Author's Note: Thanks for the wonderful response to this story! I thought I was done, but Lisbon wanted her say.

I wake up with a sore throat and the beginnings of a bad headache, and after staggering around the kitchen making coffee, I give in to the undeniable fact that I've caught Jane's bug. I should have just stayed with him last night, though my bed is way more comfortable. Maybe he's feeling well enough today to come over. Though he should probably just rest; I'm going to be miserable company for a while. I hate being sick.

My voice is croaky as I leave Abbott a voicemail, and I'm glad I filed my report on the jewelry case yesterday while I still could. At least he won't be expecting one from his consultant, so I don't need to worry about trying to coax Jane into anything.

It's still weird not to think of Jane as my consultant. Even now when I can call him my boyfriend, letting go of our old relationship is hard. He was always mine, from the beginning, though at first it was a mixed blessing. Being responsible for his behavior was tough, and I had plenty of sleepless nights because I was responsible for his safety. In return I got a case solution rate that made others green with envy and, eventually, a loyal friend.

I still have the friend; since we're keeping our new relationship under wraps, our behavior on the job hasn't changed. I still have the sleepless nights, but fewer of them, and sometimes they're due to sex rather than stress. That night after we closed the car theft ring case was a good example. Jane couldn't let go of me and couldn't keep still, he was so hyped up, so he treated me to a marathon session I couldn't have imagined in my wildest dreams.

He's still my responsibility to protect, mostly because we both prefer it that way. But I have an extra responsibility to him now that we're involved. He won't stop to think before trying to help me, won't even hesitate before jumping in front of guns with nothing but a smile and a story. It occurred to me that night that he probably thought getting himself killed was a good solution if he couldn't stop them from killing me.

It's terrifying. But it's not something I can change. I can't ask him to stand by and lose another person he loves.

It worries me, but it's an unavoidable part of our jobs. And while Jane might think about walking away, I can't imagine ever being anything but a cop. But if I had to choose between Jane and the job, which would it be?

Could I really be such a workaholic I'd throw away a good man who loves me—and is the only man I've ever really loved—for a job, no matter how fulfilling I find it? Wouldn't I hate myself, waking up alone in a cold bed and remembering how warm he was, how I loved his voice first thing in the morning, how amazing the sex was?

Yes. Of course I would. I'm never giving Jane up, after waiting so long to be with him.

I just can't imagine what I would do if I quit the FBI. Aside from some waitressing in high school and an admin job in campus security in college, I've never done anything else. I'm not qualified for anything outside law enforcement.

But I bet Jane would come up with something. If he suggested leaving, he'd have a plan. Knowing him, the plan would involve winning obscene amounts of money at various casinos around the world and going on an extended vacation. Which I could see for a while, but for the next thirty or forty years?

That assumes we won't get sick of each other or, to be specific, that he won't get bored with me. If he met someone clever and ambitious like Erica Flynn but who wasn't a murderer, he might find her a better fit for the lifestyle he wants.

The thing is, he trusts me. And while he has me, he won't look at anyone else. He's got a loyal heart. There might be somebody better for him out there, but he won't find her while he's with me. So maybe, if he wants to ditch the FBI, I should choose the job for his sake?

No. Because that would be a lie, wouldn't it? And we're done lying to each other. And if Jane says he'll never stop loving me, he means it. Just like I know I'll never stop loving him, no matter what happens between us. I have to trust our love. I have to trust him to know what he wants and needs and not second guess him. Just like all the times I went along with his plans to catch bad guys. Those usually worked out okay. Mostly.

Ugh. I'm too sick to think about this.

I finish my coffee, then take my phone back to bed and text Jane. How are you this morning?

His reply comes so quickly I know I didn't wake him. Just tired. How are you?

I got your bug. Already told Abbott I'm staying home today.

Do you need anything? Do you have tissues and medicine? I could bring some over.

No need. I'm just going to sleep through it. Like he should have done, except he couldn't leave the case unfinished. I can sympathize with that, so I'm not going to complain about it.

Chicken soup?

I have food, I remind him. The last time he cooked for me, he crammed my cabinets and fridge full of what he considers healthy eating options. The oranges I took him yesterday were actually ones he bought for me. Maybe I should have eaten them, I think. I'm just going back to sleep.

I take a break to sneeze and cough, then head for the bathroom. Ah, I do have some cold and flu medicine. I take a dose, then crawl back into bed to find another text: Rest well, and drink a lot of fluid. Water, not coffee. I'll check on you later.

OK. You rest too.

Love you.

I smile at the screen like an idiot. Love you too.

Then I try to get comfortable on my pillow and hope I'll fall back asleep soon.

mmm

It takes a long time for me to fall back to sleep, and a coughing fit wakes me up not very long after. I blow my nose, cough some more, and sit up, hoping that will help. The room spins a little, and while I'm waiting for that to stop, I realize I hear someone in the kitchen. "Jane?" I call.

He appears a second later, wearing a navy pinstriped apron I didn't realize either of us owned and carrying a cup of tea. "How are you?"

I open my mouth and start coughing. Jane sits beside me and rubs my back, then offers me the teacup. "Honey and lemon," he says. "It'll help."

He rubs my back while I sip, and I lean against him, grateful that he's here even though he should probably still be in bed himself.

"I'm making you my homemade chicken noodle soup," he says. "Guaranteed to cure what ails you. I'm going to make a second batch later and freeze it, in case I get sick again."

"I would have gotten you some chicken noodle soup, but you asked for bean or tomato," I point out.

"I'm particular about my chicken noodle soup," he says.

Big surprise there. It probably has some obscure secret ingredient. Brandy, maybe. Jane's cooking is a weird mix of gourmet snobbery, carnie grub, and traditional Irish food. Maybe it's whiskey in the soup.

