A/N:

*Since email notifications have not been working for months now, I will advise: I posted chapters 19 and 20 of this story on April 28 and June 14, respectively, so, if you have not read either of those chapters, please go check them out first!*

Summary: Wedding planning and shower intimacy and conference reflections, oh my! đź’•

On Love in the Afternoon (rating):

There is a bit of evening (adult) intimacy in the "Love in the Afternoon (and Intimacy in the Evening)" section, so just skip past that section to the one that follows if you would rather avoid the same! đź’•

On the section titles:

I don't know whether it's become obvious that my section titles all come from old movie titles, but I feel the need to point it out here, because I've used more than usual for this chapter, and some of them are quite tongue-in-cheek!

I'll also note that this chapter was just under 2000 words last month, and it's now almost 4700, and the result has been that the newly added sections now make the original sections look almost a bit secondary. The other result is that the chapter doesn't quite flow as well as I'd like (hence all the different headings). But I think the changes have been overall worthwhile nonetheless!

Fall 2015. Las Vegas, Nevada.

But there's a full moon risin'
Let's go dancin' in the light
We know where the music's playin'
Let's go out and feel the night

Because I'm still in love with you
I want to see you dance again
Because I'm still in love with you
On this harvest moon

– Neil Young, "Harvest Moon."

Every Girl Should Be Married

Almost immediately after getting engaged for the second (or was it the third?) time, Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom had discussed when, how, and where their wedding should take place. Given that they'd already been married—to each other—once before and were—again—already living together and planning a life together, neither saw a reason for any delay. They required some further discussion, however, on the how and where of it all.

"Well, Las Vegas has a wide selection of readily available wedding chapels, Sara. . . ." Grissom wasn't being serious. He would want that possibly less than she.

"No."

"Or there's always Cupid's Kiss?" He wasn't serious about that suggestion either. Sara hadn't exactly hidden her disdain for the place, and he wouldn't be too keen to get married at one of their previous crime scenes anyway.

"NO!"

"San Francisco? We could just do something at City Hall there."

"Yeah, I like that; it's just . . ." Sara didn't really know how to explain her feelings about this.

"What?"

"Well, it's just . . . The last time we got married, we did it in Costa Rica, and we didn't invite anyone, and we didn't even tell anyone until we got back. Then we got divorced, and I didn't tell anyone for ages. . . .

"I don't know—I know I shouldn't care what anyone else thinks, but . . . I do . . . or, at least . . . at least part of me does. I don't want everyone to think marriage is just something we slip in and out of . . . slip in and out of without much thought, or much care. . . . I don't want everyone to think we don't take it seriously—that it's not a real commitment."

"So I guess you're saying maybe some wedding traditions have a reason?"

At this, she scowled a little at him. "Only because we made such a mess of the first marriage. I was completely fine with having no one else there the first time. I only needed you."

"So you want guests at this wedding?"

"The absolute minimum number of guests. I'm serious. Like, your mom and the original team. That's it. That's good. Your mom will be pleased at least."

"Your mom?"

"Nooo!" Sara shook her head vigorously.

"You're sure? Obviously I'll support whatever you want. But are you sure?"

"If my mom comes to the wedding, the whole thing will end up being about her. Most of my life has been spent living in the shadow of what my parents did to each other—and"—she briefly pinched her eyes closed—"and what they did to me. She doesn't get to have this, too.

"I want this to be about you and me—and your mom and the family we found all on our own." She looked down toward their feet. "And Hank, of course." She laughed at the dog's puzzled expression as she scratched behind his ears, then she looked back up at Grissom. "But mostly I just want it to be for you and me."

"Okay." He smiled at her in reassurance. "So something low-key, in Vegas, with the minimum number of invitees?"

"Yes. You've got it." Sara laced her fingers through his and sighed. She reminded herself she was going to be married to this man again soon. All she had to do was get through a wedding.

The Talk of the Town

Sara and Grissom were about the last people who should have been in charge of planning a wedding, but luckily they had the good sense to know it. Also luckily, they knew who the perfect person to help them would be—the person with the resources and the wherewithal to pull off, in a minimal amount of time, a small, classy, low-key wedding—and that person just happened to have recently moved back to Las Vegas and to owe them, collectively, about a million favors.

"Do you want to call her or should I?" Grissom asked.

"Well, she is pretty much your oldest friend."

