The first text comes as she's finishing up in the gym, tugging the boxing gloves off with heavy limbs. Her breathing is labored as one hand reaches for the water bottle next to her bag, the other grabbing at her phone. Her brows furrow, forehead creasing as she taps to open the message.

You are one of a kind. You are special. You are loved. Don't ever doubt that.

Huh. It's a New York number but not one she recognizes, not one that's already in her contacts. Must be a wrong number. With a shrug she plucks her bag from the ground and tosses it over her shoulder, locks her phone and shoves it in an outer pocket.

It's not meant for her, but she can't help but think back to the message and smile as she changes.

This pup is cheering you on today.

The second text comes the following day as she's sitting back down at her desk, coffee in hand. The corners of her lips quirk upwards at the message, accompanied by the smiling, happy face of a golden retriever puppy.

She'd meant to text back last night, tell them they have the wrong person, but she'd taken a shower and fallen asleep before she had a chance. Looking around the bullpen, she observes the other detectives either meandering around or sitting at their desks. It's a slow day, sure to be full of paperwork.

Very cute, but I think you have the wrong number.

She taps the message out and slides her phone to the side, opening one of the files she's been ignoring all morning.

The vibration comes almost instantly.

Did it make you smile?

Who is this person? She considers lying, considers ignoring it completely and getting back to work, but her fingers type out a reply before her brain has a chance to catch up.

Maybe.

Then I have the right number.

The messages come daily after that, sometimes motivational messages to start off her morning, other times mid-day pick me ups. They vary in type: sweet reminders, funny animal photos to make her laugh, small messages of inspiration.

Sometimes, she even replies.

It started off as just a few comments in response to the photos, the humorous quotes, but it's somehow spiraled into actual conversations. Nothing serious, nothing at all deep, just casual back and forth that springs from whatever it is this person decides to send that day.

It's nice.

She's down in the morgue with Lanie when the day's text rolls in, a picture of a penguin, that looks to be dancing, in a top hat and holding a cane. The message appears below it seconds later.

Did you know male penguins offer pebbles to female penguins? If the female takes it, they're partners. How cool is that?

The curl of her lips doesn't go unnoticed by Lanie, either.

"Okay, girl, spill."

Eyes lifting from her phone screen, she finds Lanie leaning against the autopsy table. She blinks. "What?"

"Don't what me," her friend says, crossing her arms. "I haven't seen you smile at your phone like that since... I've never seen you smile at your phone like that." She smirks. "Now spill."

Beckett shrugs. "There's nothing to spill," she says.

"Now your skinny lil butt knows I'm not buying that." Lanie moves closer. "Who's the guy?"

"There is no guy," she defends. This is ridiculous. She feels like a teenager hiding a relationship from her parents. But she's not a teenager, she's not even in a relationship. At Lanie's narrowed eyes and cocked head, she sighs. "I'm—this number started texting me two weeks ago."

Lanie nods slowly. "Okay, go on."

"He sends sweet messages every day, sometimes twice. Just little pictures of silly animals, or a thoughtful quote, stuff like that."

"Oh, girl, he sounds sweet. What's his name?" Lanie asks.

She pauses. Oh. "I... don't know."

She's been texting back and forth with this guy for two weeks and she doesn't have a name. He doesn't know her name either, but still. What kind of detective is she?

"You don't know?"

Beckett shakes her head. "Didn't think to ask," she shrugs. "It was just a wrong number at first, but then... it just kept going."

Lanie's arms uncross, one hand coming to her shoulder. "Ask for the man's name, Kate. You don't know where this could go."

"It's not going anywhere."

"He's sending you sweet messages, daily, and you're clearly replying." Beckett purses her lips. "He hasn't asked for anything from you, hasn't even asked for a name. Sounds like a keeper to me."

She rolls her eyes and backs away, making a show of leaving the morgue with a wave behind her.

"Bye, Lanie."

Her friend's call follows her through the hallway, just before the morgue doors slam shut.

"Don't make me say I told you so!"

Your smile lights up every room you enter.

It's cheesy, completely and utterly cheesy, but it still makes her smile.

I must have a very white smile, she types back, rolling her eyes.

She's still in bed, allowing herself the extra ten minutes under the warmth of her blankets before she gets up and starts her day. It's the first day in a while that didn't start at 4am because of a call from Ryan or Esposito about a body.

This doesn't happen often, so she's savoring it.

You do, it's stunning.

Tugging her bottom lip between her teeth, she sinks deeper into her mattress.

You don't know that. You've never even seen my smile, it could be crooked and yellow.

Her phone chimes not 30 seconds later.

I don't have to see you to know you're beautiful.

It's been two months since the first text, and he hasn't missed a day. They haven't missed a day, technically, because she still responds, still has conversations with the man whose name she doesn't know but whose words she's come to love.

