What is he doing? Grows increasingly wary. Water clings to hair, glues fabric to skin; trickles and dances, fills the air with its murmur and carries the sun's brilliance across its ripples. Beneath awaits the yawning chasm much too familiar—much too real and intimate. Scarcely a few minutes prior, he'd been suspended within its boundless currents—up only discernible from below through glimmers of fractured light—and felt something respond within, moving through his body in waves of pins and needles. Stirred, he believes, by legs kicking against the deep's pull, caught in a sinking run back towards the surface, home-bound for another world. He felt, caught in such a tiny pocket of its vast expanse, smaller and… And he felt, at the sight of her, floating before him, blossom-coloured hair undulating within the surrounding blue, a twinge of something undoubtedly human. For a thoughtless beat he'd considered remaining there. In the private deep where water-swept hair beckoned him ever closer, closer where he knew the warmth of another steeped the smothering cold—convinced perhaps solitude isn't so bad a thing if saturated by her presence.

It hasn't left him, drips and trickles and sticks to his skin and hair and thoughts. Drips still and louder when the sun's brightness ceases to sting and he sees—sees and blames the water for its distorting of all it reflects. Surely this isn't him, has to be some ill-shaped, half-formed delusion brought on by unfamiliar licks of waves and something beyond his understanding. What is he doing? No water can cleanse the shame staining his cheeks, nor cool the heat creeping up his neck. Barely is he able to avert his eyes and return them to the pool of blue, rippling its watery laughter at him; chuckles expressed in the break of waves hitting their small vessel. This isn't him. This isn't. This. This is overwhelming—is sinking all over again, pulled down by a new deep; the gravitational pull of drips. Drip, drip, down dampened lashes, rosy lips, pale chin. Drip, all the way down to... What is he doing? What is he? This, he thinks, is drowning. Must be drowning despite the lack of water to gorge his lungs. Barely registers her own lilting laughter following a surprised: "Oh god."

Oh god, he thinks, and breathes a deep breath. Moves before the dripping creep of time can convince him otherwise, separates fabric from skin and welcomes the following cool. Pins and needles settle into his limbs, announce the quickening rush of blood, racing heart—unfamiliar and undoubtedly terrifying. "Here," he says, breathes another breath as he holds out his shirt, waits for her to take it and relieve him of whatever this—this fizzling rush, tense muscles and aching veins—is. Part of him balks against the offering, its newfound presence pebbling every restraining thought and watering them down and down deeper—all the way to the touch of her fingertips as she takes his shirt from him, thanks him softly, drags him further down until all he knows is wordless demand and breathes quicker with lungs wishing for nothing more than to keep drowning.

"There," she clears her throat, "better?"

How could it be? When the air between them pains, leaves room for that aching emptiness to nestle, digging deeper still. He's in trouble. Knows it from the way his fingers itch, mouth dries and stomach curls. Bites down on his tongue, eyes sweeping her form in careful consideration, daring himself to confront the clawing roar of whatever primal inclination vies for his submission. His skin runs hot despite the discreet shroud offered by his shirt, obscuring previously clung-to curves he wishes didn't have their sudden effect. Breathes an embarrassingly short breath of dry air, stifled by the forceful orbit of her presence.

"Almost." It's the water. Has to be. Each purl and lap timed to the slam of his heart, declaring its one-sided combat towards his bystander ribs. Almost, inaudible gnaw of teeth, quaking lungs. Water makes him slick against her skin, fingers gliding along her glistening cheeks and- Feels his lips part to allow another shallow breath, allow his shivering limbs to steady- What is he doing? What is he-! The waves churn in their insatiable sinking of all daring enough to brave them, churn in tandem to his own rush of ringing blood, hissing and purring and- And his waterlogged mind registers in vivid detail the wet slip of her skin, cool touch of damp lashes- He'd offer her anything in that brief, sun-washed moment. Flecks of light catch in her perfectly green eyes, like hungry leaves eager to clasp onto every golden ray, turning sustenance into an unbidden work of art; the smudges of make-up clean easily off her skin, reveal petal-pink lashes to bud along her lids, flowering around the center of her gaze—focused entirely on him, following his every movement with unbridled curiosity.