"Yes, but she owes you her current job."

"She never tried to have you fired."

"I don't know. . . . In the early years . . . I'm guessing she may have tried once or twice. Besides, she didn't try to have you fired."

Sara shot him a look.

"She was just a little overly indifferent as to whether you were."

She shot him another look.

"Okay, I'll call."

"Thank you." Sara smiled brightly. "I'm going to go do the laundry."

"What laundry? We're always naked."

"Sheets!"

Grissom laughed and, with a sigh, pulled out his phone.

Catherine answered on the third ring. "Gil!"

"Hey, Cath. How's lab directing treating you?"

"Not too bad. To what do I owe the honor of a telephone call?"

"Well, actually, I've got a favor to—"

"Wait, no, first, tell me something—do you know where Sara is?"

"Sara?"

"Yeah, you know, Sara. Sara Sidle. Tall, pretty, rather intense brunette. You used to be married to her for a while?"

"Yes, thank you, Catherine. I know who my—I remember who Sara is."

"Well, do you happen to know where Sara is? She left the lab after you were here in September—which I'm guessing you know, if you know I took over as Lab Director. She's been responding to emails on her remaining open cases, and Ecklie has her technically listed as 'on leave,' so we can exchange information. But no one knows where she is. Even with Greg, she's evasive, apparently. At the lab, there's even money she's fled with you or as far from you or anything associated with you as possible."

"You mean Lindsey didn't say anything?" Grissom sighed.

"Lindsey who?"

"The Lindsey who came from your vagina, remember?"

"My Lindsey? What does my Lindsey have to do with this?"

"Uh . . . never mind."

"So you do know where Sara is?"

"Yes."

"Would you care to share that information?"

"Can you—I mean, you won't say any—she doesn't really want anyone to know right now, okay?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Could you just tell me whether she's in your general vicinity?"

"Define vicinity."

"If you shouted her name right now, would she be able to hear you?"

"I'm not—just give me a second." He held the phone away from himself. "Sara!" He waited.

Sara walked out from the bedroom. "Yeah? What's up?"

"Nothing. Sorry, dear. Just talking to Cath."

"Okay, I got the sheets in the laundry. How's the conversation going?"

"Er, we'll see."

He put the phone back to his face. "Yeah, Cath. She can hear me."

It was probably good for Grissom that there was some distance between him and Catherine at that moment. "If she was close enough that you thought she even might be able to hear you, do you not think that was close enough to be able to answer my question?"

"I'm a scientist. You asked a question. I did an experiment, and I gave you the answer."

Over at the crime lab, Catherine resisted the urge to bang her head on the desk. "Look, let's just—maybe let's just skip to why you called. What was the favor?"

"We need your help."

"Yes, that's usually what a—oh, never mind. With what?

"A wedding."

"A wedding?"

"Yes."

"For you?

"Yes."

"And… Sara?"

"Yes. Who else?"

"You want my help planning your wedding, but you were being all cryptic about whether you even knew where Sara was?" Catherine rubbed her forehead.

"I wasn't being cryptic. I was answering your questions. I tried to tell you about the wedding at the beginning of the call."

Catherine put her head down on the desk. "Lord, help me."

"What?"

Fortunately for Sara and Grissom, in the end Catherine Willows was of course only too pleased to oblige; she was quite overjoyed for them when Grissom phoned to request her assistance—once she'd finally allowed him to make his request, that is. Unfortunately for them, Catherine wasn't quite so keen on their idea of small. But, after a series of group telephone calls and evening drinks at Sara and Grissom's, they had formed a plan that all three found acceptable.

Love in the Afternoon (and Intimacy in the Evening)

When Catherine had finally departed at the end of their first marathon wedding planning session, Sara led Grissom to the shower, so she could rinse and get off. Their extended time in the sun with Hank earlier in the day had left her feeling a little grimy, and their extended time debating wedding planning logistics with Catherine had left her feeling a little tense; she was in need of some relaxation—and some oxytocin.

In the bathroom, Sara turned on the water to let it warm, and Grissom undressed her, then himself, and followed her into the delightfully large, walk-in, rainforest shower (the delightfully large, walk-in, rainforest shower being one of the reasons they'd originally chosen the house).

"Do you want me to wash your hair?" he asked.