Happy anniversary! It's accompanied by a picture of a cake, scrawled lettering photoshopped over the original to say textiversary.

It's ridiculous, but it brings a warmth to her chest and a grin to her face.

She could reply with a joke, some quip about how they're not in a relationship or married and so the anniversary is not quite accurate. She could argue that they're not even really friends, because friends know each others names and occupations at the very least, but she'd be lying to herself.

She's not sure when it happened, but she considers this guy a friend. It's an unorthodox friendship, sure, but she's not necessarily known to play by the rules anyway.

Happy anniversary.

She even sends a balloon emoji.

He sends a message around lunch but she doesn't see it, too busy performing CPR on the man who killed her mother. Too busy pleading with him to come on, to live, to tell her who ordered the hit.

Too busy sobbing over Dick Coonan's dead body, his blood on her hands in more ways than one.

She's not sorry she shot him. He had Ryan held at gunpoint, the barrel aimed right for her teammates kidney. He'd be the one dead, bleeding out on the precinct floor if she hadn't taken the shot. So no, she's not sorry.

But curled into her couch that night, tears staining her cheeks, she's angry. She's upset.

The only lead she had on her mother's murder gone; shot, killed, dead. She has no answers, only a re-opened wound, made worse by being so close.

Her phone buzzes, but she silences it.

She channels her anger into a newfound determination.

She throws herself back into her mother's file, spends every moment she's not on an active case pouring through the details. She knows them all by heart, of course, could recite the entire thing from memory if she really wanted to, but still she goes over them again.

When her phone goes off for what seems like the millionth time in the past 72 hours, her reflex is to silence it again, to get back to work. But she doesn't. Something pulls at her, tells her to open the message. He's been so sweet, a friend (and she doesn't have many), and she could've handled things better.

It's not fair of her to cut off all communication, to shut him out as if he's done something wrong, because he hasn't, not even remotely, but this is how she knows to cope. This is what she does. Even so, she feels a tightness in her chest, a nagging sensation telling her he deserves some sort of response. Even if it likely won't be the kind he wants.

She clicks on his name and opens the thread, scrolls up. The first couple are normal messages, a few photos and motivational quotes. But then it changes.

Are you okay?

I know I have no right to be, but I'm worried about you.

I just realized I don't have anything to call you. You could be hurt and I don't even know your name. I hope you're okay.

Please, give me some kind of reply so I know that you're all right?

Guilt swirls around her chest, latches onto her ribs and finds purchase. The messages span the past four days; she screws her eyes shut, rubs at her temples. She's so very bad at this, doesn't know how to handle these things in a way that doesn't leave one person being ignored, getting hurt, and she wishes it were different.

But she needs to give him something, even if it's small and not enough because it's the only thing she can give right now.

My name's Kate.

She doesn't explain her absence, only promises that she's okay (as okay as she can be, but explaining her tragic backstory to a stranger over text isn't what she plans on doing; she wouldn't even know where to begin), but she doesn't disappear again either.

Which, for her, is huge. Running away is what she's always done; it's become expected, inevitable, to hide herself away, pour into her mother's murder and fall deeper into the rabbit hole without coming up for air.

But she's continuing this odd dynamic they have going, allows it to anchor her in any way it can, in a way that keeps her from drowning. He accepts her offerings, the open line of communication that must seem so meager but to her is monumental, and tells her his name in return.

Rick.

What's your favorite animal?

Closing the door to the cruiser, she puts her seat belt on and glances at the message. She taps out her reply and puts the car into drive.

Why?

She doesn't get a chance to look at her phone again until she's back in the bullpen. Their newest suspect was thoroughly interrogated moments before; he's the second they've brought in today, the other still stewing in a separate interrogation room. This one hasn't broken either, not yet, but she can tell it's only a matter of time. Leave him down in holding for a few hours, maybe overnight, and she's sure he'll have something to say to them.

For science, obviously.

Her eyes roll, the corner's of her mouth twitching upwards. She ignores the raised brows from the boys as they watch on, just shoos them away with a wave of her hand and a glare for good measure.

Elephants.

His reply comes instantly. Perfect, thank you.

She waits with the iMessage open for a few minutes, waits for him to elaborate, but nothing comes. Huffing, she taps out another message.

No explanation?

Who says there's an explanation?

Sighing, she shoves her phone into the pocket of her jacket and stands. She needs coffee if she's going to make it through what's looking to be yet another late night. She'd go to the shop down the road, but it's cold and she just really doesn't feel like it.

Break room coffee it is.

It's been over four months since the first message Rick sent her and she's become accustomed to his texts.

She won't admit it, not out loud, but she enjoys it. She enjoys the companionship, a kind face (well, a face she's never actually seen but kind nonetheless) who's there to relieve some tension, to pick her up with some silly meme from the internet or a fun fact.

