"I'm going to go get changed. Help yourself to anything you want."

She pats his cheek and walks to her bedroom, clamping the door shut behind her and leaving him in the foyer with his shoes half off and his face smiling.

His Italian leather loafers stay put on the front mat, and he slings his coat over her armchair and settles into the couch. Swinging his feet up onto the coffee table – he knows she outwardly hates it, but probably secretly thinks it's adorable – he closes his eyes with his hands behind his head.

When his legs become tired of their position only moments later, he grudgingly moves them to the floor. As he does, a hollow knock sounds out from the wooden table and his eyes dart down to stare at the spot it's come from.

The first thing he notices is that obviously, the structure opens from the top. Moving the flowerpot to the ground, he props the lid up to reveal a storage hole.

Oh, she's probably going to kill him later for going through her furniture, but when his gaze comes to rest on a pink notebook the size of his right hand stretched out, he can't resist. Reaching down, he opens it – he'll tell her he found it that way, as he doesn't want his head coming clean off with one shot of a Sig Sauer – and the messily scrawled, black-and-blue ink stares back at him, daring him to read the words that they just visibly print out.

Taylor smiled and looked at her sheets. Then frowned. She'd never understood this subject. Stupid history, who cared what some guy with a moustache had done a thousand years ago? She sure as hell didn't. Sighing, she flipped over onto her stomach and looked up into a sea of bright emerald green.

Eric's eyes had always made her melt. They were bright and soul-searching, and they had a look in them that you could just never forget. Every time Taylor looked at them, her heart began to pound a million times faster and her hands started to heat up. And the rest of his body was so amazing, too. He had tight, slim muscles and a tall figure that labeled him as the mysterious bad boy. But Taylor knew otherwise. He was a sweet, calm, helpful boy with a passion for whatever he did.

And Taylor knew she loved him.

Just kiss him, she would tell herself, trying to grow enough confidence to tell him how she felt. Just reach up and kiss him. But no matter what she told herself, she just couldn't get over that wall of fear.

"Taylor. Taylor. Taylor!"

"Huh? What?"

Eric was staring at Taylor, amused. God, he's beautiful, she thought as she stared at him. Then she cleared her throat and tucked her long, brownish-red hair behind her ear nervously. "What were you saying?"

Eric laughed. "Who first landed in the Carribean Islands?"

Taylor furrowed her brow and thought about that. She knew it was some Italian guy...or was it Dutch? No, she was sure he had been French. And his name...Kyle? Eric? Eric...

Oh my God, he thinks.

No way.

No. Freaking. Way.

That's when it hits him.

Kate Beckett. They're the only two words written in the same messy print on the inside cover of the old, ratty notebook. As he flips through, there are so many more words and ideas and plots. She has them organized and sorted and he finds himself laughing in delight.

Katherine Beckett, fearless and brave detective of the NYPD, who endlessly teases him about his career, writes.

She writes.

He can tell these stories are from a long time ago. Her handwriting is still practically unreadable – a certain Jelly Tyson comes to mind – but this is insanely old. Probably from grade school, judging by the state of the yellowing pages.

He just can't get over the fact that she writes.

There's probably more of it, he tells himself. Somewhere, on a computer hard drive or laptop or maybe even a well-hidden USB, there's a continuation of this story and the wholes of others.

He feels a giddy sensation settle over him, and he thinks that maybe he's inherited some of his fans' insanity.

It quickly disappears when two hands, one accompanied by a large watch, wrap around the front of the couch and take the book right out of his grip.

He gulps. Then turns.

And there she is.

She's giving him her classic what-the-hell-do-you-think-you're-doing glare. He's seen it so many times over the past four years that it's part of what feels like home to him. But even as he usually finds it quite amusing, right now he feels like being as inanimate as a cactus so that he doesn't have to endure this.

"Castle, what the hell."

He hesitates a beat.

"…I'm sorry?"

She lets out a breath, exasperated. "Oh my God."

"Am I permanently Castle for the rest of my life now?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

She crushes him with her eyes for one more second before she cracks.

"I can't believe you."

"I just – "

"Out."

"Oh, come on, Kate!"

"Go!"

