Author's Notes: The first story I've ever written for Castle that did not include sex! It feels - weird, to say the least, but I've had this in my head for ages and just needed to get it out. Reviews are love. Enjoy!

"Hey."

Kate brushes her fingers against his day old stubble and she watches the way his eyes flutter out of dreams and into reality. There are slivers of blue, almost black in the darkness, and Castle mumbles - sleep filled and incoherent - turning onto his side. She doesn't say anything else, just watches as he comes back, the haze of dreams lifting. There's an ache inside of her and she slides her hand down to his arm, feels the hard muscles of his bicep twitch beneath her.

"What time is it?"

She glances at the clock because she doesn't know, hasn't bothered to look when she's been up for hours; listening to the winter winds, staring at the shadows of the ceiling brought about by passing cars, streetlights, the luxuries of Manhattan. She'd seen the snow at one point - it feels like both hours ago and seconds ago - a blur of shapes and colors and memories. His alarm clock casts a green tint over the bedroom and he's bathed in it, all safe and familiar.

"Almost six," she answers softly, but it's a lie; it's a quarter after five and if he knew that he wouldn't let her go. He'd tell her it's too early, that she doesn't know the kind of people out there but of course she does, because it's her job, because it's the whole point of today, isn't it? "I'm gonna head home. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Kate."

Her legs dangle over the side of his bed, the cold biting at her feet, sheets gathered in her fists. She lowers her head, chest clenching, tight and filled with something so magnetic and forceful that she has to close her eyes at the devotion in his voice. He's filled with so much compassion that it breaks her and soothes her at once. It makes it harder, easier, sometimes she's not sure which.

"Kate," he tries again, "look at me."

She does, and the shadows that never fully leave his room at night dance across his features, concealed. She presses her lips to his chin, lets her fingers travel down his chest without destination. "I'm fine, Castle. I just - I need today."

His hands are in her hair, soothing her, easing the tension coiled around her heart. "At least wait until it's light out?"

She wants to say no, but she can't, not when all he's asking to know is if she's okay.

She is.

Sort of. Maybe. Will be, at least.

"Okay."

Kate slides back under the covers, the warmth of his down comforter enveloping her. She can feel Castle's hand at her back, not touching but wanting to, and she bites her lip because she wants to cry, because she's numb, because she hates herself for being this weak when it's been so many years. The tears gather behind her eyes and she listens to the way his breathing settles, tries to get lost in it but all she can think of is her mother, of the way she had looked fourteen years ago that morning, so composed, so brilliant, the lines around her eyes filled with laughter. She had smelled of perfume and freshly brewed coffee, soap and the natural scent that had been her mom's for as long as Kate could remember. She had sat with her at the bar in the kitchen, sharing some sort of breakfast food, made plans for dinner that night, and it was normal like there was so much time in the world, like there was no need to hurry, like life would forever be normal.

There are still things Kate can't recall; the tone of her mom's words, the reason she had been home past eight that morning when she was usually gone at seven and it makes it worse sometimes, makes her feel at a loss, broken, desperate.

"I don't know how to do this with someone else," she admits, voice cracking at the seams. This time he does reach for her, fingers dipping underneath her shirt and over each ridge of her spine in gentle strokes. She can feel the moisture on her cheeks now, the bitter taste of salt on her tongue. "I don't know how to let you see me like this and not feel like -"

"Like what?"

She buries her head in the pillow, staring at the outline of the bathroom, the grooves in the floor she's come to know so well. "Like I'm letting you down. Like you expect something more from me."

"Kate-"

But she can't hear it, no matter what he says, because it'll break her today. "Let's just sleep, okay, Castle?"

He hesitates. "Yeah. Okay."

He's still pressed around her and she wishes she could tell him everything, how even though it's year fourteen, this is the first time she's ever truly mourned. There's no more mystery to focus on, no murder to solve when she has all the answers she's ever asked for and all that's left in its wake is a gaping hole, an aching loss, and she misses her mother so fucking much sometimes that it's a startling realization that blindsides her, knocks her off her feet. She wishes she could tell him that she wouldn't be here without him, that it would be so much worse, but vulnerability isn't a feeling she's used to, isn't something she wantsto get used to so she bites her lip hard enough to nearly draw blood, keeps all the words inside until they build up in her chest and she can barely breathe.