He'd give her everything and more in exchange for the thicket of her gaze to never cease its acknowledgment of his existence. That's exactly where the problem lies, why coming here was a bad idea—reminds himself she's Sakura, and he… Smiles, washing the remnants of make-up off his fingers. "Better," he says, cleansing his consciousness of its momentary turmoil. Tries to pretend nothing's changed since breaking the surface and awakening to the static song of her presence, decidedly attempting to ignore it along with the soft drip, drip of drops.

It doesn't leave him, never evaporates as does the water off his skin. These feelings remain, a constant susurrus at the back of his mind, influencing his every thought. It's her who makes it impossible to forget, her and her unwitting challenging of his restraint. He knows she doesn't intend to, her innocence clear in the genuine surprise at his stammering—still continuously manages to short-circuit his judgement. So what if he's overly-eager to please? They're friends and there's nothing wrong in doing your friends a favour—never mind his own desperate yearning for her approval.

"You can do the most amazing things, Gaara," she grins, touching her cheek. It's all he wants to hear her say, all that matters to his gratification-hungry mind. It's the first time she's ever- And for something so effortless too.

"You think so?" he asks to distract himself, recognises the looming threat for what it is—dangerously close to wishful thinking and…

"Absolutely. I'm jealous." She says it without hesitation, lathers him in the warmth of her adoration and returns him right back to-

"Don't be." It'll never be enough. The more he's given the more he wants. Her gaze burns through him, melts him into something delicate and yearning. He's a fool for caving beneath the impact of her acknowledgment, reaching after the immediate retreat of her words; too transient to sustain the flicker of warmth between his ribs. It'll never be enough, he thinks as he presses his palms to the sand.

"Why not?"

Doesn't she realise the power she holds over him? The likes of which he first nearly bowed to all those years ago, long before he'd get to memorise the elegant planes of her face. Truth is she's always been a distraction, aware he'd already mapped every line and scar uniquely hers—does 'interest' even begin to explain it? "You have too many talents to be jealous of anyone else's." When he finds it, he can't quite contain his smile, a novel kind of excitement curving his lips. With the softest of pulls, he feels the ground sift beneath his fingertips, senses its acute response to his bidding and relishes the control.

"What are you doing?" Mistake or not, the multicoloured range of emotion flitting across her features might just be worth it—might just be enough to convince him of the validity of his indulgence. Surely such a thing couldn't be wrong… "Gaara!" she gasps, a hand shooting to cover her mouth. "Is that gold?" The swell of his heart drowns out the nagging voice of reason, fills his body with its triumphant song. Her wide-eyed wonder works its magic, adds fuel to his newfound fire; pooling inside him with renewed energy. It's not enough. Barely scratches the surface of her joy. He calls the gold-dust to his palm, thinking she deserves more and- He wants… Wants- Carefully moulds his chakra, creates something just for her and reveals it with bated breath. It's priceless; the brimming wonder filling her gaze as he opens his palm—searching as if unsure the newly made pendant he offers is real. It's obvious she doesn't realise he'd just as soon sculpt his own bones to please her. Anything to light the sparks in her eyes. Anything for her to continue looking his way.

"I could kiss you right now." She accepts the golden blossom, stares at it in wonder.

Something tips inside, spills a smouldering bluster he wasn't aware he possessed—at least never allowed himself to consider. They're back on that boat again, drenched in something he doubts he can control; in over his head and out of his mind. If she did, would it finally be enough? His own hands answer him with their shaking plea for occupation—prudently weaves them together to hide their restlessness—mouth dry from the blistering heat of his blood. "Please don't." There'll be no returning to ignorance. No saying how- But she doesn't mean it, does she? Couldn't possibly. Kisses, he thinks, tend to be shared with… With… who exactly? Doesn't quite understand why or how. What does it even mean? Why does the thought prompt the response it does? He thinks he wants her to, deep inside, even if he doesn't know why—and then what? Her tentative gaze searches him, smile faltering at his sudden remark, and… She didn't mean it, did she? "There'll be sand," he jokingly adds, earning a gentle titter, easing the tension he hadn't realised had built.

Unexpected lips brush his cheek then, soft and warm, there and gone in a heartbeat. It's more than he'd anticipated; unspools his very thoughts and drops them down the pit of his stomach. He likes it—likes the weightless flip of his insides. Even more so he likes feeling worthy—wouldn't mind being kissed by her all day. It lingers, her lips a lasting impression upon his skin, tempting him to trail his fingertips along its outline. Almost as if to check it truly happened.