"Ohhh. Yes, please." He'd undertaken the task for the first time following her abduction to the desert and subsequent hospital stay, and it had been one of her favorite forms of relaxation ever since.

He was so gentle, lightly lathering the shampoo and applying it first to the top of her head then farther down through her soft, silky brown strands, before he spent at least five minutes massaging her scalp, as the warm water ran over the rest of her body, relaxing her muscles. When he finally rinsed the shampoo away, he was always so careful to keep all the suds out of her eyes, again so gentle, again so tender. Then he'd apply just the right amount of conditioner to the ends of her hair, and, while that soaked in, he'd massage her shoulders, and really, she thought, if being a world-class scientist and conservationist didn't work out for him, he could get a job at a salon or a spa or a health club. But then of course she'd be terribly jealous to have him massaging anyone but her.

And, while he worked, he whispered softly in her ear: "Sara . . . Sara Sidle . . . I love you, Sara. . . . Sara Sidle . . . I love you, Sara. . . . Love of my life, Sara Sidle . . . I love you, Sara. . . . Heart of my heart, Sara Sidle . . . I love you, Sara. . . . Fairest of them all, Sara Sidle . . . I love you, Sara. . . . I love you, Sara. . . . Always and forever, Sara Sidle, you are my love. . . ."

After he'd finished with her hair, he picked up her loofah and shower gel and created deliciously sweet, citrusy suds, which he also ran over her body, while she leaned back into him. Once she was sufficiently sudsed, he began running his gentle, perceptive hands—the fingers and thumbs and palms of those gentle, perceptive hands—up and down over her body, over the suds, over her silky breasts and soft stomach and lily-white upper thighs, making sure no part of her was untouched, uncleansed, unmassaged. He continued running his hands over her, massaging her breasts; massaging her stomach; massaging her thighs; massaging her everywhere, caressing her everywhere; stroking her tenderly; sliding his strong, wet fingers over her wet body, over her wet throat and her wet breasts and her wet nipples and her wet stomach and her wet thighs. And then finally he found himself at her core, at her wet and willing pussy, and still his strong, wet fingers massaged her.

He'd moved on to humming love songs in her ear, but he paused his wordless melodies. "More?" he asked, and, "Yesssss," she moaned, and he slipped his wet fingers inside her more than willing pussy and continued to massage, to caress, to stroke. She'd really be terribly jealous to have him massaging anyone but her.

With the movement of his strong, wet fingers inside her even wetter, even more willing pussy, he helped her achieve a euphoric high, an exultant bliss, which had her clenching his fingers and whimpering his name, after which she slumped back ever more fully, ever more fully relaxed, ever more fully rejuvenated, against his strong, wet body. And in her ear he whispered words of love and longing that again made her glad she was nowhere in the world without him. And the warm water continued to calm her, and the warm water continued to soothe her, and he continued running those gentle and perceptive hands of his over her slick body, until she found herself so fully relaxed that she felt surely without him to contain her she would herself have melted down into a pool of placid water.

Then, just as she'd reached a beyond heavenly state, a beyond perfect feeling of relaxation, he again uttered the words she always wanted to hear, the words to which he already knew the answer.

"Did you want more, Sara?"

"Yesssss," she purred.

She summoned her strength and leaned forward against the wall of the large shower, and he positioned himself at her core, he as hard as she was willing, and he slipped himself fully inside her, moved fully inside her, began thrusting in and out and in and out and in and out of her, hitting her exactly where she wanted it, exactly where he knew she wanted it, exactly where she needed to take her where she wanted to be. And before long he had helped her reach an even more euphoric high, an even more blissful climax, and he continued moving inside her, continued thrusting inside her, until he'd joined her with his own sublime ecstasy, and then she again leaned back into his arms, yet again more fully relaxed, yet again more fully engulfed in his being, as the warm water fell over her still.

And again he tenderly stroked her body, and again he softly whispered in her ear: "Sara . . . Sara Sidle . . . I love you, Sara. . . . Sara Sidle . . . I love you, Sara. . . . Love of my life, Sara Sidle . . . I love you, Sara. . . . Heart of my heart, Sara Sidle . . . I love you, Sara. . . . Fairest of them all, Sara Sidle . . . I love you, Sara. . . . I love you, Sara. . . . Always and forever, Sara Sidle, you are my love. . . ."