"I love you," Castle murmurs against her neck, and she chokes back a sob, squeezes her eyes shut.

The last image she has in her mind before sleep takes her is of her mother before she walked out the door that final morning, plaid skirt and blue shirt, black heels and wedding ring gleaming in the morning sunlight. There had been laughter, because even on her Christmas break Kate wanted to go into work with her, to watch and learn, and her mother had always been proud of that determination. She had kissed Kate's cheek, and it was soft and familiar, something that was taken for granted for far too long.

Tomorrow, she had promised. There are things I need to take care of today.

It was sixteen hours after John Raglan had fabricated the news that Kate realized there were no more tomorrows.

She's still here, hours after dawn has broken.

It wasn't intentional. She had awakened at six, seven, eight; restless dreams, nightmares that wouldn't fade. Each time she'd look over at his side of the bed in hopes that he wasn't aware, that he wouldn't ask her what she saw when she closed her eyes. She didn't need to tell him about the way life would mingle with memories: her mother's stabbing at the same time she was shot; bullet wounds and a knife filled with blood. Her father at her mother's funeral. Castle at hers. The worst were the ones where her mother and Castle met, wrong places at the wrong time, death and despair and so much pain that it was like bruises pressing against each section of her skin, pushed and prodded until she was in nothing but pain.

It was Castle screaming her name as the bullet barreled toward her that caused her to wake that last time this morning. When she opened her eyes he was gone, but she could smell the coffee, the strong aroma that reminded her so much of him. She listened as he shuffled
around the kitchen, feet bare, and she tried to control her breathing, to remember it was all a dream – at least in the moment. She had pressed her lips against his pillow, took him in, and when he had walked into the room with two cups of coffee smelling of vanilla and the slightest hint of cinnamon, and handed one to her without saying a word, she had stayed.

They've been quiet for a while now, and it's comfortable, and she's been so grateful for his words for so many years that she's surprised at how thankful she is for his silence as well.

Kate takes another sip of coffee and glances over at him. He's scrolling through some webpage waiting for her to say something, anything because he won't push her and it's up to her to make the first move and -

"My mom loved her coffee black." She's as startled as him when the words come out, but even that eases her heart a little, loosens the pain wrapped around her.

Castle's staring at her so intently and she sees it, the way it's not about making sure she's okay, but wanting to know her mother, wanting to know the pieces of Kate that she still keeps locked away. She lets her lips lift at the memory, ducking her head.

"I had a snow day when I was seven and my dad couldn't stay home so my mom did. We had this whole day planned. Rockefeller Center, snow angels in the park, ice skating. She called it our winter wonderland day. I was really excited. When she went to shower her cup of coffee was sitting on the table. I was so in awe of her, Castle, even then. I wanted to be just like her. I drank the entire cup and got so sick that we had to stay home. She was pissed at me about that. Even years later she'd never let me live it down."

"Two pump sugar-free vanilla," he muses.

"Could never do black after that."

"You pretended you were fine, didn't you?"

"Up until the last possible second. Got sick all over my mom's brand new boots. Instead of playing in the snow I ended up curled up in my parents' bed getting lectures about how I wasn't a grown up and this is what happened when I didn't follow the rules."

"How long did it take before you broke them again?"

Kate smiles. "Six months, a year? When I hit fifteen that was it. I was hell on wheels, literally and figuratively. I'm surprised I didn't give my dad a heart attack at the time."

"I still can't believe how wild you were. We could have had some fun together growing up."

"You mean despite the fact that when I was fifteen, you were twenty-five?"

"Oh. Yeah, that might have been a little creepy."

"Yeah," she laughs. She looks up at him, legs tangling with his. "There are times I wish I could see what my life would have been like with her still in it. I wouldn't have become a cop, but would I have realized that law was her dream and not mine? Or would I have done it because I loved it?"

Castle slides a hand through her hair, massaging her scalp as he plays with the tangled mess. "What do you think?"

"I don't know. I've never been able to figure it out."

