A/N: I lost a dear friend over two years ago. I often think that the word "friend," much like "love," are terrible words in the English language for being far too vague and lazy to describe the relationships we have to one another. I have "friends" who I knew as a young adult who I may never see again and we will all survive just fine. I "love" Thai food, but as much as I could eat it every day, why do we use that same word to describe how we feel about the people who are the closest to us? Who we would not survive without? Or who perhaps we would, but their loss leaves a gaping wound in our heart and lives forever?

While I lost my "friend" two years ago, she was more of a mother figure to me. I had known her for thirty years and she was who I went to for all the big moments in my life, both good and bad. I knew that she cared about me as a person and that no matter what, she would listen and support me, always providing wisdom and comfort. That said, I moved far away from her a number of years ago and although we kept in touch, I did a poor job of it. So, there are a lot of regrets. Her birthday was last week and just when you think you are okay, that's the horrible thing about grief. Your brain and your heart say, not so fast! Furthershewrote gave me the idea to continue processing my grief through fanfic. Because why not? It seemed even more relevant, because this "friend," read most everything I ever wrote as a young adult. So, I found an episode that I thought spoke to my grief a bit and what I imagine Jessica would have dealt with after her friend, Carrie McKittrick, was murdered in S2E16: Murder in the Electric Cathedral. We are provided almost no back story to their relationship, other than finding out it had been thirty years since they last saw each other and Carrie had been Jessica's teacher. So, I gave Carrie and Jessica a backstory.

An * denotes a few quotes that I pulled directly from the episode.

Hope you enjoy it and if you do, please leave a review. As always, I don't own MSW, only the stories I write about them and Jessica remains the most perfect muse as ever.

Oh, and because this one is about strong emotions, I returned to telling it through first-person, in the style of the MSW novels.

I returned home to Cabot Cove on Thursday night, after my friend Carrie McKittrick's funeral. Seth picked me up from the Portland airport and drove me home. We didn't talk much on the drive. I hope he understood that I couldn't. There were too many thoughts racing through my mind. He had offered to cook me dinner when he brought in my suitcase, but I made excuses that I wouldn't be any company for him. He had muttered somewhat gruffly, that it wasn't about a social occasion, but he wanted to make sure I ate something, as he knew I was hurting.

I'm fine, Seth.

He had looked at me skeptically, confident I was lying.

I'll be fine. I clarified instead, my voice softer and broken. I would not let myself cry though. If I did, there would be no stopping the tears and I refused to display that level of emotion.

He had carried my suitcase up the staircase, careful to leave it outside my bedroom door, as though it would be improper to enter it, even only to place my suitcase inside. I waited for him at the bottom of the stairs to return, knowing he would not linger.

When he came to stand next to me, I told him thank you, leading him to the back door.

Jess?

Hmm?

I'll let you get away with this tonight. But I'll be back tomorrow to check on you and if you haven't eaten anything, I'll be more than a little irritated and I will remedy the situation if need be.

I had arched my eyebrow at him, willing him to say anything further, trying desperately to appear in control and that I wasn't one second away from a complete breakdown. I had held it together for days in Oklahoma, as I helped solve Carrie's murder and then stayed for the funeral. I had only to wait a few more minutes until I would be alone and could fall apart in private.

He knew though. I know he did. I could see the understanding and concern in his eyes. Instead, he sighed, pulling me to him roughly in a bear hug, before pushing me away just as suddenly, sensing he had perhaps overstepped before hurrying to his car.

He hadn't overstepped though. His embrace had meant everything to me in that moment.

When I saw him pull out of my driveway, I closed my eyes exhaling sharply.

Now, my only desire was to be in my bed with the sheets pulled over my head. That's all. I had no appetite and I could not fathom doing anything else. I craved to be alone, even as I feared it. That, and perhaps I would pretend that Carrie wasn't dead. Just as I sometimes did with Frank. As well as my parents. And many others. The body count of those I have lost and grieved was far too many these days.

Turning off the kitchen lights, I climbed the stairs, my tread as heavy as my heart.