Shrugging, she pops a takeout container into the microwave and heats up leftovers from the Chinese she'd ordered... two days ago? Three? It's still good.

Her phone buzzes against the hard surface of the counter, and she leans across to grab it. There are a few messages, one from Lanie she hadn't noticed beforehand and a new one from Rick.

I've been thinking...

Chuckling, she leans herself against the edge of the counter top. About?

The beeping of the microwave alerts her of her finished food and she leaves her phone, grabs the container from the microwave plate. The plastic is much hotter than she'd anticipated and she jerks her hand back, container falling a bit as she shakes her burned fingers. With a napkin this time, she pulls the container towards her and closes the microwave door.

She considers running her fingers under cold water but after an experimental touch she deems them fine. She does, however, move the contents of the container—lo mein and some sweet and sour chicken—onto an actual plate instead.

Food in one hand and phone in the other, she maneuvers through her apartment and situates herself on her couch.

What would you say if I suggested that we met? She almost chokes on a piece of chicken. Meet? Her mouth opens, closes, but her phone buzzes again. Only if you're comfortable with it, Kate. I thought maybe coffee or lunch, something casual.

For a few minutes, she doesn't know what to say. She's been curious, sure, but she never thought they'd actually take this any further than texting. Maybe in the back of her mind she had questions, about what it'd be like to meet, to see who he is, but she never really entertained them for too long.

She enjoys the anonymity that comes with a strictly text-relationship, she really does. But she can't deny that she's curious.

What does he look like? What's he do for a living? Does he have a family?

Her only conclusion would be that he doesn't have a wife, or she hopes not considering what could probably be deemed mild flirting.

Kate?

Balancing her plate on her thighs, she types. How do I know you're not a psycho? You could be a 56 year old serial killer, you know.

I can assure you I'm not a serial killer. He's even added the a-okay hand gesture emoji.

Pausing, she grins to herself before adding more. Maybe you're not even guy. Maybe your name isn't Rick. Maybe it's Ethel and you're an 88 year old woman desperate for some company.

That'd actually be sad, now that she thinks of it.

Her phone's buzzing in her lap again a minute later, but not because of a text. No, it's a call. From Rick. Her breath catches in her throat as she decides what to do. Answer it? Ignore it? No, she can't ignore it.

Answer it, Beckett.

"Hello?"

The voice that greets her is much richer than she'd anticipated, deeper but so nice. It sends a jolt of butterflies right into her stomach despite herself. This is ridiculous; she's not a schoolgirl and she should not be feeling things over a voice. Digest those butterflies.

"Do you believe I'm a man now?" he chuckles, the sound oddly soothing to her ears.

She hums. "Well, I suppose. You could be a woman with a very deep voice," she teases, reveling in his squeak of disapproval.

"All man, I promise you that, Kate." And if that doesn't do things to her. She settles back against the couch cushion, gently shoving her plate with her feet until there's room for them to prop on the coffee table in front of her. He clears his throat nervously, and it's endearing that he seems to be a little anxious too. "Sorry, I didn't mean—I'm actually kind of surprised you answered."

"Me too," she tells him honestly. "But it's... nice, I think."

"I think so, too," he says. "You have a beautiful voice."

Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, she tries to bite back a grin. "Yours isn't too shabby either."

"So, tell me about yourself."

She crosses her feet. "Not much to know. I'm not that interesting, I'm afraid. You've been duped."

"Please," he huffs. "I find that incredibly hard to believe. In fact, I don't believe it at all."

"It's true."

"Nope. False," he insists. "What do you do for a living?"

Scrunching her face up, she debates whether or not to tell the truth. When she tells guys she's a homicide detective they either run for the hills or they're a little too excited.

Wait, wait. She's getting ahead of herself. This is a friendship, that's all.

"Homicide detective," she says, opting for the truth.

She's almost concerned when there's a brief silence, but it's dashed by his gasp and excited, "Seriously? That is so cool! Ooh, can I pick your brain sometime? I have so many questions and it'd be so perfect to have a character—"

"What?"

He pauses. "What?"

"A character?" she asks, having picked up on the last bit of his joyful rush. There's silence on the other end, so she tries again. "Do you write?"

"I uh, yeah, a little. Nothing special."

She can sense that he doesn't really want to divulge too much right now, not about his work at least, and so she decides to let it go for now. This is, after all, their first phone call. There are things she's not planning to share, either.

"Okay," she says, doesn't miss the small breath he releases when she drops it. "Tell me about yourself, then."

After spending almost two hours talking to him, she's not even annoyed by the stone cold food that greets her by the time they hang up.

A few more weeks pass by; the daily motivational messages slow, but the phone calls become more frequent. They haven't met up, not yet, but she can feel it looming, peeking around the horizon.