He stays, the charming, lady-winning part of him taking control of his body. He sits on her sofa, his hands in his lap like a little boy waiting for his supper, and grins like the Cheshire cat until she blows air out of her teeth and runs a hand down her face.

"Grade eight."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously?" He takes this opportunity to swing his legs up onto the now closed table again.

"Feet, Rick. And yeah. I thought I was gonna be this great writer, with all the fans and book signings and all that. I spent all my time doing this."

His mouth falls open. "You mean there's more to this?" He takes the book back and waves it in the air, opening it and skimming through.

Her eyes widen. "I never said that."

"You didn't have to."

"Castle."

"Kate, come on. I love you. I'm not gonna make fun of you. Let me see!"

"Oh my God, hell no."

"Pleeeeeease?"

She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs, moving to plop down onto the couch next to him. She swings her feet onto the arm and rests her head in his lap. "I hate you."

"You love me."

One eye pops open as she gives him the Beckett glare for the second time.

He runs a hand through her hair and smiles, twirling a piece around his finger and playing with it. "At least tell me why you started."

He watches her ponder this for a short moment before she responds, "It's always been something I loved to do. It was a way to express myself. Every one of my stories from back then roots to some emotion I had."

"This is a romance short about History partners."

"Uhuh. At the time, I had a huge crush on Ethan Malone, the kid I sat next to in – "

"Let me guess. History class?"

She cocks an eyebrow at him. "No. Science."

"Oh."

"Yeah. There's one about an orphan in New York, too."

"Oh, Kate."

"No," she says before the sympathy starts rolling off his tongue. "It's okay. Nothing had even happened then. But my point is, I've probably been doing this longer than you have."

"Do you?"

She looks up at him. "Do I what?"

"Do you still do it?"

His heart sinks a little as she shakes her head. "No. After mom died, I just…didn't anymore. I started to read more than I wrote. Exhibit A; your books. And don't look smug."

The emotion drops like a hot potato.

"It just fell away from me. I didn't enjoy it anymore."

He shrugs. 'It's not for all of us, I guess."

"Hm."

They stay in their position for a while, staring into each other's eyes while his hand absentmindedly runs through her hair. She's still trying to get over the fact that he found her notebook, while he himself is positively giddy.

"If you ever mention it, they'll never find your body. You do know that, right?"

"Mhmm."

"Good."

She closes her eyes again ad sighs.

"You know I changed for a reason, right?"

"Something about a book party."

"Yeah. You know, those things they pay you to go to."

He chuckles, and then registers for the first time that she's in a very short, emerald green dress with no sleeves with her mother's ring hanging around her neck.

"Are you sure you want to wear that?"

She doesn't need to ask what he's talking about. "Positive."

"I just don't want the rumours starting up again, like last time you wore it to an event. The guys teasing us about apparently being engaged and the endless calls from just about everyone on the A-list were so awful for you."

She smiles. "You're perfect, you know that? But I don't care anymore. Now that we're together, it's all moot anyways."

"Why, Detective Beckett, are we expecting an engagement any time soon?"

Her blush is as red as the roses that sit in her kitchen. "I –"

He laughs and kisses her forehead. "I'm kidding."

She smacks him. "I take it back. You're horrible."

"You wound me, detective."

"Just for that, I'm going straight to bed tonight."

He pouts. "Damn. Now, about that book party."

"We should go."

"We should."

"Yeah."

"Uhuh."

Neither move until she blows out a puff of air and swings herself onto the ground, landing effortlessly and starting for the door.

"You coming?"

"Yes, Writer Girl."

"Seriously. They'll never find the body."

Whoop, there it is. Someone give me a drumroll.

For anyone who wondered, although I bet no one did, the little snippet there from a different story is something I wrote way back at the beginning of this year. I was thirteen, but I found it on my laptop and I just cringed. God, it's bad, I know. And that's not even all of it. It was my first attempt at writing a romance story - ever - so it was certainly interesting to find again. The link to the rest of it is the link to my Booksie in my profile. But don't spend your time reading it. I swear, it kills brain cells.

Anyways. Here you guys go. Let me know what you think, okay? Thanks!