I did not bother to unpack, which that alone, should have been cause for concern as I never ever checked into a hotel or returned home without unpacking immediately. Bone weary, I went into the bathroom and took care of the essentials before walking back into the bedroom. I undressed down to my underwear, dropping my clothes from my hands, hearing them hit the floor as though I was removed from the action. It was warm in my bedroom, but I needed something to sleep in.

Rummaging around in the bottom drawer of my dresser, I found an old white undershirt of Frank's. It was ancient, nondescript, but one that I will never part with. It had been the shirt he wore under his dress shirt the day we married. Frank had teased me gently when I had asked shyly if I could keep his shirt during our honeymoon, but he had given it to me all the same. I had placed it in with my own clothes when we returned home, always careful to keep the white shirt separate from the many others he acquired. After his death, I had pulled it out a few times, needing to wear it as I did now. Soft and threadbare, the white had yellowed with age, but I pulled the soft cotton over my head, wrapping my arms around myself as it fell right below my hips. After a moment, I walked over to the bed, pulling back the covers. Lying down, I pulled a pillow to my chest, hugging it tightly, wishing it was Frank.

I cried myself to sleep.

S/J

After a restless night tossing and turning, I woke the next morning feeling as though I was hungover.

I am a logical person. Frank always said that I could work through a problem and find the best solution quicker than most men he knew in the military. Today, I would take offense to that statement. Why should anything I do that could be considered remarkable be compared to what a man would do? Now, as a modern-day woman, I would have told him I resented his insinuation, but years ago, that sentiment had been considered progressive for a man. He had been proud of me and sought my opinion on many things. But I could not seem to shake the thoughts that had plagued me overnight, even as I believed them to be far from logical.

What was it about me that caused so many of my friends and even simple acquaintances to drop dead? And not just that, but to be murdered? Ever since The Corpse Danced at Midnight had been published, I had become a beacon of criminal activity, somehow shining a blaze of light to unearth killers from all walks of life.

At times, I embraced the belief that I had been present to aid in the pursuit of justice. A way to avenge the person's death. It had felt like a calling almost to help clear innocent people's names who had been wrongly accused and to help find the guilty party so they did not walk free.

But Carrie had been innocent, always being loving and kind. There was no reason for anyone to want her dead. There were others who had been killed who I had felt similarly about, but Carrie was different. Not only because she was special to me, but because she had been caught in the crosshairs of a miserable woman searching for a way out of an unhappy marriage. Carrie had simply been a casualty of war.

Carrie McKittrick, or rather, Miss Pearson as I had known her before she married Wendell McKittrick, had been my teacher many years ago in Boston when I was a young high school student. Carrie was an adult already, but not many years older than me, having graduated from college and only in her third year of teaching, when I was in her English class my junior year. In her mid-twenties, she had been fashionably dressed, well-educated, well-read, and well-traveled. All things that I had dreamed of being myself one day. She had recognized my writing talent and encouraged my dream to study journalism, even offering to talk to my father, as she knew that I feared he would not allow me to pursue a college degree.

Remarkably, my father had listened to her. Carrie had walked home with me one afternoon in late autumn. My mother had welcomed her inside, offering tea and cookies. My father was not home yet, but always arrived at the same time every day. He was a creature of habit, and I nervously waited, knowing he would be there soon. When he walked in the door and realized we had company, Carrie had never wavered or appeared bothered to address a man twice her age. She had calmly shaken his hand as I stammered through introductions, none of the confidence yet that I thankfully have developed later in life. When he asked her to sit back down, he waited politely for her to speak.

Carrie explained that I had excelled in her classroom that year, making high marks, and learning every writing skill she could teach me thus far. She was soft spoken, but assured, and I watched as my father, a good kind man, but one who was set in his ways and used to making decisions alone for everyone in our family, considered all she had to say. Our family was not poor, but neither were we well-to-do. I knew that we did not have anything in excess and what we did have, my father would use to send my brother, Marshall, to college. Girls were not afforded the same opportunities and I knew better than to hope for anything different. Without ever alluding to the cost or the possibility that it would be a hardship my parents would not be able to afford, Carrie told him that if he would allow it, she would see that I apply to every journalism school and for every scholarship available in New England and that she would happily write recommendation letters until I received a full scholarship offer. If he would allow her help. As though it was her most fervent desire and would be a great personal favor to her and not me.