"There," she says, "that wasn't too bad, was it?"

It wasn't—not all he'd feared. The sweeping undertow of craving has simmered down to a pleasant warmth, somehow calmed by her. He's keenly aware of the sand stuck to his fingers, the cool tickle of grass against his leg; both permeating the air with their earthy scent. Physically feels the space between them, the warm summer breeze embracing his exposed back. "You're ruining me," he admits—doubts her help will have been of any use now; she fills his dreams, awake and asleep. Isn't sure which is worse. Leafy shadows dot the ground, her blossom-coloured hair, his wanting hands. He's bordering greedy, grows more demanding and bold with every favour she bestows. None of this is normal for a fractional thing like him, he reminds himself—none of this awaits him at home.

"And you me! You can't go around giving gold to girls—especially not shirtless," she snorts playfully, her words an unintended punch to the gut.

He doesn't let his surprise show, only props an elbow against his knee, knuckles supporting his cheek to hide his spinning head. He allows her retort to settle, carefully digests its ease—doesn't want to think too much of how the cadence of her voice hides a note of unintended sincerity. It shouldn't catch his interest the way it does, raises his brows as he asks: "Why not?"

"Because-" she starts, mouth opening and closing as she falters, her own words seemingly catching up to her.

He knows he's neither tall nor muscular, admiration has always been directed at his abilities—the sand he wields and the power it contains—never has he felt particularly liked for the person he is. It's a silly thing to ask; to want to know if she does... It's vain and ultimately meaningless.

"I had no idea you could do that," she says instead, eyeing the golden pendant he made and evading the question. It's an easier conversation to be had, still doesn't miss the shy slant of her gaze, uncomfortable chewing of her lip, and decides it's probably for the better. Tomorrow he'll be home again. He'll likely end up forced to marry someone he doesn't know. None of these desires fit the person he's expected to be—none of this, he reminds himself, belongs to him. Still her kiss layers his skin not unlike his sand, continues to fuel the very thoughts and desires he so desperately tries to silence, his inner-conflict an unending drip, drip at the back of his mind.

Her fingers are warm where they skim along his brow, lightly brush his hair with undeniable care. Through the haze of sleep, he catches her moving shadow, recognises the scent of her skin as it passes. His gaze finds her, drinks in her moon-lit features. There's a new kind of pain in his heart, throbbing its dull ache at the soft smile she wears on her lips. He cannot make it rhyme in his head; this affection she shows. It's only been a few days—feels like a lifetime since arriving—yet so much has changed. Here, in the safety of her apartment, he feels more at home within himself than ever; mind and body at last composing a coherent mixture of thoughts, sensations and wants.

"Thank you," he says through the heavy pull of sleep, wants to say so much more but cannot bring his lips to form the words. He's been so tired for so very long; hanging on to life by the thin thread of duty. If she can bear to look at him the way she does—even after all he's done—then perhaps being him isn't all he's believed it to be. Knows it's the leaving behind which hurts.

"You'll have to do without me now."

He doesn't want to—doesn't want the newly remade concept of loneliness to swallow him. There's nothing to be done, has been here only on borrowed time. Time, which, for only a brief moment afloat in heavy waters, lost its meaning. Here, in the darkness of the room, everything sits cloaked in similar shades of blue—close enough to pretend, he thinks as she lowers herself, laying claim to the empty space at his side. He doesn't stop her despite knowing better, swiftly brushes off the last of his steadily dwindling objections. He'll pretend for tonight, he decides, gazing into her viridescent eyes. Her cheek nestles against his shoulder, slender hand splayed across his waning heart—her touch reviving the tell-tale thrum of his pulse. He'll pretend he fits into her life as she fits into his hold, his arm circling her back like he's wanted all along, bringing her closer—never quite close enough. Eyes slide shut, sleep slowly numbing both senses and inhibitions. He feels safe here, comfortably burrowed in their shared space. It's what fits into place the final piece of the puzzle, understanding starting to dawn.

"It's my mother," he feels the words slip, sharing with her the most intimate detail of his life, "she's in the sand." She deserves to know, even if it might complicate things. He can hardly pretend with her, not after the awakening of wants he never even knew he possessed.

