His bed is too cold.

The right side of the bed is smooth and cool where it should be wrinkled (although, just barely) and warm from the weight of her soft body. His arms should be wrapped snugly around her, holding her to him, clutching like a child clutches a security blanket because it is where he finds comfort. And, it is where he finds his home. But his arms are empty and when he wakes from his fitful sleep, he's on his back, one arm slung across his eyes and the other stretched to her side of the bed instinctively. The sun is just barely peeking through the blinds; striping his floor with gold heat and beckoning him from his cold bed. He blindly gropes for his cell phone to check the time.

7:23 A.M.

It's a wonder, really, because any other time he'd have already taken a screwdriver to the nearest electronic device. For him to still be in bed is nothing short of miracle, but it's just not the same without her there. It doesn't feel like his bed without comforting heat of her body next to him or the soft light of the lamp on the bedside table that she reads by each night, and on those rare mornings she happens to wake up before he does. Usually, if he'd finished a long case or a mountain of paperwork the day before. He'd wake up to the feel of her fingernails grazing patterns into his closely cropped hair while her eyes darted across the ink-dotted page of her new book.

Not today, though.

Not for the past week, actually, and as much as he'd like to say it was her fault - even, he knows he'd be lying. He is the one who said the field was too dangerous for her. He was the one who dared say she'd be better off in Ops with Eric. And, he is the one who dared defy Hetty's order to at least let her try. If he's honest - throwing out miracles left and right, today - he knows she has experience in the field. And, she's probably better than him when it comes to reading people. Lord knows she'd read him like a book. Hell, she'd all but fileted him like a fish a few times. Left him gutted and bleeding from the unintentionally harsh truths she'd delivered. But, he just can't.

For the first time in his life, G. Callen is genuinely afraid of losing somebody. To lose Nell Jones would be to lose a part of himself, he's not sure he'd be able to get back; it would be to lose his better half, and one of the very few people, he willingly calls his best friend. Yes - he has Kensi, and Sam, and to a certain extent (pranking Sam) Deeks, but Nell is the person he connects with. She is a control freak, and although she does not claim the title of lone wolf, he has caught her many a time, sneaking away from Ops for a break. He has come to see her as his equal - or, at least, he had. When she was there.

While his bedroom is not his first choice of hiding spots, it does offer him the opportunity to listen for intruders as it is situated within listening distance of both the front and back door. Which is why his hand slips under the pillow when his front door creaks, his fingers curl around the hilt of the knife, ready to jerk it out and spring out of bed should the intruder make itself known. She'd always teased him about sleeping with a knife under his pillow but the first night in her apartment had seen her making him aware of the gun she kept in her nightstand. The door clicks and footsteps pad on the hardwood floor. Boots, from the slightly muffled thump, but not heavy enough to be Sam. None of the other members of the team have ever been to his house, with the exception of Hetty but he wouldn't have heard her.

That leaves only one person.

No.

Can't be.

"G?"

But it is.

He drops the knife and rolls out of bed, padding down the hall to greet her. She's standing awkwardly in the middle of his living room, holding a cardboard cup holder with two paper cups from his favorite coffee shop and a white paper bag. Her red hair is pulled back, the ends of her ponytail just barely falling over one shoulder, and her hazel eyes burn a bit more amber than green today. It might have something to do with the soft russet of her dress and the cognac boots.

"Nell..."

"Hi G." Nell smiles softly, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. "Sam said you were home - but I think I may have woken him up so I wasn't sure if maybe he was just lying so he could back to sleep."

He laughs slightly at the awkwardness in her voice. She's always been a bit of an outsider, socially, but therein lies his initial attraction. "No," Callen shakes his head. "Sam wouldn't do that to you, Nell."

"I just - G, I wasn't sure if you'd want to see me." her voice drops off, because their fight's left feeling a bit unsure of how exactly she should conduct herself around him. If left up to Deeks, and/or Hetty, there probably would have been a lot of alcohol involved but the strong presence of Sam Hanna had offered, not only sound advice, but soothing reassurance that they could work this out. "I know we're not exactly on the best terms right now but it's been a long week up in the Ops room and I've learned more Arabic than I ever thought I would need and I had to teach Eric how to write a specific code and..."