My father had been gracious and kind, agreeing to the proposal. The fact that Carrie had given him the ability to save face that day, while gaining his approval not to prevent her help was one of the greatest moments of my life up to that point.

True to her word, Carrie helped me apply to college after college over the subsequent months, reading and editing my essays and writing recommendation letters catered to every program, believing that a standard letter would never do. Every time I received a denial letter, I would show her and she would mark the school off a master list she created and tell me that there was no use in tears. There were plenty more fine colleges out there and one would be lucky to have me. Then, when I started to get a handful of acceptance letters, but no offers of a scholarship yet, she would whisper, Jessie, we are getting closer. You'll see. We became more than teacher and student that year. Not quite friends–yet–but firm companions as I spent most afternoons in her company pouring over applications and entrance requirements. Looking back, I can see she was lonely. She had not met Wendell yet, but she had lost her first love during the Second World War.

One night, Carrie told me about her beau. His name had been Richard. He had been two years older than her and in the Air Force. She had grown up like me, from a good family but not without hardship and certainly not with the means to send her to college. When Richard had been killed in battle, she was nineteen, a recent high school graduate who was living with her parents while she waited on the young man to return home to marry her. Though I did not know for certain until many years later, I began to suspect even then that she had perhaps gotten in trouble as it was referred to in those days when a young woman became pregnant out of wedlock. I always believed that was why her parents had kept a tight rein on her since, but once the young man had died and she presumably lost the baby, they were at a loss as to what to do with her.

But Carrie being Carrie, had gone to the library and researched how to apply to college. Knowing her parents would require her to stay close by as an only child, she applied to schools in Massachusetts. She was accepted at a small state school, while volunteering at the local hospital.

By the time I met her, she was, of course, a teacher already. It would be during my senior year that she met Wendell, marrying him when I went off to Harrison. That summer, before I left for college, I attended her wedding as a bridesmaid, which was the first time I had the honor, as we had certainly moved into a close friendship by that point. She was no longer Miss Pearson and never Mrs. McKittrick to me, but from that point on, always my dear Carrie, my mentor and my friend.

Carrie had never been an effusive or affectionate woman, growing up as she had during wartime. But I will never forget the day early in my senior year when I received the acceptance letter from Harrison with my scholarship offer attached. I took off in a mad dash the five blocks from my house back to school hoping to catch her before she left for the day. I hailed her in the parking lot.

Miss Pearson! Miss Pearson!

Jessie, child, what are you doing back here? And why is a young lady such as yourself running for heaven's sake?

Harrison accepted me and I got a scholarship! A full one! I said, my voice shaky, my heart pounding as I handed her my letter with glee.

Taking the letter from me, she read it quickly, a smile spreading across her face. When she met my eyes, I could see the pride. She reached for me in a tight hug, as she whispered in my ear, Never forget this moment, Jessica Macgill. You can do anything you set your mind to. This is the first step to the rest of your life. She kissed my cheek before pulling away, chuckling at me as I was fairly bouncing on my toes. I'm so proud of you, Jessie.

Thank you, Miss Pearson. I couldn't have done it without you.

Nonsense, you would have found a way. A bright girl like you.

Once Carrie married Wendell and I went off to college, I saw her very little. She did attend my wedding to Frank, with a toddler in tow, a young married mother and a wealthy one at that. I knew her though. The wealth and affluence meant little to her. The love of a good man was what mattered and she told me she knew I found it with Frank as she noticed how he looked at me.

Recalling what I had said to Sister Ruth this week when I confronted her about murdering Carrie, my heart ached anew.

Carrie wasn't so much a murder victim, as much as she was a means to an end, and I suppose that's what makes this so hard to accept.*

Yes, she had been the means to an end in the worst possible way. A way for Sister Ruth to end her marriage. For a woman who was supposed to serve God with her husband, she had shown no mercy to Carrie. Sister Ruth and her husband were the very epitome of what was wrong in much of organized religion in my mind, preying on lonely widows hoping for financial endowments to continue their power trip of control.