"I'm glad she likes me," she responds, the pleasant vibration of her voice humming through him. He has to leave tomorrow, forced to take control of all she's exhumed. It won't be easy, doubts he'll ever be quite the same knowing what he now knows. To him, she's the most beautiful person, inside and out—wether she feels the same or not has no bearing on his beliefs, is irrelevant so long as she's able to smile. She does in that moment; the apples of her cheeks pressed against his shoulder, ensuring he feels a little better despite leaving.

"It's hard not to."

Blood warms his veins, dances through his limbs to the beat of his pulse. Each carries the weight of time, slipping past his grip; time eludes him, often scatters as if blown astray by the grain-filled gusts of a desert sandstorm. He's weathered many. Never cared for the sting of them—rather indulged in the discomfort if only to feel present. He's 20 now. Has lived 20 scarce years of barely-there moments. At some point he'd stopped asking for more, gave up on dreaming as much as he did on sleep itself. So much time to ponder, yet all of it wasted on self-sacrifice—only more so in the sea of years to come. Part of him wonders if her weight in his arms, the flutter of her pulse sheltered in his hold, somehow counts for filling his half-life, barely-there existence and makes him into something whole. It's tempting to think so—a different temptation hides in the jolt of her touch, warm and heady and consuming in its inescapable presence. 20 years and here he is, succumbing to the simple press of her skin to his.

The water still sings its distant hum to him, its liquid thrum hissing in his ears—oozing ideas into his sleep-deluded mind. Too close to dreaming to object whatever corporeal whim moves him to draw her closer, her own arms tightly wrapped around his waist and adding incentive—hazily wonders if he'd even need any at this point. Her lips graze the sensitive skin of his throat, blow across breath after hot breath, keeping him suspended between waking and slumber. Somewhere during the night she'd intertwined her legs with his, locking him into place, her hands clutching the fabric of his shirt and exposing his stomach. Too distracted to mind or ponder its cause, he only partially registers the sense of alarm attempting to grip his consciousness—wonders why giving in to the pounding demand of his blood was such a bad idea again? The sun filters through a nearby window, exposes his dwindling restraint, a new kind of pressure superseding the weight of sleep. There's nothing to excuse him now, no darkness to hide behind.

Maybe it's the hiding he's grown so tired of, arguably more deprived of human warmth than he'd been of sleep. They're here now, knew the inevitability of it all before subjecting themselves and- And so what if it feels entirely too good to run his fingers along the exposed skin of her back? Feels her breath quicken and her muscles arch in a way that only fuels the heat pounding through his veins. It's that newfound hum which goads him on and on, murmurs its suggestions straight into his limbs. She languidly presses up against him in a way he's never and- And there's a flash of something numbing yet entirely too- And it's the unfamiliarity of it which forces open his eyes, effectively shocks him awake. He freezes, blinks against the harsh morning light and registers the way she continues to hold onto him and- Knows enough to realise this isn't- Heart slams against his ribs, fills his ears with the rush of blood, feels its every pound in the tips of his fingers which- Immediately removes them from beneath her shirt, inadvertently skirting along her skin and drawing a long breath from her lungs, a low sound escaping her throat which-

She moves against him, pushes her legs closer, nuzzles deeper into the curve of his neck. Reason no longer seems feasible, whatever coherent thought he'd managed drowned out by the alarming realisation of just how little control he'd possessed and... Shame and fear burn him as they did only a day prior, remind him this isn't okay. Never will be. Won't ever forgive himself for hurting her again, or worse. Though she neither recoils nor rouses, he can still only assume he's—yet again—caused... What'd he do? Should have- Or perhaps, somehow- If only he'd left well enough alone. Holds breath, doesn't want to face whatever will follow the instant sense of regret. Would rather just forget about it all and pretend she'd never… Needs to end it right here. Perhaps it's for the best, reckons the pain at least feels almost comfortably familiar. It's time to go home anyway. Has plenty responsibilities to live up to as is, staying was never viable. Nor was being. Distance is better, always has been. Distance will soon silence these recurring doubts and poisonous whispers. There's hardly any water in the desert. Nothing to reflect whatever strange illusion was cast the moment the waves swallowed all that never could and spat out some malformed…

Either way, her safety matters most. Quietly slips from her embrace, takes care not to rouse her lest she'd make this any harder. Has vowed never to lose control again—control is all that keeps these eerily familiar desires at bay and… Distance is best, always has been.

