the last twenty minutes."

"I have not!"

"Excuse me, ma'am," Sloan says to the woman in front of them. "Hi, sorry. Has my boyfriend been disturbing you at all?"

"I wouldn't say disturbing, but you're definitely quite animated. Do you work with Elliot Hirsch?" She's tiny and older and looks like the type of person who would have a pet in her purse.

"I'm his executive producer, yes," he says, momentarily chastened.

"This is his first time taking a vacation since he started the job in 2009, and he's not very good at it. Thanks, though, and I apologize for him," Sloan smiles.

"No worries. Elliot's a cutie, you can tell him that. You look familiar, are you on TV too?"

"Only when I can't help it," Sloan smiles, then turns back to Don. "You need to go sit in the terminal. Away from me. And not by any other humans you might aggravate with the crazy and the shouting."

"I'm fine," he insists.

"Don."

"I'm serious! I'm … calm. I am Zen."

She gives him a doubtful look, then says, "You know what? Whatever. I am on vacation and enjoying myself, and you are not going to ruin that."

"I won't, because I am calm and Zen." Sloan just side-eyes him and pulls out her Blackberry for the wait.

"Move in with me?" he asks to lighten the mood.

She just laughs before pecking his cheek. "Only if you can get through this rebooking without completely losing it on the airline rep."

Needless to say, he doesn't win that one.

"He was combative," Don grouses as they settle into a row of seats. They'd managed to get a flight out at 5, which would get them into San Jose at 8, and Sloan's called the hotel to let them know of the change of plans.

"No, Don, he wasn't, you were," Sloan says, rooting around in her carry-on. "And it wasn't, you know …"

"What?"

"Nice. It wasn't nice! What the hell could he have done, Don? Stopped the rainstorm in Haiti? What the hell did you gain in that situation by telling him that you understood where Alec Baldwin was coming from? He's not a combative source, he's an underpaid airline rep who has to deal with people like you all day."

"He's definitely not underpaid; he's got pretty awesome union benefits," Don retorts.

"This is what I'm talking about!" she says. She finds her facewash and contact solution in her bag and stands. "You needed to let out some steam so you took it out on that poor guy. It was completely unnecessary. I don't want to hate you by the end of this vacation, OK? I'll be right back."

"Why would you hate me by the end of this vacation?" he asks blankly.

"Are you joking? Don, we've never spent this much time alone."

"We spend time alone all the time," he protests. "We work together, we basically live together, we're more together than any couple that isn't in high school."

"We spend two hours, tops, alone and awake every day. Most days it's closer 45 minutes and that includes meals. We're four hours into this vacation and I already want to kill you, because you've been nothing but a level-one asshat for the past two hours."

"Is this a thing? The first vacation?"

"Yes! Of course it's a thing!" she stares at him like he has three heads. "How have you gotten to thirty-four without realizing that traveling together is a thing?"

"OK, OK, I'm sorry, Sloan. I guess … I just want to be on a beach," he says, wondering if she's right and there's a high chance they'll drive each other nuts.

"So do I, but there's no way getting snippy with the airline rep or with an imaginary Jim is going to help that." She hesitates, then leans down to kiss him. "I'm going to the bathroom. I'll be back in ten."

By the time she's back, he's at least found a blanket for her in one of their bags. She smiles, then drapes it over both of them. "Tomorrow night, we're not-sleeping with a beachfront view," she promises sleepily, adjusting her hipster glasses and curling into his side. "Also, I'm not wearing a bra, if you want to feel me up," she whispers into his ear.

He laughs, then drops a kiss on her temple. "This is a great vacation already," he says, sneaking a hand up her shirt under the blanket and swiping the underside of her breast. "I really am sorry for yelling earlier."

"Just don't be surly," she mutters with a smirk.

They're in San Jose by 8, and it's already a sticky-warm day. After going through customs they hop a quick commuter flight to the Islita Airstrip. He's pretty sure the plane is staying in the air due to duct tape and a prayer, but whatever, it gets them there and Sloan stays busy pointing out how green everything below them is. It's true; the entire place is lush and remote and perfect. The hotel picks them up at the airport and they are finally, mercifully, in their room by 11.

"So I'm thinking we nap until the surfing lesson at three?" he asks, flopping onto the bed. God this is heavenly.

"Or we could not," Sloan suggests, emerging from the bathroom and taking off her shirt.

"Or we could not," he says, leaning on his elbows, suddenly awake again. She smiles as she straddles him.

They stay busy with the cooking and the kayaking and the couple's massages for the first few days. There's always plenty to talk about — I think that monkey has it in for me; Try this sauce and see if I burned it; Is that native dancer an emblem of cultural appropriation?; What are the odds that this volcano becomes non-dormant and we die?; I read an article that about a guy who fell off a zipline and died; why are you constantly so concerned we're about to die? — but he sees Mac and Sloan's points about it being the most time they've spent together. There's twenty little spats about how long it takes for her to do her hair or whether or not he's oversharing with the other couple on the canopy tour. She loves going to the beach but hates getting sand or salt water anywhere; he's pretty damn sure whatever bug repellent she bought doesn't work on him, and all of those things lead to arguments. They're both terrible at unplugging even though they made a pact not to touch their phones, and they're both edgy the first few days as they detox. And when they get on each other's nerves there's nowhere to go to and nobody else to vent to. It's a bit Sartre-ian in its limitations.