I have always had a private belief in God, but I am uncomfortable with those who want to proclaim their beliefs loudly. It feels insincere. Oddly enough, the insincerity of the Electric Cathedral was what bothered me with their connection, and dare I suggest coercion of Carrie? She was the victim in all this and I did not know how a loving God would allow that. What had she done to deserve that woman's wicked actions? Not a damn thing. With all the spite and pain in this world, how was I to reconcile the loss of a woman who had been nothing but kind and giving of her time and attention to everyone who was lucky enough to be in her circle? Why her? When there were others out there living selfish and meaningless lives. I would not be foolish to suggest someone else should have taken her place. But why her?

But the fear that I feel this morning that I still feel lurking in my heart and mind? The illogical thoughts that I cannot quite banish anymore and are only growing worse after the loss of Carrie? They all boil down to one. What if I have become a curse to those I know and love?

Will people even want to be around me one day if others keep dying around me? Perhaps I am no longer safe to be around.

Will I die alone because everyone will fear my presence? Will I lose even my closest friends one day? Would even Seth shy away at some point?

The tears came sweeping over me, gut wrenching sobs bending my body in half, my chest reaching my knees as I remained in bed on my side, my eyes screwed tightly shut, as though I could keep my tears from escaping.

Memories continued to pour over me. I may not have seen Carrie in thirty years before seeing her this week when she died, but we had always kept in touch, writing letters multiple times a year. Once a year on her birthday, I made a long-distance phone call and it was always a pleasure to hear her voice and relish a good long chat. We may not have been in close contact over the years, but Carrie had remained a constant in my life, from well before I knew Frank.

While I had initially been saddened to leave behind my hopes of a career in journalism to marry Frank, Carrie had been quick to point out the importance of teaching, encouraging me to pursue it as a viable option for a married woman without children. For many years, our letters were a who's who of stories regarding the antics of high school students. Sometimes I asked her for advice on how to handle troubled students. A week or two might go by before I would receive a response, but it was always due to her taking care and attention in answering, understanding that her words and admonishments would be taken into great consideration with real students who needed a caring adult in their lives.

Being rather reserved myself, it had often been easier to confide in letters to her than it had ever been in-person to my contemporaries. Carrie was my safe person to share my struggles and gain perspective.

There was no greater struggle that I shared with her than my despair in not being able to give Frank a child. I remember the first time I put my fears to paper, telling her that every month, I hoped and prayed to no avail and it had been over a year of trying to make our dreams happen. I remember feeling my cheeks grow red as I wrote that secret in a letter, feeling scandalous somehow. I found that it was often easier to tell my mentor and friend from behind the protection of paper and pen, pouring my heart and often my tears into the words on the page, trusting that she would listen from afar and share words of wisdom. After sending that letter where I shared such private woes, I had waited on pins and needles for almost two weeks for her reply. She had started that letter by saying, Child, there is no woman alive who I can say would make a better mother than you. I do not understand why some women are not able to bear children, but I do know that that young man of yours loves you fiercely.

When I did conceive, she had been the first person I told the joyous news to, and she was also the person I called late one night sobbing, when I lost that baby, never to conceive another. Those days of loss and grief were when she shared about her own first baby during the war that I had long suspected existed, in an effort to give me comfort. And she had. For many years, she attempted to encourage me not to give up hope on a baby and I did my best to have hope. Yet, even when it became apparent it would never happen, she would listen, somehow providing comfort, but never letting me feel sorry for myself.

Today, people have therapists to confide in, which is a wonderful thing. But I had Carrie. I owe her so much.

When Wendell died fifteen years ago, I had sent flowers and called, but I had been unable to attend the funeral, as my own mother had been ill at that time. Yet, once again, she had been able to offer me comfort when Frank died, having gone through that desert path herself.

Even so. I regretted how much more I could have had with her as a friend if I had only taken advantage of it. I have had the means the last few years to travel to see her long before I did this past week.