"Nell." he interrupts her rambling - and, for all of their time together, Callen can't say he remembers her talking this much. Interrupting? Sure. Being the smartest person in any room without Hetty's presence? Oh hell yeah, and proud of it. But rambler? Eh, that's never quite made it into her repertoire. "I always want to see you."

"I - I brought coffee and bagels."

He takes them from her, setting the bag and cup holder on the coffee table she had talked him into getting, before he looks back up at her. "Nell - look, I just wanted to say that I am sorry. I know you have experience in the field but you - you have to understand, I worry. All the time. When the team is out in the field. And, if you were to be out in the field, I would be distracted. I would want to know where you are at all times." his voice is rough, hoarse even, but she can hear the tender vulnerability. The worry that eats away at his careful facade. "Nell, if you want to go out in the field, I won't stop you, but I want you to know that I will worry. And, I can't change that.

"And, I don't want you to change." Nell laughs, tears spilling over her lashes. She quickly wipes them away with her hand and continues. "Callen, I want to go out in the field because I worry when you're out there. I sit in that Ops room with Eric, and no matter how many strings of code I write, or how much information I dig up to help - I worry."

"I know." Callen nods, because he does. He fully acknowledges that sometimes, he is reckless and stupid and willing to put himself in danger if it means the safety of others. "I am sorry about that, but Nell, I can't have you risking your life to, maybe, save mine. I don't deserve that."

"You said you didn't deserve me." Nell reminds him, her voice tender but stern. "And I diagreed with that and I disagree now. You deserve to be saved, G. Whether you agree or not."

"But, the price - Nell, if..."

The price is too high.

If something were to ever happen to her, when it could have been prevented, he'd blame himself. Not necessarily because it was any fault of his, but just because since they started this whole relationship thing, he feels responsible for her well-being. He feels responsible for making sure she's hydrated and warm when she catches that nasty cold every December after her trip home, for making sure she arrives home safely (not that, that was a problem, with his home being her home more often than not), and more important than all of that, for making sure she was still in one piece at the end of the day.

"You are not responsible for me, G." He might as well be an open book; she swears, sometimes, she can see the gears turning in his head. "I am. I have been since I made the decision to accept Hetty's offer and move to L.A."

"I feel like I am."

Oh, G.

He's always so burdened by a weight that isn't even his to carry. As admirable as that is, Nell can't help but feel like the weight's slowly crushing him, and one day she'll look up and those beautiful blue eyes won't be staring back at her, anymore. The weight of the world is going to take him from her and it would hurt her as much as losing her would hurt him. She takes a couple of careful steps forward and slips her arms around his waist. Her head rests against his chest and he wraps his arms around her small body, tilting his head down to press a kiss into her red hair. She smells of vanilla and strawberries and honey and he finds solace in the familiarity.

"You know," she turns her head, kissing his chest through his t-shirt. "I think, we should get to the best part of making up after a fight."

"Oh, really?" Callen's arms tighten around her.

"Yeah."

A knuckle slips under chin and he tilts her head up, leaning down to meet her halfway. Her mouth is soft, supple, and the taste of toothpaste is still on her breath. She responds instinctively; kissing her has always been a push-pull game, one he delights in. His hand slides into her hair, tugging the ponytail loose, before knotting his fingers in the soft red locks. His other arm shifts around her waist and lifts her up, letting her wrap her legs around his waist.

Dear God.

She feels so damn good. All soft and warm and curvy and just perfect against him. He carries her to his bedroom and it is there, that his guard drops. He's slow and careful and he spoils her to all the ways a man can possibly worship a woman. He shows her the parts of him that the safe cover of darkness hides, lets her kiss and bite and lick all of his scars, and return the favor of worshipping his body, even though he's never felt worthy of such treatment. She shows him different, proves him wrong, and pulls his guard down a little more. They lay in bed hours later, spent and exhausted, curled into one another and each feeling safe and protected; their breakfast long since forgotten in the living room.

They return to work the next day and Nell finds the necessary paperwork for field agent training on her desk, with part of it already filled out. There, in the box that is usually left blank for Hetty to fill out, assigning her to a higher ranking agent, is his familiar angular scrawl.

G. Callen.