And part of her was in the shower—in his arms, very fully embraced in his arms—but part of her had perhaps ascended to somewhere more divine, a more divine state of consciousness, a more divine state of being. And the warm water fell over her still.

Eventually, conscious of the indulgence of their water usage, he asked whether she was ready to towel off.

"Yeah . . ." she drawled absentmindedly, beginning to draw herself back more fully into her corporeal self, beginning to try again to bring herself under her own power.

But then, "Oh, wait!" she exclaimed, as he began to reach to turn off the shower.

"What is it, Sara?" he asked her.

"Let me do you." She turned around to face him.

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I'm ready. . . ."

"Not that," she clarified. "I mean, not right now," she added as she rubbed a hand over his chest. "Maybe later."

"So . . . ?"

"Let me do your hair." This had always been a one-sided affair, but she couldn't see any reason for it to remain that way.

"Oh . . . Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." He shrugged.

So she put some of his 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner in her hands then moved in behind him, fully lathering up his curls, then, once the actual shampooing was complete, taking her time massaging the pads of her fingers over his scalp, occasionally wrapping a curl around her finger, occasionally gently tugging, occasionally drawing a neatly trimmed nail lightly over his scalp.

After several minutes of scalp massage, she carefully rinsed his hair—just as careful as he had been with her, careful to keep the suds out of his eyes, careful not to sting him. Once his hair was fully rinsed, she put a bit of her conditioner in her hands and—after calming his very mild protest—applied it to the ends of his hair. She rinsed her hands, and, while the conditioner soaked into his hair, she massaged her hands down over his neck and shoulders and back and then, unable to help herself, squeezed his exquisite ass.

"Hey!"

"Sorry." She leaned in and kissed his shoulder. "You know how I feel about your ass."

"Hmmm. Well, I guess I can't complain about that."

She again kissed his shoulder, before she reached up and again spent several minutes running her fingers through his hair and over his scalp. Then, again being just as careful as he, she rinsed the conditioner out of his hair.

She kissed him once more, but he didn't move.

"Baby, I'm done now."

He still didn't move.

"Gil? I'm done."

"Oh," he said, a little dazed, "right."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I . . . I can see why you like it."

"I'll do it again next time if you like."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

Though she couldn't see it, she'd heard the smile in his voice. She leaned onto his back, wrapped her arms around his stomach, and placed another kiss upon his warm, wet skin. "Okay. Should we get out now?"

"Yeah." Finally he turned off the water, and he followed her out of the shower. He picked up two fluffy towels and carefully toweled her dry, while she squeezed the water out of her hair, after which he less carefully toweled himself.

"Want to watch a movie on the couch?"

"Okay."

The Grass Is Greener

They'd bundled themselves up in blankets on the couch, so they were cocooned together, bare skin against bare skin, but they weren't really paying much attention to the movie, My Favorite Wife, an old black and white romantic-comedy starring Cary Grant and Irene Dunne as two spouses finally reunited after one had long been presumed lost at sea.

(Sara found this film preferable to Grant and Dunne's earlier comedy, The Awful Truth, in which the two spouses initially decided to divorce despite each still being madly in love with the other. That film had never struck her as making the least bit of sense.)

So, Sara liked the movie, but she was fully relaxed after her warm shower, and, having seen it before, she was more concerned with exploring her own long-lost spouse's clean, warm skin with her very own warm, wet mouth. She felt completely limp as she lay there over him, as if perhaps her limbs no longer contained bones or muscles—or stresses of any kind.

Having confirmed the warmth of his neck and upper chest, she finally turned her attention to the movie for a moment and watched the reunited couple try to reconcile their time apart.

"You know, when we . . . when we were . . . apart . . . sometimes I used to wonder whether . . . I don't know . . . whether I was just your midlife crisis or something," she said, unfortunately without thought or reflection, in her state of utter relaxation.

"You know, I wondered that, too."

And suddenly her state of relaxation was gone—vanished—utterly nowhere to be seen—and she felt a bit as she had when she'd first started watching the videotape of his interview with Lady Heather, an anxious sickness starting to take hold of her chest, as she thought about him considering her his midlife crisis.

Obviously that wasn't the case. She knew that wasn't the case. He knew that wasn't the case. But just the thought of him considering her like that had begun to curdle her insides. "Oh," she said softly—yes, softly.

He too was relaxed, so he failed to recognize the softness—or the sadness—of her "oh." "The day we met," he continued.