Why didn't I? Why was there always an excuse?

If I had visited regularly to help assuage her loneliness, would she have been as susceptible to people like Rev. Willie John Fargo? I suppose I will never know. We could have been even closer at this point in our lives, both widows with more free time and means and opportunities to spend time with those we love.

I knew she had always been proud of me. When The Corpse Danced at Midnight was published, she had sent me a bouquet of flowers in congratulations, as she has done with every book published since.

I continued to ruminate on our conversation earlier this week before her death.

It had been an understatement when I told her, You know, if it hadn't been for your encouragement, there might not have been any books.

You were a joy to teach, child.*

I had been a joy? Carrie was not one to pander or coddle. If she said something, especially a compliment, she meant it. That young girl I was so long ago had been a joy? I had been so idealistic then, my strawberry blonde hair to my shoulders, gangly legs, and freckles scattered on my face and arms which I hated.

I had been a joy.

She had to be the only remaining person in this world who would call me child as a term of endearment. Certainly, the only person I would allow to do so.

Carrie had started as my teacher, but she had been so much more to me. A role model, a mentor, and a friend.

Perhaps if I had not met her, I would have still accomplished some of the things I had. But we don't get to know that, do we? I think that is a blessing. Because I know that who I am today is in large part to Carrie Pearson McKittrick.

"Thank you, Carrie. I will never ever forget you," I whisper aloud, through my heavy tears.

"Who are you talking to, Jess?"

I felt my body shoot straight up in bed, whipping around to face the door. Seth had made it inside the house and upstairs to my bedroom with no warning. Or so I thought, to have him mutter under his breath, "I have been yelling for five minutes, woman." When I saw him, he was standing hesitant at my open bedroom door. But when his face shifted to resignation, although I was not sure of what he was resigning himself to, he appeared to make an internal decision, moving confidently to my bedside, pulling back my sheets, exposing me to view.

"What are you wearing, woman?"

"What do you mean? What is the meaning of this, you barging into my bedroom and investigating my nightclothes?"

"That's just it. You are in bed at eleven o'clock, on a Friday, crying, not able to respond to my calling you from downstairs. I don't have a quiet voice, woman." His eyes soften, "I know you lost your friend, Jess, but I haven't seen you grief stricken like this since Frank died. If I had to guess, I'd say that is Frank's shirt?" He asked, gesturing at my odd attire. I nod my head. He continued, "And you are in the bed, wearing his shirt and a pair of underwear and nothing else at midday with tears streaming down your face faster than you can wipe them away." There was no question. Just a statement of fact.

I watched as his face shifted and understanding he had made another decision, he reached for my hand pulling me towards the edge of the bed.

"Time to get up, Jess."

Strangely, I didn't argue with him. Instead, I followed him, as he led me into the bathroom. I stood in the doorway watching as he turned the shower on, steam filling the bathroom.

"Seth—I'd rather take a bath."

"No, I don't trust you not to drown."

Appalled, I responded, "I'm not on suicide watch!"

He ignored me, gathering a fresh towel within easy reach of the shower, motioning that I should come closer to him.

Before I could grasp what was happening, he whipped Frank's shirt up and over my head in one fluid motion, my arms seemingly following without thought or pretense. "Seth!" I screamed. What was he doing, undressing me? But his only response was to shimmy my underwear down my thighs, dropping both articles of clothing on the floor. I tried to cover myself with my hands belatedly, but he reached to grip them both in his own, squeezing them, before jerking me the few remaining steps to the shower, moving the curtain aside to encourage me to get in.

Now that I was hidden from view, I seemed to gain the confidence to put him in his place when I couldn't before out of astonishment.

"What in the world has come over you, Seth?"

"I am a doctor, woman, and you are my patient—and my friend. You have been in bed now for almost eighteen hours. You are sweaty, flushed and your makeup is smudged from yesterday. You need a shower…but I can still hear you crying, Jess." His voice faded, sounding uncomfortable but refusing to cower as he listened to my quiet sobs from behind the curtain.

"I can't stop crying, Seth," sinking down the shower wall, sitting in the bottom of the tub, letting the warm water cascade over my body, my head tilted against the tile.

