I'm sitting across the table from a gorgeous woman. She's got a model-worthy face, perfect teeth, sparking blue eyes, flawless hair, legs a mile and a half long, and the most luscious body a man could imagine. She's holding my hand across the table, chattering away, and I'm not really listening to a word she says, but I'm smiling at the right times, nodding, giving a polite chuckle when needed. She doesn't know that I hate having my hand held in public, that it makes me nervous to think that I can't whip out my glovesin an instant if needed. You would know that. You would know that I hatethis kind of mindless chatter, too. But you're not here.

I'm sitting across the table from a gorgeous woman. She's practically throwing herself at me. And I'm completely miserable.

I can't even remember what her name is. I think it started with a "B" something like, "Bianca" or "Brittany"… or maybe it was "Cynthia"? I'm lost.

I give her a sideways smirk as I pick up my drink and take a large sip. The whiskey burns but at least it reminds me that I'm not completely numb. I gently squeeze the brunette's hand. I can tell already that it's going to be a long night.

"So, would you like to come back to my place?" She asks as we stumble out of the restaurant several hours of useless chatter and several whiskeys later.

"Of course," I smile, determinedly ignoring the shock of pain through my heart at the thought of being with anyone but you. Somehow, I always manage to ignore the pain.

I leave as soon as she falls asleep, and I realize with a start that I'm still not sure what her name is.

Work is unbearable the next day. I don't want to look you in the eye. I'm terrified that you'll see the guilt in my eyes, that you'll just know what happened, because you're you, and you know things about me like that. You read me so well that it's almost frightening.

I wish I could tell you how much I hate our relationship. Not that I hate you, not that I hate your presence beside me. But I hate not being able to show you how I feel. I hate not being able to kiss you, to hold you, to leave love notes in your mailbox, to do all the things that a normal man is able to do with the woman he loves. I can do those things all I want with sluts like the woman I slept with last night, but not with you, never with you.

I think what I hate most is that it doesn't even seem to bother you anymore. You're so cold, so in control of every emotion. There are times when it really pisses me off, actually. Times when I want to just slam you against the wall and kiss you until you can't breathe just so I can prove that I still mean something to you.

Because, you see, it matters to me. It matters that I can't kiss you like that. It matters that I don't get to treat you the way you deserve to be treated. It matters that you haven't had a date in over a year, while I've dated and slept with half of Central (if the rumor mill is to be believed, that is). It matters that I end up taking perfect, leggy brunettes to bed instead of the imperfect, stunning, headstrong blonde who's standing in front of me.

"Sir?" You say, and I almost feel my mouth go dry just from the sound of your voice. How long has it been since we've had a proper conversation? I can't really remember anymore.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" I have to play the commanding officer, as always, to push aside my feelings, and I just hate it.

"You need to finish your paperwork, sir. It's due by eleven." You set a fresh cup of coffee on my desk and walk away, and I feel this insane urge to put my head down on my desk and cry.

Because it doesn't even feel like we're in love on days like today, days when I'm sleeping with other women, when we can't even talk to each other, when all you seem to be capable of doing is reminding me about paperwork and fetching coffee.

I hate myself for letting us become this.

I find an excuse to work late, and I know that you'll stay, too, because you always do. I don't risk this very often, because we both know that consequences could be messy if anyone sees us act as anything but an officer and subordinate.

Still, we can't relax around each other in the office. We sit at our separate desks, shoulders tense, breathing heavy. We don't speak, and, as always, I find myself blaming it all on you, because it's just easier that way.

I hate this.

I find myself getting angrier and angrier with you. I convince myself that you're acting this way on purpose, that you know about what's-her-name from last night, and now you're trying to punish me.

I know how to handle women. I know how to deal with jealousy and ardor and even the anger of a woman scorned, but I still can't deal with you. I still don't understand you.

I know that you love me, I know that you will follow me to hell and back if I ask you, but, still, I can't figure you out.

So, I get angry, I blame the tension and the awkwardness on you, because there's nothing else I can do really.

I'm screaming at you, in my own head, right now.

"Don't you see how much this hurts me? Don't you see how much I hate it when you act so cold and heartless? When I can't even ask you what's wrong without fear of being discovered? It's your fault that I sleep with other women, not mine! If you'd just act for five minutes like you had half a soul, I'd be fine, but you don't! You never let your mask slip away for even one freaking second, do you? I'm sick of this. Can't you see how much it matters to me?"

"Sir?"

Your voice startles me out of my thoughts of anger, and suddenly the flame of it just dies.

You're looking at me with those soft, sweet eyes of yours, frowning, your eyebrows crinkled, and I just can't stand to be angry with you. I never was, really. I'm the one I want to yell at.

"Yes?" I say with a slight sigh on my lips.

"It's after ten. You should be heading home, sir. The rest of this can wait until morning."

Technically, we could both have left the office at five, and we both know it, but I smile slightly, and we both pretend ignorance.

"You're probably right, Lieutenant," I say, stretching and putting my hands behind my head. "Will you allow me to accompany you home?" I ask, knowing the answer.

You hesitate,just like you alwaysdo,your eyes searching for my motive. I try to keep my eyes innocent, and for the most part, my motive is innocent, too.

I just want to feel something from you again, some kind of connection. Because I'm lost without you, and I'm not sure if you know it anymore.

"Thank you, sir," you finally say.

We walk in silence, which doesn't really bother me. It's a nice night, and it almost seems foolish to spoil it with useless awkward chatter, anyway. Still, when we reach your apartment building, I almost lose it.

You're gorgeous. Your hair has started to fall from it's clip, and it just shines in the moonlight. I can see the uncertainty, the sadness in your eyes, and it breaks my heart.

I'm not sure what comes over me, but I have to show you, in that moment, how much you mean to me.

So, I kiss you.

It's a soft, tender kiss, and I hear you gasp before returning the pressure. You're so sweet, so delicate and soft, and a part of me wants to just press you against the wall and fuck you, but I manage to stay a gentleman, all too aware of the fact that we are out in public. We don't risk this too often, but, on nights like tonight, I need reminding that we are doing all of this for each other, for the chance to be together. I need to be reminded that it's all worth it.

I pull away from the kiss, finally, because if I taste anymore of this forbidden fruit, I'll have to have the whole damn tree, and I just can't do that to you again. I've hurt you one time too many, already.

My breathing is labored, even though the kiss we shared wasn't passionate. I can see that your shoulders are heaving as well, and we stare at each other in the moonlight.

"I-"

You cut across me, not allowing me to speak.

"I know."

Of course you know. You're so much stronger than me. You don't need to be reminded the way that I do.

We continue to stare at each other, and, in that moment, I remember. I remember why this hurts so damn much. I remember why you put on your mask of ice every day at work. I remember why we only kiss in the dead of night when no one else is watching. I remember that this hurts as much for you as it does for me, maybe even more.

I remember that it matters to you, too.