It's four o'clock in the morning, and I'm picking up shards of glass from Josh Lyman's floor.

It's technically Christmas, and I am squinting through blurry eyelids to make sure that I don't scratch my finger on the shards of glass scattered across Josh Lyman's floor.

I haven't slept in two days, and I am having difficulty distinguishing which dots in front of my eyes are a symptom of sleep deprivation, and which ones are specks of Josh Lyman's blood that are splashed on the shards of glass on Josh Lyman's floor.

I'm not making any sense. And I'm picking up shards of bloodied glass from Josh Lyman's floor.

I collect the shards of glass from Josh Lyman's floor and throw them in his trash can. I rummage through Josh Lyman's cabinets to find duct tape and cardboard or a trash bag or something. I tape up Josh Lyman's window and wish I had attended more than two of those Girl Scouts meetings. I do the best I can to stay awake as I collapse onto Josh Lyman's couch. Because if something happens, I don't want to be asleep on Josh Lyman's couch.

I try to pretend that I'm camping under the stars. That the chill from my poor crafts-woman-ship on the window is a brisk wind in the woods. That I'm counting stars on a velvet black sky instead of bumps on Josh Lyman's popcorn ceiling. I try to pretend that the thumping in my heart and pounding in my head is some kind of drum circle around a fire. Is that even a thing? I really did need to go to more of those Girl Scouts meetings. I try to rank my favorite Girl Scout cookies in definitive order.

I'm stuck on whether Do-si-dos or Tagalongs are number three, when I hear a rustling coming from Josh Lyman's bedroom. He crashed in bed the minute we got back from the hospital and has been completely out of it since then, so my first thought is that I'm hearing things. But it comes again, so I spring up and tiptoe as quickly as one can tiptoe to his door and poke my head in. By the time my eyes adjust to the pitch-blackness of his bedroom, I can just make out that he's rearranging pillows, so I try to slip away unseen. But then he says, "Donna?" in a stage whisper as if we were at a sleepover and he was trying not to wake the others.

"I thought you were sleeping," I match his whisper.

"Well, I was, but sleep is not a fixed state," he sits up awkwardly to turn on his bedside lamp and we both blink in the rawness of the light.

"Thank goodness for that," I say, and he scoffs loudly, so I just ask, "Can I get you anything?"

"No. I just..." he pauses for a few long seconds, looking down where he has folded his hands on his lap, "I'm sorry."

"For what?" I ask, though I realize it sounds kind of stupid to act as though I don't know what he's referring to. I am trying to convey that it isn't a problem. That I'm happy to be there for him. Well, not happy, like, I'm happy he's hurting, but that being there for him isn't even something I give a second thought.

"For this. For tonight. For all of it," he sighs, his eyes still fixed in a cast-down gaze, "This isn't in your job description."

"Josh?" I say, feeling my head tilt empathetically, which probably isn't what he's looking for right now. He's embarrassed. The last thing he's asking for is sympathy. He's trying to get me to say something like "it's cool" and move on. But I can't seem to help moving closer to him.

He looks up at me from beneath his lashes, with a smirk and an eyebrow raised to joke, "I mean, isn't it, like kind of a big night for you gentiles?"

"Josh."

"And you're stuck cleaning up after my... what is it?" he asks, returning back to looking intently at his hands, "Episode? Break down? Temporary leave of sanity?"

"Let's go with the former," I nod crossing my arms in front of me.

"Anyway, that's all," he slumps against his pillows but still won't look at me, "I know this isn't what you signed up for. Any of it. So, thank you for y'know. What you did tonight. But, I promise I'm going to work on... what do the shrinks say? Setting boundaries."

For a solid ten seconds I find myself at a loss as how to respond. I'm standing in Josh Lyman's bedroom, and I have no idea what to say. It's not the first time I've been in a bedroom with him. From the campaign trail to out-of-city trips to dropping something off for him that he left at the White House. But it's the first time I've been here that wasn't remotely work-related. It's also the first time I've been here, and I can't think of anything to say.

I take a deep breath, the kind that it usually preceded by a Big Decision. So I venture to sit on the edge of his bed, my own hands folded in my lap, sitting as up right as I can. Perhaps overcompensating for the fact that I'm sitting on his bed. He briefly acknowledges me, but doesn't move.

"Josh," I finally say, "You know that I have the utmost respect for you as a boss and as an important figure in Democratic politics, and I would never do anything to jeopardize our professional, working relationship,"

"Donna…"

I press on because now that I've thought of what I'm going to say, if I stop, I'll have time to talk myself out of it, "And I know that you have trusted me to develop a closer friendship and camaraderie and sense of mutual… well, friendship, which I would also never want to take advantage of or…"

"Donna," Josh says again through a low exhale, "I am sure that you are about to say something very sweet, and I don't want to ruin the moment, but I am very tired, and a pretty damned hopped up on painkillers, so if you could maybe hit me with the bullet points for now, and fill me in on the details tomorrow after…"

"I love you," I blurt out. Josh just stares. "That's the bullet point."