I could hear him shuffle around, before I heard him perch on the edge of the bathtub.

"My hand is right here, Jess, if you want to hold it." He set it down, as though it was independently waiting on me, moving the shower curtain enough for me to maintain a false sense of modesty since he had already seen me nude, while letting me see his hand.

I leaned my head back against the back of the shower now though, staring at him from the edge of the curtain, tears continuing down my face, even as the water from the shower continued down my body. Slowly, as though my hand was separate from the rest of my body, I reached for his, clasping it tightly.

Seth stared at our hands for a long moment, before he asked, looking up at my face from the edge of the curtain, "Will you tell me about Carrie?"

"What do you mean?"

"I'd like to hear about her. You have mentioned her before, but only in passing. Seems like she was an important person to you. Will you tell me about her?"

So, I did. While I sat in the bottom of the tub, with the warm water running over me from the showerhead above, I told Seth story after story about Carrie, starting with my early memories of her as my teacher, her meeting my parents and helping me get into Harrison. The tears continued to flow and I made no effort to stop, only occasionally shifting in the shower spray to avoid water in my face, while seeking to maintain my body temperature.

When I finally fell quiet, I sniffled, leaning my head back to close my eyes. My tears had all but stopped, as though the last bit of hydration had been sapped from my body. I felt exhausted, but somehow sated as well. As though I had done a task that had seemed insurmountable, but I had pushed through it nonetheless.

"Woman, don't fall asleep."

"I'm not. But I suppose I need to actually clean myself before I get out."

I thought he would leave to afford me a bit of privacy, but he did not. I stared at him, hoping he would get the idea, but he said, "I'm not leaving this room woman. I'll put back the curtain so I can't see, and you get cleaned up. While I trust that you would never hurt yourself, I don't trust that you won't hurt yourself by accident. I know you haven't eaten anything in close to twenty-four hours now. The last thing I need is for you to pass out and hit your head. So, I'll wait here until you are done. I will help you dress, if need be, and then we will go downstairs and have lunch."

There was no sense in arguing. I could hear it in his voice.

Instead, I managed to stand up, hearing him caution me from the other side of the curtain to take my time standing, in case I was lightheaded. I washed my hair and cleaned my body as swiftly as I could, before I turned the water off.

"I'm going to pull back the curtain, Jess."

"Wait!"

But he already had, holding one of my large fluffy towels in front of him, not openly staring at me, but not refraining either. Now that I was not actively crying, I was beginning to process the fact that Seth had seen my body and I felt my face grow warm.

He must have sensed what I was worried about because he leaned forward placing a warm kiss on my forehead. "You have nothing to worry about, my dear."

I furrowed my brow in confusion, "What does that mean?"

"You are beautiful, Jess."

"Oh."

"Now that you are safely out of the tub, I will go find you a fresh pair of pajamas and underwear and you can dress privately."

"Oh, you will, will you?" I couldn't stop my petty comment, despite the fact that I knew he would take care of me and was genuinely concerned for my wellbeing.

His hazel eyes locked with my own, a challenge in his, "Ayuh, but I will be out on the landing waiting on you. I won't hesitate to come back in here if I have cause for concern."

I broke eye contact first. Seth loves me. He has never said it but he doesn't have to. Just as he knows I love him and have never told him. We are both of that generation that actions mean far more than words. Despite the fact that our actions have been perhaps less showy than most would use to show romantic love. Perhaps that was why our love had never really come into fruition.

While Seth loves me, part of that love has always meant that he takes exceptional care of me, driving me places, cooking for me, spending time with me. That love has extended to doing what he believed best for me today, even if it was not necessarily what I wanted. Especially if it relates to my health and safety, as he has the upper hand as not just my friend, but as my doctor.

So, I knew he meant it. He would come back into the bathroom and dress me like a child if he thought I needed assistance, and while I had no doubt, he would look at me while doing so, I also knew that he would not take advantage or leer at me either.

I would always be safe with Seth, even if I was literally exposed to his view.