She rests her head against his chest, the gentle rhythm of his heart beating beneath her. "You are who you are, Kate. Even if your mom was here you'd still be that determined, incredible, smart woman that you are right now. Circumstances change how we live, but they don't change who we are at the core." He lifts her chin, mouth light and airy against hers. "And you are more than you'll ever know."

Her palm brushes over his stubble, rough beneath her fingers. "You always have the perfect words."

"Need something to fall back on since being a cop is out. You still won't let me carry a gun."

"I wouldn't want you to shoot off your foot."

"I've saved your life nine-"

"Did I say foot? I meant mouth."

Castle laughs. "That sounds about right." He kisses her, rubs his finger over her lips. "Kate, if you want to go home, I'm okay with that. I just want you to know that I'm here."

She thinks about her empty apartment, the bed she hasn't slept in for weeks, the chilled rooms without heat, the way his breath hits her skin like he's giving her air and permission to mourn. She thinks about her mother and the way she loved, fiercely and without consequence.

"I know," Kate responds quietly, and she's pulling the blanket up and over them. He lets out a little breath against her – relief, or maybe something more – and rubs his hands over her arms, warming her.

"So, what about you? How old were you the first time you broke the rules?"

He lets the smile slip over his face. "Oh, Beckett. I'm the child of an actress who had no intentions of having kids. I've been breaking the rules since before I was born."

Kate scrolls through the episodes of Temptation Lane on his DVR, skimming the description on each of them. There must be at be at least thirty on here, all different years throughout her childhood, some before she was even born, some long after she had stopped watching.

It's not the same apartment she had grown up in, the same couch. Her mother's perfume doesn't linger in each corner of the room, but it's another home, another life, another love. She presses play on an episode, stretching her legs over the arm of his dark leather chairs. It's their third episode and she gives him credit for enduring soap operas and giving her exactly what she needs and yearns for and she thinks she'll tell him soon, thank him, not just for today or for the past five years, but for everything.

There's a chill in the air and she hasn't checked to see how much snow has fallen; instead she pulls his gray hoodie down over her hands, the smell of him settling into her skin. She fixes the rumpled blanket that's draped over her waist and when she looks back at the screen she lets out a startled laugh.

"Hey Castle? Can you come in here for a second?"

He peeks his head into the room from the kitchen, the smell of popcorn following him. "What's up?"

"Did you know your mom's wedding episode is on here?"

His eyes widen and he's in the room in whirlwind, sitting on the arm of the chair. "Oh my god! Look at that wedding dress. It's like Kermit the Frog threw up all over the royal wedding. That headdress looks like it's something you're supposed to sweep horse crap with."

She slaps his leg, but leaves her hand, eyes locked on the TV. "She was so beautiful, Castle."

"Was? Don't ever let her hear you say that. You'll stop being her favorite daughter-in-law."

Her hand squeezes around his thigh and does he know what he just said or is it not that big of a deal to him, to his mother? "Over Gina and Meredith? And you and I aren't married," she says, and it cracks like it's wrong to say because it's scary as hell and because maybe there's a part of her that wishes they were, but no, eight months, too soon, too – soon.

"Beckett, you were her daughter-in-law before we even started to date. I actually think she likes you more than she likes me."

The microwave timer goes off and she's thankfully saved by the bell. He sweeps his hand over her hair as he gets up, goes back to the kitchen, and then his mother is on screen again and she closes her eyes, listening; to Martha's voice, the sounds of Castle in the kitchen, the gentle hum that trails into the room. She's overwhelmed and it's good and bad and the mixing of loss and love has been so much a part of her today that –

"You gonna make room for me?"

Kate opens her eyes. "No. There's a chair right next to me."

"But you have the blanket."

"I highly doubt this is your only blanket, Castle."

"It's my favorite one," he pouts.

"Oh fine. But if this is a ploy for me to sit on your lap, it's not gonna happen."

Castle grins at her when she stands, and yeah, she doesn't actually want to resist that face. He sits down, feet on the floor, and she moves to sit sideways, legs across his lap, feet buried in the crease of the chair. He wraps the blanket around them and it's all body heat and warmth and she burrows further underneath, taking the bowl of popcorn from him.