But while maneuvering around each other, emotionally and physically, in such tight quarters is new, he finds that he doesn't mind it. In fact, he kind of … likes it. Even though her hair crap and makeup are all over the bathroom and she rearranged the way he'd organized his clothes, he likes it. For a guy that paid half his salary in rent rather than have a roommate throughout his twenties, he considers this progress. By Tuesday, he's packing three extra bottles of water for the pool for her as a matter of course, and she's happily ignoring his kvetching at the couple's massage. And he's finding himself a hell of a lot less irritated than he normally would be with the idea of a couple's massage.

Thursday he returns from the resort's fitness center to find her lounging by the pool in a hammock. She's in one of the eight maxi dresses she packed, and a swimsuit knot is visible at the nape of her neck. Her hair is long and wet around her shoulders. There's a book in her hand, and her sunglasses are perched on the bridge of her nose. "Hey," she says, tipping the mod white sunglasses down. "Join me?"

"Let me shower first," he says.

"Who cares?" she pouts. "Just come sit with me."

He sits carefully to ensure he doesn't tip over the entire operation. "Whatcha reading?" he asks as he slides in behind her.

"Gone Girl," she says. "It's excellent; you should borrow it when I'm done. But for now, be quiet. There are a bunch of magazines in my bag — I think I have the latest issue of the Economist in there."

"Shocking," he says. But getting out of the hammock would require seriously artisanal maneuvering, and he's not up for that. Instead he just sits there, idly scanning some of the pages but mostly just happy as hell to be on a beach, with Sloan. He memorizes her features until she swats irritably at his face. "What?" he laughs.

"Why are you staring at me?"

"Nothing … I just realized that I have nothing else to talk to you about right now."

"Great. Can I read in peace?"

"Of course."

"Without you staring?"

"Nope," he says. "I have nothing I want to talk to you about. I just want to be here, in this hammock, and sit here as you read."

"Why are you so happy we ran out of things to talk about?"

"Because it gives me hope that when we're eighty-four and eighty-two and we've covered every conversation topic under the sun we can just sit in our Adirondacks and watch the fireflies."

"I thought we were living on a beach in Florida and I was ranting about the economy?"

"We can do both. We'll be snowbirds."

"I don't think it bodes well if we ran out of stuff to talk about already."

"We still have plenty of stuff to talk about."

"Like what?"

He shrugs. "Do you believe in God?"

She laughs, slightly shocked. "Going straight for the jugular, are you?"

"Something we've never discussed."

She considers the question before answering. "I … wasn't raised to be religious and I've never tried being spiritual, though I think … I'd like to be. I don't know. I do think there's a larger order to … everything, that we don't quite understand and probably never will. And I believe in paying it forward and using your gifts to serve others. And in using your time well. You?"

He shrugs and waits a few beats. "In my way, I guess. We went to Sunday School every week when I was growing up. Organized religion I always found sort of hypocritical, though the rituals could be comforting. But mostly I think you you owe it to others to work to create a more just world, since it mostly sucks. I try to be, you know … compassionate, and patient, but the patience thing never works and compassion sometimes gets lost too. But hey, isn't religion about being accepted for your flaws as long as you promise to try again?"

"Would you want to send kids to Sunday School?"

He shrugs. "I don't think it would be necessary. But maybe taking them to volunteer on Sunday mornings. Like at a soup kitchen. Something like that. I think … they would have so much … money, and things, and opportunities, and it would be important to raise them with gratitude and grace."

"Agreed," she says, burrowing down into his shoulder. "I like that we've run out of things to talk about."

"What do you think happens when you die?"

"Christ!" she says with a laugh that rocks the hammock. "You're deep and philosophical today, aren't you?"

He shrugs. "It's one of those things that's always bugged me."

"As a straight-A know-it-all who doesn't like to take things on faith? I'm so surprised," she teases. Then she says, "I don't know. I'm not … bothered by it, I think it's because it's so inevitable, you know? There's almost some ... comfort in how faceless and unimportant you are when it comes to dying. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I think you … live on, based on the life that you lived. If you lived a full life, where you were kind to your neighbors and brought your children up admirably and treated your siblings and friends nicely? You live on through their actions, and through their memory of you. The better and wider your life, the longer you live on. If you have children, you literally live on eternally. Your DNA is carried into each successive generation. I think that's … neat. I think that's neat, that we all have that chance."

"No heaven? No harps on a cloud?"

"You think I would believe in that? Do you?"

"I don't know. Dying used to scare the shit out of me, but now I think by the time you're eighty or eighty-five or ninety, you're probably pretty tired. You've done everything you could possibly do. I do think there's some relationships that maybe transcend death. A soul is basically intangible — there's no organ, no one part of the brain that controls it — so I kind of think that, when you die, it just could just change form. Like how ice becomes water becomes vapor."