"The day we met what?"

"The day you and I met, I wondered whether I was having a midlife crisis."

"You . . . the day we met . . . you mean . . . you considered whether I was your midlife crisis the day we met?"

"Yeah." He started running his fingers through her still-damp curls. "The day we met. The morning we met, actually. In San Francisco. At the AAFS conference. During my lecture."

"Not while we were divorced?" she asked, the quaver in her voice now unmistakable.

Suddenly he realized the effect of his earlier words, and his hands froze. "What? No, of course not!"

"Oh."

"Sara . . . Of course not. I would never . . . would never in a million years have . . . Honey, no. Never." He shook his head.

"Oh." Her heart was still beating a bit too rapidly. "Oh." She was trying to rein in her anxiety. "Oh. Okay. Okay. So the day we met?" she asked, her voice still soft but no longer quavering.

"Yeah. . . ." He watched her carefully. "I was up there giving my lecture at the conference, and it was like . . . it was like you were the only thing I could see out there in the audience."

"Yeah?" The force of her voice was returning as that of her anxiety continued to dissipate.

"Yeah." He was relieved to hear the calm returning to her voice, and he again started stroking her hair. "I kept trying—trying and failing—not to look at you. Then, I remember . . . half of me was speaking, and the other half couldn't stop thinking about how luscious you were. . . ."

"Luscious?" Now she began to laugh. "While you were giving your lecture? You were thinking about how luscious I was?"

"Yeah."

"Pretty scandalous." Again she laughed.

"Scandalous?"

"Spending your lecture time thinking about how a woman fifteen years your junior—a woman you'd just met—was luscious." She was still laughing. "It's a little scandalous. A little indecent." She reached her hand down to squeeze his ass. "A little pervy."

Grissom's eyes went wide. "I . . ." he managed to stammer out. "I mean, I . . ."

"Oh, no, baby—I'm kidding. I mean, I love it." She kissed his chest. "Now go on."

"You love it?"

"Oh, yeah." She smiled up at him. "You may recall I found you pretty luscious, too." She kissed his chest again.

"And here I always thought you wanted me for my mind."

"Ha!" She laughed into his chest. "All right, Gilbert. Keep going."

"Well, I knew I'd never thought about a woman being luscious before—a strawberry, maybe, or a peach, but never a woman. So then part of me started debating whether I was having a midlife crisis."

"While the rest of you . . . ?"

"Was still giving my lecture." He laughed. "Luckily I had you to step in and give thoughtful responses to all my questions. The rest of the audience was pretty comatose—probably all out drinking the night before—that's usually how these things go."

"I wouldn't know. I went to one forensic academy conference, fell madly in love during my first fifteen minutes there, and decided it would be too dangerous to attend any others."

Grissom snorted.

"But during your lecture . . ." Again she laughed, as she remembered him up on that conference stage over seventeen and a half years earlier, remembered how she hadn't been able to keep her eyes off him, realized she'd had no clue he'd been trying so very hard to keep his beautiful blue eyes off her. "Wow, so you've just had it really bad for me ever since we met, huh, Dr. 'Nine Years.'"

"You weren't exactly alone in that hotel room, Sara."

"True."

"Yeah . . . I guess I should have tried to marry you then, shouldn't I?"

"Oh, I don't think you were ready for me then."

"Fair enough. It did take me a while. But still . . ."—he lowered his voice—"I intend to be very, very married to you now. Okay, sweetheart?"

"Yeah." And once again she was a limpid pool of warmth, no bones, no muscles, no stresses, just her skin against his, her mouth on his chest, his hand running through her hair, his other hand running over her perfectly luscious peach of an ass—just her and him, enclosed in a perfect cocoon. "Yeah. Oh, yeah."

And the rest of the movie went unobserved by both (though Hank still seemed to enjoy it).

Enter Madam!

In the end, once the series of group telephone calls and evening drinks at Sara and Grissom's had been concluded, it was agreed by all that Sara and Grissom's second wedding ceremony would, as they had wanted, have minimal guests, and it would take place in Catherine's unsurprisingly nice backyard. Afterward, still in the backyard, they—they, in this case, being Sara, Grissom, and Catherine—would have a party, with much of the lab, as well as a select few other guests, in attendance.

