Taken from a photo prompt, which can be found at castleincalifornia dot tumblr dot com slash post slash 111034263364 (photo is mildly NSFW).

Kate Beckett was a creature of habit.

She had a well-established ritual after she wrapped every case: box up the evidence. File the paperwork. Go home. Skip dinner. Pour a glass of red wine. Pick a book from her collection. Run a very hot bath. Take the glass of wine and book into said bath. Soak until transformed into a prune. Dry off. Go to bed. Sleep like the dead.

For years, it had been her tradition, and it brought her a certain measure of comfort. Her routine was reliable, predictable. It helped to effectively place her life back in order, to quiet the chaos that accompanied every murder. She calmly re-centered herself each time so she could return to her job the next day, steeling her psyche for the next homicide that came her way. And it had always worked for her.

Until Richard Castle came into her life, that is.

It's not like he disrupted her habits right away. No, in the beginning, it was easy enough to walk away after they had solved their latest case, and she would only spare him a thought if the book she brought into her bath was one of his. He was just an acquaintance. A work colleague. An annoying insect that she could shoo away with a wave of her hand. She could leave him and his shenanigans at the precinct after a long day and never look back.

But then he wrote a book about a detective with a stripper name, a book based on her, and for the first time ever, he interfered with her ritual. He came home with her, was in the bath with her, kept yapping incessantly in her ear. He wasn't actually there, of course, but why was he still in her head? That night, she promised to never bring Nikki into the tub with her ever again (a pledge that lasted all of three days).

He took a more direct approach to interfering with her routine after that. C'mon Beckett. Have a drink with me, my treat. How many times and how many ways could she say no thank you? He was determined though, she'd give him that much. He'd asked at least two dozen times before she finally said yes, fine, one drink in an effort to humor him, reasoning that her acquiescence just this once would convince him to back off. How very wrong she was.

More and more, they'd go out for that drink after wrapping a case. Sometimes, he even talked her into getting dinner with him. Dinner, for heaven's sake! Dinner was not part of the ritual. Didn't he realize what he was doing, how disruptive this was? Every time, she vowed to gently turn him down the next time he asked, and every time, she made a liar out of herself and accepted his invitation.

Before long, she found herself sharing things with him, telling him stories from her childhood or her early years on the force. Every now and then, usually after a particularly rough case, she'd talk about her mom. He listened with rapt attention each time, his blue eyes focused intently on her, laughing at the humorous stories and commiserating over the sad ones. And he shared his own life, too; his disrupted youth, his travels, his writing, his daughter. It was easy and fun and somewhere along the way, this became her ritual.

There were long stretches when they didn't drink together. He spent a summer in the Hamptons (with his ex-wife, no less). She spent a summer recovering from a gunshot wound at her dad's cabin (and steadfastly ignoring her phone). But they always found their way back, resuming their partnership and their routine of sharing a post-solve drink each time. She was loath to admit it, but she had missed it, had missed him, and her old customs, the ones she had clung to so desperately? She hadn't missed those at all.

On a stormy night in May, she had a long-overdue epiphany: what she was doing didn't work anymore. She didn't work anymore, not without him. Her habits had only ever served to isolate her, leaving her forever lonely, always on the outside looking in, and by God, she wanted in. She was done with the flimsy excuses and weak rationalizations. She wanted to live. So, she did the only thing that made sense at that moment: she went to him and told him the truth.

I just want you.

They decided new rituals were in order after that night, ones they created together. She continued to solve cases with him, their partnership stronger than ever, but now when she wrapped a case, she went about things a little differently: box up the evidence. File the paperwork. Go home. Order in from their favorite Chinese place. Pour two glasses of red wine. Undress her favorite author. Run a very hot bath. Take the glasses of wine and naked author into said bath. Soak and talk and laugh until transformed into prunes. Dry off. Go to bed. Make love. Fall asleep in his arms.

Be happy.

Thank you for reading...as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.