The feelings don't go this time, irrevocably altered. Every added step only seems to increase her hold, the weight of her inescapable presence effectively made heavier the further removed. It used to be easier. Everything used to be… less acute. There's a sense of urgency to every pained breath, struggling to remain even under the breakneck pace that's kept—nothing brings relief anymore. The thought of home only sickens, even on an empty stomach. There'd been no time to eat, hadn't wanted to linger and risk… She'll find the note and it'll all be fine. Or- Rubs the same spot over and over, willing the ache to dull even if it no longer seems to. Throat scratches, the air dry and burning, stinging the eyes… or is it something else? She's unravelled it all, has no idea how to put these pieces back together and doubts it's even possible. 20 years it took, had been a long time coming either way. The sun sends down a deserved glare, unfaltering unlike the breath sticking to gritted teeth. The sound she'd made replays over and over—is certain it's the same as all those years ago—a twisted reminder of just how close…

Nails scrape along skin, dig into scalp—hasn't done so in a long time, not like this, feels right back at the start. It hurts, but it's the good kind of pain, the kind that's controlled. Sand whips all around, obscures most of sight but doesn't care. Doesn't care. It was stupid, absolute idiocy to fall for- What is wrong with- It's anger all over, bursts from the core and overrules sanity. Feels despicable. Vile. Absolutely out of line and presumptuous. The sun scorches, justifies the burning heat inside. Wishes if only- Could just- The note was a terrible idea—not at all how things should be left. Just another insult to be added, another disappointment to taint her life. There's not a shred of doubt left, knows exactly who and what Gaara is, has always been. Erosion incarnate, there only to ruin and disintegrate all. It hasn't hurt like this in a long time, this innate sense of… There's no more use denying it, no more pitiable attempts to be made at hiding the truth etched into the very skin—has known all along the true meaning of the bloodied word making a mockery out of...

Him. Feels the years and all they've accumulated lay down their crushing weight—all 20 of them. The price of refusing to just give up and give in. Truth is pretending has always been easier until it wasn't—isn't anymore. All this progress made—growth undergone, fully remade and rehabilitated—all of it in servitude of the impossible wish to forget.

None of all he has to offer outweighs the burden of his self-hatred.

"Heard you were back." Kankuro sidles in, betrays his feigned nonchalance through the curious glances he shoots—as if his dropping by this early isn't generally out-of-character enough to be a dead giveaway.

"Tell Temari if she wishes to hear from me she can come ask herself."

Kankuro raises his hands, shuffles further into the office and pretends to be interested in a nearby cactus. "Hey now, I wasn't sent by Temari if that's w-"

Narrows gaze, effectively silencing the puppetmaster before returning it to the stale piece of paperwork, as if reading it again and again will somehow make the information stick.

Kankuro sighs, curiously traces a long, pointed spine when he accidentally punctures his finger, releasing a pained hiss. Frowning, he sticks the injured digit into his mouth, evoking a feeling of… of… "Usually people tend to be happier after a vacation," he mumbles, "not moodier."

Ignores him, reads the same sentence, tries to make the words mean something—used to be reading meant forgetting. Used to be just coming here meant peace.

"How was Naruto?"

Rubs brow, already feels the sting of too little sleep. "I don't know. Fine."

Kankuro rests a hand upon the desk, leaning forward with pursed lips. "Just fine?" he asks incredulously.

Releases a breath through nose, ready to retort when there's a soft drip, drawing the attention to Kankuro's finger, bleeding onto a piece of paperwork. Hears a rushed: "Fuck, hold on, I'll clean it up." Then footsteps moving across the room, uninjured hand rummaging through a drawer. Blood rushes through ears, eyes fixated on the tiny splash of red, slowly turning pink as it saturates the document. It's like falling down, a brief weightless sense of flying, tumbling through metaphorical space and somehow dilating the perception of time. Everything moves slowly, drones on sluggishly as if trying to resist being pulled into the vortex of that tiny, insignificant droplet. And- And- Another drip, this time falling off his own chin, wide-eyed gaze adjusting to the closeness of it all—his coming down a palpable sensation within his body.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Her eyes on him, fingers resting atop his beating heart—her eyes on him, fingers clenched around a pointed knife.

"Gaara?"

What's the difference if the outcome remains the same? What's the point of wishing for…

"Hey, c'mon, sit down."