"Hey," she greets quietly after a particularly grueling case, energy at an all time low.

He picks up on the change, because of course he does.

"Everything okay?"

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she nods. "Yeah," she breathes. "Yeah, just a tough case, that's all. How was your day?"

She brushes past it, doesn't want to discuss the case, doesn't want to think about the little girl whose life was cut too short. She doesn't want to think about the grieving parents, their tears, or the remorseless grin of the killer when he was caught. In fact, she wants to curl into her blankets and stay there for a bit, remove herself from reality and take a break.

"The usual," he says, and bless him for not prodding further. "Working from home is both a blessing and a curse."

Kate hums. "You still haven't told me what you do, you know." Silence. "Rick?"

"I'm here," he murmurs. "I uh... yeah, you should know what I do."

"You're not a criminal, are you?" she teases, questioning his reluctance to tell her his occupation. "Because it'd really suck to have to arrest you."

He chuckles. "No, not a criminal. Though I do know a lot about serial killers."

"That is... concerning?"

"I'm a writer," he laughs, and she rolls her eyes. There's another pause, and he clears his throat. "Mystery writer, actually."

Mystery writer, huh?

"Anything I'd know?" she asks, trying to think of potential writers, though it's more probable he's not well known. Why else would he be on the phone with her? More silence. "Come on, it can't be that bad. What are you, famous or something?"

There's a nervous chuckle. "You could say that."

Wait, what?

Is he being serious? If he's being serious...

Rick? Mystery writers. The only author she knows fitting that description would be Rick Castle, her mother's—and her, if she's being honest with herself—favorite author. But that's ridiculous.

There's absolutely no way she's talking to Richard Castle. No.

"Kate?"

His voice breaks her from her thoughts. "Huh?" She shakes her head. "Did you say something?"

"Yeah, I asked if you're a fan."

"Of?"

Of who? Him? Potential-Richard Castle?

"The genre."

Oh.

"I am, actually," she admits. "You wouldn't think so, right? You know, homicide detective and all. But it's... oddly soothing, comforting. Some of it, anyway."

"Oh? Any authors in particular?"

Not that fast, buddy.

She smirks to herself. "Don't know, depends on who you are. I don't want to inflate any egos."

"Ouch."

"Really, though," she says, her voice quiet. "Will you tell me who you are?"

He sighs. "You deserve to know, so yes."

As ridiculous as it sounds, she swears she can hear his nerves through the phone, an air of anxiety traveling through the wiring and to her. After a minute or so of silence on his end, she breaks it.

"Rick. What's your last name?"

A beat.

"Castle."

Four days after she learns who he is, they meet.

It's in a small coffee shop in an alleyway, hidden away from the bustling streets of the city that never sleeps, a quiet cove of tranquility in a sea of chaos. He's there first, seated in a corner table with fidgeting hands and a soft smile on his face the second their eyes lock.

He stands, greets her with a handshake and pulls out her chair.

They talk over coffee and small pastries, the conversation flowing easily, the nerves floating from her body, dissipating with each laugh he manages to pull from deep in her chest. He's nothing like the tabloids portray; he's soft, a little rough around the edges from long sleepless nights of writing, with wit and charm and a genuine disposition she wouldn't have expected.

She feels light. Truly light, as if for the time being she's not Kate Beckett, homicide detective. Just Kate.

When they finish, coffees run dry and cakes eaten, they stand together. He waits for her to put on her jacket, then guides her with a hand on the small of her back. Rick opens the door, the two of them braving the chill of the air as they fall back onto the street.

Waiting on the corner for a taxi, he turns, bright blue eyes trained on her.

"I was right about your smile," he says, and her head tilts to the side as she tucks a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. "It's beautiful."

163 days after his first text, Rick meets her in front of her apartment with a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

She laughs, but her lips curl into a soft smile. "What are you doing here?"

"Delivering flowers to an extraordinary woman," he says easily, and her cheeks tinge pink. "And this."

He reaches into his pocket; it looks like he's grabbing for something, but when his hand emerges, it looks empty. Her brows furrow, gaze trailing from his enclosed fist to his eyes. He looks... nervous?

Extending his arm, she watches as his fist unfurls to reveal one tiny pebble.

Instinctively her hand comes to cover her mouth, fingertips kissing the grin now formed on her lips. She pretends to mull it over, mouth twisted to the side and eyes squinted, but it she can't drag it out too long, can't stop herself from looking back over at the man in front of her, hope spread across his features and crinkles around his eyes.

She takes the pebble.

A/N: I started this many months ago, but finally forced myself to sit down and finish it. Hope you guys enjoyed!

Prompt: i don't know who this is but they started texting me sweet and motivational messages one day and i think i'm in love