They watch in silence for a few minutes and it's so weird to see Martha like this: young and in her element, an entire story that Kate knows so much of hidden behind her eyes. She startles when Castle's hand finds her hair, absentmindedly playing, and she sinks further against him, staring at the TV. It's domestic and he does it all the time, this need to touch her even when it's simplistic and mundane. He does things for her that mean the world and acts like it's no big deal but it is, and she doesn't know if she tells him that enough, if he understands how this life he's given her is more than she ever could hope for.

"Do you remember that fairy tale case we had last year and your mom was doing her one woman show at the time?"

"You mean the show where she cursed my existence because I didn't embrace being her son?" She can practically hear his eyes roll in the tone of his words. "How can I forget?"

"She didn't curse your existence, drama queen." She turns her head to look at him. "I had been missing my mom a lot that week. It was silly but she used to read me Grimm's fairy tales when I was younger and I'd remember something she told me about Snow White or Sleeping Beauty and it – it hurt. I wanted to call you, I wanted you to make me forget but I was – I think I was too scared to need you that much." She reaches up for his face, lets her fingers trail over his cheeks and chin until her palm is still over his chest. "And then your mom called me, invited me to her show like she wanted me there and I don't know, Castle. It helped. Sometimes I think that if I can't have my mom, Martha is a really nice substitute."

Castle smiles at her, and she can see the glassy tint to his eyes, nearly unnoticeable but there. He leans over her, kisses her softly.

"How old were you when she read you those?" Castle asks, throat catching.

"Probably younger than I should have been. They were so much more interesting, though. My dad was annoyed every time she did it. He liked to tease her that that's why I became such a troublemaker."

"You haven't mentioned your dad," Castle says carefully. "Do you ever see him today?"

"Not really, no. The first few years after he got sober, he asked, but I was always working and I didn't – at the time, I didn't know how to forgive him. I was nineteen, I had just lost my mom and I was so angry that I had to take care of him. He stopped asking about three years ago."

"You should call him, Kate. Go to dinner, talk about her with someone who remembers everything there is about what made your mom your mom. I love hearing your stories, but you should be able to hear some too. You should be able to talk about her with someone who knew her just as well if not more"

"What if it just upsets him more? What if - what if it makes it worse for him?"

"You're his daughter. You're your mom's daughter. He sees her in you regardless of the day. Call him. See how he sounds. If you want to do it here, then I will sit with you the entire time, but I think you need this time alone with him, Kate. I think you both probably do."

Martha's voice causes her to turn her head and she watches. Her posture is the same, facial expressions Kate has seen over the years. Castle might have his mother, but he's also lacking something and she's never bothered to ask, never known if she was supposed to.

She turns back to look at him. "I sometimes forget that you deal with this too. Not having a parent."

"It's not the same thing. I didn't know my father."

"Do you ever wish you did?"

"Not anymore. I have my mother, Alexis, my novels, you. It's hard to miss what you never had."

She hears the longing though, however slight it may be and she's suddenly so grateful for her dad, for the way he pulled himself out of the pit of despair, mainly for her. "I'll call my dad when this is over and see if he wants to do dinner.

"Good." He kisses the crown of her head. "If you go to the diner, will you get me a black and white cookie?"

Kate rolls her eyes. "Sure, Castle."

"I'm not sure about this," Castle says, pulling apart his grilled cheese.

He turns the sandwich over, bringing it to his nose to smell it. He looks satisfied for a moment and she rolls her eyes because this is the man who makes weird concoctions and thinks it's normal, who has put together the weirdest foods imaginable and thinks it's the greatest thing in the world.

Kate extends her foot back on the chair, kicking him gently. "You're such a baby. It's not that strange."

"I'll eat it if you give me another story from childhood."

He's looking at her with widened eyes, all excitement and love, and she can't help it, she laughs. It's nearing four and he's been doing this all day, getting stories out of her in between episodes of Temptation Lane because he knows that words exorcise the demons, because he wants to know more about her even after four years and eight months, because he's him and he does the right thing for her even when she doesn't know it at the time.

Castle pulls apart his sandwich and the smell of peanut butter and bacon is around her, reminding her of childhood and her mother's own surprises with food. It lingers by his mouth like he's waiting and she groans at his obvious wariness of the sandwich.