He sits up looking at me with wide eyes and then falls back against his pillow, "Donna, you're saying that because of what happened today, and no…"

"No, no, Josh, that's not…"

"Donna, Donna," he closes his eyes, "Donna, just… please don't say something right now that you wouldn't be saying if I hadn't just shoved my hand through a window."

"You asked for the bullet points, and I can qualify and explain until I'm blue in the mouth, but that's the bullet point," I cry, a little louder than I wanted to.

He pries one eye open and says, "Blue in the mouth isn't a thing."

"It's an idiom,"

"It's not."

"Blue in the something."

"Donna," his eyes fall closed again and his head collapses against the headboard.

"My point is," I say, "There is a reason I'm telling you this now if you would let me expound on my bullet point."

"Okay," he opens his eyes enough to stare at the ceiling. I wonder if he's pretending to count stars. "I retract the thing about the bullet points, but not because I am any less tired or drugged out, but because I'm curious as to how you intend to rationalize that this isn't an impulsive decision based on the emotional nature of the past several hours."

"Okay. Okay. Okay." I stammer, feeling the pressure to explain something out loud that makes so much sense in my head that I had taken for granted how to verbalize it.

"Donna!" he shoots me sarcastic daggers, but I can't miss the sadness behind them, the hurt, the confusion. The whatever is going through his mind.

I close my eyes and brace myself for a second before I go off onto what feels like a bad rom-com monologue as I say it, but I'm not doing a lot of self-editing, "I love you! I love you very much. I don't know exactly what that means right now and neither do you, and that's okay. Some days, I'm pretty sure it means I'm in love with you, and some days I'm pretty sure it just means that you're like family to me, but that doesn't matter. All that matters is that I love you. And I'm telling you this now not… not because of the… window… and the… not because of that but because of what comes next."

I take another breath and look over to see that he is staring at me. He swallows before I go on, "I'm telling you this now because this stuff that you're working through up there isn't going to be as straightforward as a few stitches in your hand, and it's not going to go away as quickly as the scars. So I'm telling you this now because, well, because I love you Josh, I love you. And I value our friendship. And I value our working relationship, but you're so, so much more to me than that. And… and you don't have to protect me from this. From you. You don't need to compartmentalize off this part of your life from the people who love you. Of which I am one. When somebody loves you, you get to lean on them. I know that's not really your style, but… I'll be here if you ever… if you ever find that might… become your style. That's all. That's all I'm trying to say because I think it's important for you to know that…"

"Donna," his intense whisper cuts off my ramble, "I love you, too."

It's four thirty in the morning, and I'm sitting on the edge on Josh Lyman's bed.

It's technically Christmas, and I'm sitting on the edge of Josh Lyman's bed.

I'm sitting on the edge of Josh Lyman's bed, and he just told me he loves me.

"I don't know what that means right now, either," he says in the same soft voice, "And I don't think… I don't think that we're going to be able to figure that out any time soon, y'know?"

"I know."

And I think that's everything he's going to say because he closes his eyes again for a second before he adds, "But what I do know is that you're my first call when something happens. And not just because that's what you get paid to do. But because of the other thing. And you know if something happens to you…"

"You'll be my first call, too."

"Yeah."

"Yeah." He leans up and places the most tender of kisses on my cheek, and I squeeze the hand that isn't wrapped up in bandages. "I'm going to let you sleep now, but I'm going to be sitting right outside if you need anything…"

"First call."

"First call."

I stand up and move to the door as he slips further into the blanket. I make it as far as the doorway before he says, "Donna?" I spin around, and he is looking at me so intently I can barely catch breath, "This isn't the end of this conversation. I'm not exactly sure when we'll pick it back up again. It might not be… it might not be for a… for a long time. For a number of reasons. But this isn't where this conversation ends."

I nod and respond with the only thing I can think to say, "I love you, Josh."

Now I know that's everything, because in one move, he flicks off the lamps and drops into his comforter and just gives a sleepy grumble in response.

It's five o'clock in the morning, and I am wide awake on Josh Lyman's couch.

It's technically Christmas, and I am wrapped in what appears to be a very old afghan that smells like lint and wool on Josh Lyman's couch.

I haven't slept in two days, and I'm not even having to think of ways to keep myself from dozing off on Josh Lyman's couch. Because I did it. We did it. We finally acknowledged it. We finally acknowledged that there is in fact and it. And we acknowledged that we don't know what it is.

But I'm not in a hurry. We'll figure it out. Even if we don't acknowledge it again for another three years. Even if he sees other people in the meantime. Even if I see other people in the meantime. We did it. We said it. And this was just a preamble.

Tonight was one of the hardest nights of my life, and I had the easy part. But Josh Lyman is going to be okay. And we are going to be okay. And it is going to be okay. And who knows what it is going to look like in the future. But right now it looks like sleeping on Josh Lyman's couch knowing that he is asleep in his bed loving me. Regardless of what it means.