Feels Kankuro's presence beside him, hadn't even noticed coming to a stand, hovering above his own desk in breathless suspension. Allows himself to sit back down, eyes never leaving the dot of pink before him.

"Did something happen?" Kankuro asks, tone drenched with worry, filling him with even more guilt. "You know you can talk to me, right?"

Sucks in a deep breath, forcing his gaze towards his hands in his lap, takes in his cracked nails, damaged by his own doing. "I think I'm just…" runs a hand through his hair, attempting to ease both his sensitive scalp and lingering headache, "confused." Hates admitting to it, even more so he hates putting the burden onto his brother—as if he hasn't caused him enough grief as is.

"We all get confused sometimes," Kankuro tries to reassure him. "Me and Temari, we're here for you, you know? We worry for you."

"You don't have to worry," he rushes, meeting Kankuro's gaze, feeling again that same sour wave of remorse.

"Yeah well, it comes with having an idiot for a brother."

Feels a small smile tug at his lips despite it all, at least grateful for Kankuro's ability to lighten the mood.

"Listen," the puppetmaster continues, "I know you're not happy with the council pushing for an arranged marriage—and yes, perhaps Temari did send me to see how you were feeling considering you went straight to work instead of returning home like a normal person—regardless, the both of us, we-" he hesitates, leaning back against the desk, "we want to make sure you're not doing yourself a disservice by submitting to the whims of some gathering of crusty old men—most of them unwed, and rightfully so, by the way—out of a- Basically an entirely misplaced sense of obligation."

Gaara sighs, slumps back in his chair, gaze cast at the ceiling as he allows the words to settle before outright disagreeing with them—because he does, save for the crusty part—when his brother speaks up again.

"Now, do you want to talk about what has you confused?"

He'd almost forgotten about the whole thing, rues the reminder. Glances down at hands again, picks at a loose piece of nail, feels its sting shoot up his arm. There's no denying his behaviour as of recent has been downright… unhinged. It's worrying, as well as a threat to his functioning as Kazekage. Perhaps having his brother weigh in isn't a bad idea—simply overthinking things has never awarded him the answers he'd hoped of finding. Still, it's a complicated matter, doesn't wish to incriminate unnecessarily—doesn't even know where to start. Thinks it's all so much, at least became that way once he... "Have you ever felt… odd? I mean," bites inside of cheek, a concentrated frown settling on his brow as he searches for words, tries his best to explain the overwhelming sensation following… "I guess there was this- this shirt, of sorts, which had become-" glances at Kankuro to gauge his reaction before daring to elaborate, already second-guessing his questionable choice to share such an inexplicable moment, "see-through and… Well, the, uh, body." Makes a half-hearted gesture, feels his pulse quicken as he tries to recall what happened, aware this might once again reveal his disturbed character. "It wasn't on purpose or anything, I didn't mean to see or- She didn't-"

"Alright!" his brother interrupts with a cheer, claps the back of his chair. "I always knew you'd be a tits-kinda-man!"

Recoils, face heating at the implication, decides then and there he'll never be what Kankuro calls a 'tits-kinda-man', if not out of protest then out of sheer mortification. "Yes, thank you, you cleared that right up," he drawls, feeling at least a little relief at the light-hearted reception. "You're free to leave again—I'm all better."

Kankuro looks pleased with himself, gives his chair another pat for good measure. "Don't hesitate to ask me anything, I'm more than happy to provide you with any details," he says, starting to saunter back towards the door with a smug grin. "Oh! I'll lend you some of my magazines if you promise not to tell Temari."

Gaara narrows his eyes, doesn't entertain the remark with a reply, instead watches his brother leave in disgruntled silence—doesn't even want to consider what kind of magazines he's attempting to pass off onto him. Returning his gaze to the stained document before him, he releases a long, weary breath. Kankuro was right on at least one thing: he truly is a complete and utter idiot.

A/N: Found out my e-mail alerts were disabled, whoops! All this time I thought no one was reading on this site anymore, so sorry. Here's a bonus chapter to make up! I'll update the next few once a week, hopefully to bridge some time between new and old chapters. Hope you all enjoyed, all my previous author's notes are gone because I made sure to update all chapters to their newest versions and ff doesn't have the neat little author's note box. Might add them back in later. Have a wonderful almost weekend!