"Fine, but I want Castle stories in return."

"You're so demanding, Beckett." He takes a bite, chewing. "But I accept your terms. Oh hey, this is good."

Yes, she told him it was good about thirty times already.

"Do I ever steer you wrong?"

"Yes! What about the time we went into the haunted house and that creepy body fell out of the closet and on top of me? Or the freezer where we almost became popsicles. Scratch that. Did become popsicles."

"You do realize that both of those were your ideas, right?"

He bites his lip. "Okay, but the second one wasn't my fault. We were being shot at!"

"Do you want a story or do you want to keep discussing all the stupid mistakes that have almost gotten us killed over the years?"

"Former, please."

She thinks about it, staring at the screen. Martha's episodes are still on and she's stuck in the underground tunnels of Paris, perfectly coiffed, gorgeous.

"Why did you record these?" she asks.

"Stories aren't supposed to begin with a question, Beckett. Have I taught you nothing?"

"Your influence over me has been astounding," Kate answers sarcastically. "You didn't know they were Martha's episodes so it wasn't for her. I've learned through your hours of bitching that General Hospital is far superior. So why?"

Castle shrugs. "Because SoapNet was doing a marathon of older episodes and I wanted you to be able to have them if you wanted to see them again. I know what they mean to you and I just wanted you to know they were here."

She leans back and puts her plate on the floor. She owes him a story – maybe the first time her mother ever made her this weird grilled cheese thing that they're eating now – but she needs to give him this first because for the first time in fourteen years, it doesn't sting as much as she thought it would.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I'm about to," he lifts his fingers in air quotes, "accidentally delete the rest of these episodes. I mean, come on? A dream demonic possession? It's like mixing together the worst storylines from Dallas and Days of our Lives and putting it on here. Not to mention, Shania is about to marry her own brother and she doesn't even know it!"

"Step-brother."

"You're justifying this? Really?"

"Come on, Castle. Like you haven't done ridiculous storylines?"

"I'm offended that you would compare my brilliant literary masterpieces to-"

"Brilliant literary masterpieces? Let's not get carried away." He scowls and she kisses him, feels the way his lips turn up, smiling. "And that wasn't what I was thanking you for."

"Oh, then for what?"

"For not doing something ridiculous today. For knowing exactly what I need."

He looks at her sheepishly. "My original plan was to take you all over the city to places you went with your mom, relive the good memories. Grand Central and Rockefeller Center, Battery Park. But you would have hated it."

"I would have appreciated it, but yeah, I would have hated it." She laughs, pressing her lips to his chin. "You were wrong about something earlier, though. About how many times you saved me."

"It was nine! Do we really need to count again?"

"You're such a moron sometimes."

"But you love me anyway."

She does. So, so much. "Three hundred and seventy-three times give or take."

Castle raises an eyebrow. "Big jump from nine to three seventy-three."

She inhales; it's now or never. Her hand is on his arm, trailing patterns across his skin, weightless. She stumbles for her words because while she's good with them she can never fully find the ones that matter.

"About two weeks after my mom died I went back to Stanford to pack up. I couldn't stay after everything that happened. I was so lost, Castle. I was numb and falling apart and nothing made sense."

Castle's hand slides underneath her shirt again and she still hasn't told him that the one she's wearing is the one her mom had on that fateful morning, that she wears it only on the days she misses her the most. It's worn and ratty and it's soft as it brushes over her skin, the perfect match to his gentle touch. She'll tell him later if there's time or maybe tomorrow or the next day because he's breaking down the walls that still exist, and talking about it helps.

"I was early for my flight and I couldn't sit still so I wandered. And then - then I found you," she says, quietly, watches as his eyes turn a lighter shade of blue. "There was a bookstore in my terminal and I don't know what possessed me to pick up a book about murder but I did. When It Comes to Slaughter. I read it in two hours and went back to get every other book by you that they had." Kate reaches down beneath the blankets, linking her fingers with his. "You saved me that entire first year, Castle. You let me get lost in your words. I read and reread everything you had written and I don't want this to go to your head but I never would have gotten through that without you."