Knowing I had no leg to stand on against him, I turned to the sink to begin my toilette, while waiting for him to bring fresh clothes. Grateful that he was at least allowing me back in pajamas when he returned to provide me fresh clothing, he told me he was going downstairs to make us lunch, asking me to join him in the kitchen when I was ready.

Joining him downstairs less than a quarter of an hour later, I was dressed in fresh pajamas and wrapped in my robe. I knew that it was still hard for him to handle that I was not dressed normally in the middle of the day, but it was a vast improvement over how I looked when he first arrived this morning.

Seth was making clam chowder and toasting a thick sourdough bread that made my mouth water. The smell of fresh coffee felt like a siren call to my brain, and I smiled when he turned from the counter with a fresh cup ready to hand me. I gulped it as quickly as I could without burning my mouth.

He pulled my chair out from the table, gesturing for me to sit down, as though he was the owner of this residence and not me. I wanted to express to him how much his care meant though at this moment.

"Thank you, Seth, for being here and for taking care of me."

"Nowhere else I'd rather be," he said softly, placing his warm hand on my shoulder, squeezing me, before moving the food over to the table for us to eat.

We ate in near silence, only murmuring from time to time for requests for more coffee or bread. When I was full and could not imagine eating anything further, I held up my hand begging for release.

"I can't eat another bite. It was delicious though. I didn't think I had anything in the house after being out of town."

He barked in laughter, "You know you didn't, woman. I brought the bread and the items for the soup myself."

I gazed at him, feeling my eyes water again, my grief still too close to the surface. He reached for my hand and I gave it to him. I think I would give him anything if he could take my pain and sadness away. Rubbing my hand between both of his, I watched his gentle movements. I could not feel them though. My body felt numb. I had to tell myself that his touch was real, as I could see with my own eyes that it was.

Meeting my eyes with his own, he must have seen how troubled I was again, because he pulled me to my feet. Muttering that the stove was off and he would take care of cleaning the kitchen later, he led me back upstairs to my bedroom. I watched as he fluffed my pillows and straightened the bedding, before letting me climb back under the covers.

He started to kiss my forehead as though he would leave me, but I grabbed his shirt in a panic. My heart was racing; I could not let him walk out. "Don't leave me. Stay. Please, Seth."

I did feel his hands then, grab my own, as he coaxed my grip free from his shirt, nodding at me.

Kicking off his shoes, he moved to sit on top of the blankets, but I roughly said, "Not on your life. Undress and get comfortable."

"Woman–"

I started to unbutton his shirt myself. Two could play this game. I needed him. I had thought that meant I needed him near me to hold me close. When I started to expose his chest to my view, seeing the thin undershirt underneath with his soft salt and pepper chest hair peeking out of the top of it, something shifted. A warmth pooled in my belly and a flow of desire lit a fire within me, traveling down to my pelvis. I had wasted time not being a closer friend to Carrie and so many others. I would not miss out on being close to Seth. I had no idea what it would ultimately lead to, but my grief made me reckless. I knew we loved each other. The rest would have to sort itself out later.

He halted my progress. It was late afternoon now, but still daylight, although the blinds had been closed in my bedroom since arriving home last night.

"What are you doing, woman?" His voice was ragged, but soft, sensing my intent.

"You know exactly what I am doing."

He tried to stop my hands, but I pulled free. In the back of my brain, I wondered briefly if I was taking advantage of him. If the tables were turned, would I feel that he was forcing me without my consent? I hoped not. I promised myself that I would stop if I believed he did not want me, but I had to push him a little bit. I had to know if he could. If I would. I had to show him that I wanted him. I am not sure why, but damn it, I was done being logical and appearing so put together all the time.

I took control, pulling his shirt free from his trousers, before straddling him. I kissed him, forcing his mouth to open, hearing and feeling him groan. Reaching for his hands, I placed one directly on my breast and the other between my legs. I didn't pull away from his lips, but instead, I whispered into his mouth, "Please, Seth. Touch me. I need to feel something."

Suddenly, I was on my back, with the full weight of Seth's body on top of me, groaning as the air left my lungs. He succeeded in grabbing my hands this time, raising them both above my head. His face now an inch from mine, I saw his face, strained with emotion, even as I could feel how his body had already responded below.

