A/N: A special thanks to a great friend – Sara (sara-cupcaked) – for the beta and the kind words. She's not familiar with the show but helped anyway.

Spoilers: Up to Lady's Man, but nothing major since this takes place pre-LO:CI universe.

Disclaimer: No ownership is meant or implied by writing this story.

Death ends a life, not a relationship. – Robert Benchley

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It's the nights, she thinks, that are the hardest.

Then again, on some days every single moment feels like a burden, an obstacle to overcome; all she can do to get by is to continue through the motions, blindly moving from point A to point B to point C, just to get through the day without crumbling into tiny tiny pieces.

Still, it's the nighttime that she dreads the most. When the sky darkens and the streetlights sparkle, when late night talk show hosts make jokes and infomercials reign supreme, when silence becomes suffocating and noise is made by turning on the bedside radio, the sharp edge of loss cuts deep.

She gets through the mornings mostly by pretending she just missed him leaving for work, or that he just stepped out to the corner bakery to buy her a bagel or croissant. It helps too that without a cup of coffee she is worthless, her mind's not fully cognizant, and it's almost too easy to believe the made-up lies she tells herself.

It's harder though to pretend at night. It's not easy to lie when the reflection in the vanity mirror stares back showing the quiet, permanent pain that's etched on her face. It's not easy to lie when she's all alone in bed, the four walls closing in around her more every day. It's not easy to lie and pretend he's out late with friends, or that he's working around-the-clock on a case and can't come home.

She drinks bourbon, not because she particularly likes the taste, but because it was his drink. It reminds her of his kiss, the taste of it on his tongue and in his mouth, and of his breath warm against her skin. The bourbon burns her throat as she swallows, but she welcomes it, knowing with a few more sips, she can reach that place, that happy feeling place where the pain of losing him doesn't hurt quite so much because she's almost numb to everything.

It's at night, especially the really cold ones, when she'll pour a bourbon on the rocks, or three, and let the amber liquid warm her body and make it easier to yield to blissful forgetfulness.

It doesn't even matter that it has almost been a year. That old adage time heals all wounds is a lie. It's been eleven months and twenty-three days since she received the call, the one that took her breath away and brought her to her knees. That day her world fell apart, and she's still trying to pick up the pieces, trying to put herself together as if she's a puzzle that needs finishing. Except she already knows the most important piece is forever gone.

She misses everything about him. His laughter, the easy way he carried himself. His protective and possessive streak when another man looked at her, even though she should have been upset because she was more than capable of taking care of herself. She misses how he would disrupt her morning routine by joining her in the shower, making her late for work, and how in the end, she never really minded anyway. She misses how horribly unromantic he could be, and how he could still surprise her in the most unexpected ways when it really counted.

She misses the way she would catch him looking at her when he didn't think she would notice, and when he realized he had been caught, the way his mouth would curve in this slow widening smile until it seemed like his eyes were smiling too; and then how he would wink at her, as if to say she was his girl. She misses being his girl. She misses the intimacy of having someone there that knew her, knew all her faults and hang-ups and loved her in spite of them, or perhaps for them. She even misses arguing with him because of the way he could charm her into forgiving him so easily.

It's the nights that are the loneliest. Because what she misses most is his body next to hers, the comfort and safety she felt with him. It's cold on his side of the bed, she still thinks of it as that, and she misses his warmth. She misses turning to him in the middle of the night and his arms around her, and the quiet love they would make as evening shadows danced along the walls.

So, in the darkness, she lies alone in bed, and she prays for daylight to come. She tries to ignore the red LED lights on her bedside clock, gently mocking her as the minutes slip by slowly second by tiny millisecond. And she turns on the radio for some noise in hopes to drown out and silence her thoughts but it doesn't help. Because it's the nighttime when the pain of losing him is the worst, when the loss she feels creeps up and takes a hold of her in a death grip, threatening to smother her in memories of him. She can't stop thinking about him, and she can't stop thinking how incredibly unfair it is that his life, their life together, was cut short.

And when she closes her eyes, all she can see is him.

It's the nights, she thinks, that are the hardest.

A/N2: This piece is not quite what I pictured for my first Criminal Intent story (since I'm a huge B/A shipper), but I still hope that you've enjoyed it. Feedback is welcomed.