She smiles. "That's poetic. But what about if you died young? What about those relationships?"

He sees the leap she's taken. "Are you asking if I would give you permission to …"

"Remarry? Yes. If that's where we're…"

"We've said we were."

"Right. So yes, remarry." It's still so new and fragile.

He considers. "Sloan, the most important thing for me is that you're happy. I mean that, cheesy as it sounds. And I think I get you, most of the time —"

"Just on Fridays and every other Tuesday," she cracks.

"Thanks, smartass. Anyways, I would understand, if I were, you know, on my cloud eating chocolate cake and sushi, why would you move on. I wouldn't want you sitting around being sad, and I don't think that would be productive. And if he — or she, I'm open-minded — would make you happy, I'd be OK with that."

She smiles. "OK," she flips the book back open.

"Hey."

"Hey what?"

"Hey what do you think would happen if you died young?"

She looks at him. "If you wanted to remarry, I would definitely be OK with that. I think it would be good for you."

"But?"

"But I don't see you doing it. Not that I think you shouldn't," she emphasizes. "Especially if … we had kids, and you were raising them alone, I would want you to try and find someone. I think you should. I don't think you will. But I think you should."

"Hey. I would totally find some rich, hot Park Avenue divorcee, just so you know."

She laughs. "This is exactly what I mean. I think you should find that hot Park Avenue divorcee. I just … I don't want you to be lonely, OK? You make yourself lonely sometimes, and that's what I would not want to happen — you walling yourself up or killing yourself with work." she thumbs his face. "OK?"

He knows she's right and that's exactly what would happen. So he goes for levity. "Sloan Sabbith, if you die, I promise to find the hottest, richest divorcee on Park Avenue, and then use her alimony from her first marriage to construct a statue of you on Columbia's campus," he pecks her lips. "Deal?"

She smiles, then picks up her book again. "Deal. Can we got back to having run out of things to talk about?"

"Move in with me?"

"That's a whole nother conversation, and we've been done with talking twice," she laughs and kisses him deeply, and he fells asleep with his arm around her waist.

They're leaving Saturday morning to take the puddle-jumper to the plane to the other plane, so he takes her out for a fancy dinner in the main dining room Friday night. There's tamales and fruit salad and ceviche and fish that was alive two hours ago. They will never get food this fresh in New York City. After a dessert of dulce de leche they go for a walk on the beach and her hair gets tangled in the wind and his pants get soaked when they try and walk in the surf, and pretty soon it starts to rain, because the weather in Central America apparently sucks. "Oh, my god, this is such a cliche!" she yells as they hike up the beach back to the resort. It's not pretty rain: It's the type of rain that pounds so hard it pricks your skin when it lands, heavily, on your arm.

"Move in with me?" he yells as he rubs the water out of his eyes. He's totally joking, which she gets.

"You're a cliche now, too!" she laughs. "God, that was corny. You usually do better than that." She tries to squeeze the water out of his curls, and something inside him shifts as they laugh and try and dry each other off. It fails, so they naturally end up in the shower before haphazardly falling asleep.

Sloan has a pathological inability to oversleep, so they're in no danger of missing the flight the next morning. They make it back to San Jose, and are back in Miami three hours later. Sloan buries her head in his shoulder with a groan. "Well, that was relaxing. Turn them back on on three?" she asks as they clutch their phones.

"One…"

"Two…"

"Ugh, 2,954," he says as his email begins to populate. He starts to scroll through. This is grim.

"Hey! You were supposed to say three!"

"I thought we turned them on on three. Not say three, then turn them on."

"This is why people think you cheat at rock, paper, scissors."

"Those people are sore losers," he rebuts.

"3,116," she says gleefully. "Ha! I win."

"You know what? I will give you this crown," he says. "Look: News release from the Liberty Alliance that Independence Day celebrates American freedom, which Obama doesn't believe in."

She laughs. "Miss Sabbith: I would like to talk to you about your shoes. I like that they are so pointy and shiny. I would like to borrow them some day. Love your friend Drew." She sighs as she deletes the email. "That was a good vacation."

"You really thought it might not be?" He can't help the plaintive tone.

She shrugs and picks at his jacket. "I don't know. It's just … a remote beach with no internet access and no other activities, no other people to interact with? Sharing space? We didn't pick an easy first vacation alone."

"Only if you're emphasizing the 'first vacation' as a thing."

"It is, and you know that now." He does. "We could've gotten bored."

"With you? Nope," he kisses her lightly. "Impossible."

"Charmer," she accuses.

"Charming enough to move in with me?" he asks hopefully. He realizes that he should probably get a ring soon. They're getting closer, more ready, and he needs to be prepared. Maybe Elliot could help. No, Elliot would mock.

"Let's get back to reality first," she says firmly. "You ready?"

He nods, taking her bag. "Always." It's a bit cheesy and definitely not true, but she frequently makes him feel like it is — and that's the point, isn't it?