"We can't make love, Jess. Not right now. I would be taking advantage of your grief."

"It would be me taking advantage of you. I'm the one who was undressing you."

"I'm well aware, woman. But–"

"But what? It's sex, Seth. Remember how wonderful sex is?! I know it's been a long time for us both…but–don't you find me attractive?"

"It wouldn't be just sex with you and you know it, woman. If I ever get to experience that with you, we will be making love. I…love you."

"I know you do. I love you." I wanted to whine. I could feel him against my thigh and I rotated my hips, trying to coax him to throw caution to the wind.

"So, we can't. Not like this."

"I want you, Seth."

"You know I want you."

"I can feel you–but that actually wasn't what I meant. I want a relationship with you. I have wasted so much time. I wasted time when I could have traveled to Carrie more over the years. She was lonely again and I was always too busy. I wasted time with Grady and Donna…and more importantly, I have held you at arm's length. For fear of losing a mate again. It's unconscionable. Seth, please. I need to feel something besides grief and sadness right now."

We did not move. He was still holding me firmly in place with his body directly on top of mine and my arms still being held above my head. Slowly, he let go of my hands, and sat up on his elbows, shifting up and backwards against my headboard. I felt my eyes tear up again, sensing that I would not get my way this time, despite my plea.

He wrapped his arms around me, tugging me against him, as he flipped me around, with my back against his chest. Keeping his arms snug against me, he widened his legs, to let me sit in between.

For the second time today, I watched him undress me, undoing my buttons on my pajama shirt, parting it to expose my breasts. He untied my pants, but left them on me, as he moved his warm large hand inside them. The other hand had found a breast and I hissed in reply as he filled his palm with its weight.

"Is this alright?" His voice rumbled behind me.

I nodded. I would take anything he would give me and already my body was responding in excitement and wanting.

Keeping his hand inside my pants but over my underwear, I felt him begin to move his warm fingers, his pressure firm and intense. Moving my legs apart, he chuckled in my ear. "Patience is a virtue, my dear."

I scoffed. But my response triggered something in him, because in a flurry, he yanked my legs over top of his own, before slipping his hand inside my underwear. His fingers explored, as my breathing intensified and my hips moved in tandem against his hand. He was aroused again and the knowledge was empowering as I rubbed my bottom against him, making him growl, even as a strange whimper left my own lips. My body began to tremble as two fingers entered me while his thumb circled me.

I felt the building of my orgasm as it began to get closer and closer, forcing any other thought, feeling, or emotion to flee. I was completely selfish, as my body pressed up against his hand, even as my own hand tried to reach for him.

"No, this is about you tonight. If you still want us tomorrow, we will talk, but not until then."

That was a clear boundary that I vaguely understood, moving one hand to clutch his leg and the other my breast.

He whispered in my ear, "Let go. Come apart for me, my dear. Let me see—and hear you."

My body tightened immediately around his fingers and my back arched against his chest, as I screamed. He did not let up. He wouldn't. Continuing to touch and tease me, until I had moved through my climax completely, my body was now limp against him.

Would I feel embarrassed now? No, I didn't think so. I knew I wouldn't when he kissed my cheek, telling me that he loved me. I felt so relaxed and languid in his arms, feeling his heart pounding against me.

I stifled a yawn. "That's a good idea, Jess. Let's have a bit of a snooze." Keeping his arms around me, he rolled us both over onto our sides, my head now nestled in the crook of his arm.

"Seth?"

"Ayuh?"

"I didn't take advantage of you, did I? I don't want to think you felt like you had to do that."

"My god, woman, I didn't have to do a damn thing. I had the absolute thrill of a lifetime to give pleasure to the woman I love."

"I love you, Seth."

"Jess, get some rest. If you wake up later and don't throw me out of this bed, we will talk."

I scooted my bottom back against him, as he was now the big spoon, and said with confidence, "I won't throw you out. But—I want more from you than to talk."

He chuckled, his breath tickling my ear, "What did you have in mind?"