It wouldn't really be a wedding reception, but it would function as such; however, they wouldn't be giving out that information in advance—including to most of those who would be attending the ceremony. Sara and Grissom didn't want the fuss.

Catherine would be announcing the event as a welcome back party for her. She would be arranging shifts so everyone who wanted could attend at least in part, and, since it was all at her insistence, she would be footing most of the bill. Once she had convinced the new(ish) director of the San Diego crime lab to fly in for a couple nights to attend a party at the home of the even newer director of the Las Vegas crime lab, the date was set.

Given that Catherine was accommodating their request for a quick turnaround time—and really the biggest factor in achieving this had been working with Nick Stokes's schedule—Sara and Grissom decided they (and Hank) would stay in Las Vegas, slowly sorting through and packing up their belongings (and, in Hank's case, shredding up old cardboard and papers), until after the wedding. They would then make their way back to the Ishmael and up north to San Francisco as the first honeymoon of their second marriage.

In Name Only

After they had finalized most of the wedding plans, Sara had one last question for Grissom.

"Did it ever bother you that I didn't take your last name when we got married?" She had no intention of taking his last name this time either. "I'm still not doing it. I'm just curious."

"You mean setting aside the logistical awkwardness of you taking my last name, given that that's what almost everyone else calls me?"

"Yes, setting aside the logistical awkwardness."

"I'd spent eleven years in love with Sara Sidle. Now I've spent seventeen and a half years in love with Sara Sidle. Why would I want to change a thing about you?"

"Good." He didn't always know what to say to her, but sometimes he gave excellent answers.

"Plus, GAG and SAS, how could we mess with that?" he asked, pronouncing their initials as if they were words. "I mean, you'd hardly want to be SAG or SAGS," he added, again pronouncing the initials as if they were words.

What a dork she was marrying. She laughed and shook her head. God, she loved him. So she kissed him, of course, with—as per usual—quite a bit of enthusiasm.

He broke away from the kiss for a moment. "I actually see quite a lot of symmetry in GAG and SAS . . . GG and SS . . ." he tried to tell her, but he was mostly muffled because, thankfully, she almost immediately went back to kissing him.

Grissom wasn't sure why he ever tried to interrupt Sara when she was kissing him. He was thankful she had more sense than he did. God, he loved her. As he kept kissing her, he gently guided her to the bedroom. He wanted to be sure she knew how much he appreciated her enthusiasm; he could certainly demonstrate some enthusiasm of his own; he could certainly demonstrate just how very, very, very married to her he intended to be.

UP NEXT: NEXT CHAPTER: FALL 2015. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA. NOTORIOUS + NIGHT AND DAY: ANOTHER INTIMATE ENCOUNTER.

NOTES

On the harvest moon:

In 2015, the harvest moon (the full moon closest to the fall equinox—equal day and equal night) was also a super moon (when the moon's orbit is closest (perigee) to Earth at the same time it is full, making it appear slightly larger and brighter) and coincided with a total lunar eclipse (blood moon). When was the harvest moon, you ask? September 27(-28), 2015, otherwise known in these circles as . . . wait for it (if you don't already know) . . . the night "Immortality" aired (and took place). Maybe that's why everything about "Immortality" was a bit unhinged. . . . Or maybe it just means our lovers' tale was destined by the skies. . . .

[Due to FFN restrictions, if you would like the links for more information on the harvest moon, you will have to go over to AO3.]

On "wet and willing":

In light of my recent summer reading, I feel the need to do a bit of a PSA here:

Women have a high level of arousal nonconcordance. There is about a 10% overlap between what women's genitals respond to as "sex-related" and what women identify as "sexually appealing." (Men have about a 50% overlap.) In other words, wet does not necessarily equal willing, and vice versa.

But I had a whole water theme going on. . . .

(In other news . . . I recently read Come As You Are, by Emily Nagoski, and it was as good as promised! A lot of it (on how we deal with stress, etc.) was applicable to life in general.)

SOUNDTRACK LISTING

Neil Young. "Harvest Moon."

Neil Young. "Such a Woman."

(You can listen to the songs in my playlist for this series, which can be found by searching my username on Spotify.)

A/N:

Thank you so very much (always) for reading! đź’› I hope you enjoyed this chapter; I aim to be back with the next in about a month! đź’•

I also hope you're all having a happy summer (or other geographically appropriate season)! đź’›