Of course, I can't complain. At 12 I knew how to cook simple kid foods, so that was what my brothers ate growing up, and I never had time to branch out much. If Jane had asked me for chicken noodle soup he would have gotten Campbell's. My brothers did just fine on that when they were sick.

"Drink your tea," Jane reminds me, so I do. I can't really taste it, but it feels good on my throat, and the steam is helping me breathe.

"You need to rest. Don't overdo it," I tell him. My brothers were like that, eager to jump up and run around as soon as they felt even a little better. They never listened when I told them they'd get better faster if they let their bodies focus on getting rid of the crud instead of playing football in the backyard.

"Cooking isn't that strenuous. And I took a cab over here," he says, smiling. "I'm not so weak I can't take care of my best girl."

"Best girl?" I snort into the teacup. I'd better be his only girl.

He reads the thought off me, of course, and says in that raspy whisper that makes me melt every time, "My only love."

We haven't talked about being exclusive, just sort of assumed it. We haven't talked about our relationship at all, really, just doing what feels right. I'm fine with that, except now because I'm sick and cranky, I'm kind of weirded out by it.

"I'm not going anywhere, Teresa," he assures me, rubbing his cheek on my hair. "I want to be where you are, whether it's your sickbed or the FBI. You don't need to worry about what I said yesterday, okay? I was just rambling."

He wasn't, but I appreciate that he's trying to reassure me. "Okay."

"After I finish the soup, I'm going to take a nap."

"Good. With me?"

"Unless you'd rather I take the couch."

"No." I finish the tea and he sets the cup down on the nightstand, then hugs me as I lay my head on his shoulder. He's warm and comforting and makes me feel a little less miserable. "I like having you here," I whisper.

"Good. Because I like being here," he whispers back.

I cough again, and Jane reaches over to flip my pillow, then eases me down to lay my flushed face on the cool surface. "Go back to sleep, love," he says. "When you wake up, there'll be soup."

I'm already half asleep as he bends to kiss my cheek, then gets up.

I can take care of myself, but it's nice not to have to. I'm glad he's here.

mmm

When I wake up, I find Jane sound asleep facing me, curled up on top of the covers, still fully dressed except for his jacket and shoes. He has his hands tucked between his knees like he's cold, so I fold the quilt over him, turning on my side to face him.

I love watching him sleep; I always have. In the beginning it was because that was the only time I was sure he wasn't putting on a show, and I hoped to learn more about the real man. Now I like looking at him closely without him feeling self conscious, giving me the luxury of memorizing the little lines around his eyes and mouth, the tiny imperfections that make him more, not less, handsome.

Giving in to temptation, I lay my hand on his cheek, stroking lightly with my thumb. He smiles a little, making me smile in return.

All these years I thought Jane didn't like to be touched, but I know now he's been starved for it. It was part of him denying himself out of guilt for losing his family, thinking he didn't deserved to be loved or touched with tenderness. Now that he's getting past that, he responds instantly to any little touch I give him, like an eager puppy whose owner has been gone for a while. It isn't about sex, either, which is good because I feel like crap at the moment. It's about him feeling loved.

I wish I'd figured this out months ago. If I'd been brave enough to start touching him regularly when we started working together again, maybe I'd have seen how he felt about me without dragging us both—and Marcus—through my indecision and then my wrong decision. God, what I did to them both. Marcus must feel betrayed, I think, but what really breaks my heart is the thought of how badly Jane must have hurt trying to let me go.

I'll never hurt him again if I can help it. If that means giving up my career, well, I'll have to find a way to be okay with that, I guess.

My hand moves into his hair, ruffling the curls and scratching lightly at his scalp. Jane relaxes out of his curled up position, stretching out and shifting toward me. If I weren't feverish and sweaty, I'd scoot over and cuddle him, but that will wait until I'm better.

It takes so little to make him happy. I always thought he'd be pretty high maintenance, I guess because he is such a high maintenance consultant, but he isn't. He just wants to be with me. If he can lay his head in my lap while we're watching TV, so much the better.

He's a beautiful man, inside and out. He's been hurt, yes, and he may never heal totally, but he's trying his best to be good for me. It's more than I deserve, better than I could ever have hoped for. And being in the right relationship shows me how far off target I was with Marcus. I hope he'll find someone soon to make him realize that too.

I focus on Jane again, just as his eyes flutter and open. He gives a sleepy smile when he sees I'm awake and says, "Hey."

"Hey," I manage to respond without coughing.

"How are you feeling?"

This time I'm not so lucky. A horrible, deep coughing fit leaves me out of breath, and when it's over Jane moves my hair out of my face and says, "I'll get you some water. Or soup if you want it."

"Soup," I croak out. Something warm and nourishing sounds perfect.

A few minutes later I'm sitting against the headboard with Jane's arm around my shoulders as we sip soup from mugs. I can't taste it much, but it's full of chopped up vegetables and buttery soft noodles, and it goes down easy. "Good," I tell him.

"I'm glad you like it," he replies. "My mother used to make it. I found the recipe after she died. I made it for Charlotte when she was sick."

I lay my head on his shoulder, touched at being included in this chain of people Jane loved. "It's wonderful. Thank you."

He kisses my hair. "You're welcome, anytime." He's quiet for a minute, then says, "I'll always be here for you, Teresa. In sickness and in health."

If any other guy said something like that, I'd run for the hills. But when Jane says it, it just makes me feel safe. Loved.

I lay my free hand on his. "Me too."

He threads his fingers through mine, and we finish our soup. Connected. Together.

I may feel like crap, but I've never been happier.