He kisses her, tongue smooth and soothing over her bottom lip. He tilts her head back and she can taste the peanut butter and coffee and he's breathing so much life into her and taking it at the same time. His mouth slides to her ear, hot and honest.

"I am so in love with you, Kate," he whispers and her heart stops, starts, stops again. "Completely, ridiculously, embarrassingly in love with you."

The tears pool but don't fall and she bites down on her lip, turns so she can press her forehead against his. "You will say anything when a woman compliments your books, won't you?"

The laughter rumbles through his body. "Not just women. I told Ryan the same thing yesterday."

"At least I'm in good company." She's tangled up in him and it's enough. It's not everything, but it's so very close. "I love you too."

Castle's arms tighten around her waist. "What time did you say you'd meet your dad?"

"Six. Should be back here around eight."

"You owe me stories of childhood, by the way. Don't think I forgot."

Kate smiles up at him. "Later. Right now we have to see if your mom can escape the underground tunnels of Paris."

"Yes, let's please watch her climb out of that gilded cage in search of safety."

Her heart doesn't hurt so much anymore; she smiles against the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

She's okay.

It's after nine-thirty when Kate enters his dark apartment, flipping the light switch on. She's freezing, but the heat of the loft assaults her, and she takes off her coat, shaking the snow from her hair.

She didn't know what to expect at dinner, but like everything else today it was more than she could have hoped for. There was a sadness behind her father's eyes for only moments before there was light in them, happiness because he wasn't alone and Kate wasn't alone, and maybe time could heal all wounds or at least lessen them. She had been surprised though at the stories he had told at dinner, things she had never known, things she had long since forgotten and after a little over three hours she felt like she knew her mother more than she ever had in her life.

There are stories she wants to tell Castle tonight, without pain or irony or desperation. Stories that were so good, that made her feel as if her mother was still so much a part of her and always would be.

Kate steps into the kitchen when she spots the note and computer pages on the bar. Her name is scrawled over the paper in his handwriting and she takes it, curious.

Hey,

Went to get ice cream with Alexis. Should be home by ten.

I know you don't like reading my stuff until it's published or close enough, but I wanted you to see this. I wrote it last night before we talked about any of this today and I'm not all that sure I'm going to add it into the book. You need to know, Kate, that whatever pieces of yourself you give me - whether it be good, bad, nothing or everything - my opinion on you will never change. You will always be the most extraordinary person I know.

I love you.

Kate bites down on her lip and stares at the pages in front of her. She sees her alter ego's name, the smudge of ink in the corner from his printer, the way his words come together as effortlessly as if it's true and real and everything. She slides onto a barstool to start reading, clutching it in her hands like it's the most treasured present she's ever gotten.

Nikki stood at her mother's grave, hair blowing in the light autumn winds. She had let Rook drive her here, but she made him wait in the car as she walked the weaving path to where her mother's grave laid. There were expectations about Nikki Heat and she liked it that way. She was strong, powerful, could take any man down if they came her way. She had known Jameson Rook for almost four years now and had been in love with him almost as long. He didn't know this side to her though and truthfully she didn't want him to.

She took in a breath and placed a rose over the headstone. Cynthia Heat. Born 1951. Died 1999. In Somnis Veritas.

In dreams there is truth.

Her mother had loved that phrase. She had believed in it until the end came crashing down on her.

Nikki stared at it until the words blurred and she realized she was crying. Hastily she wiped away her tears, gave one last glance at her mother and walked the path back to the car. Rook looked at her when she opened the car door, something in his eyes like sympathy or pity and Nikki knew she shouldn't have allowed him here.

"Let's go," she said, an edge in her voice.

"Nik," he replied, soft and reliable.

It was her undoing as she began to cry, tears he had never seen from her before. His hands were on her then, moving her into him as best as he could. It was uncomfortable and yet also right and she buried her head in his shoulder, gasping and shaking, completely out of control.

"Sh, I'm here. It's okay."

Nikki finally settled, glancing up at him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have, I'm fine."

"Nik-"

"Rook, really. I'm fine."

He knew better than to argue with her. His hands tangled in her hair as she settled. She could feel the way he managed her, calmed her but a red tint burned her face, not from crying but from embarrassment.

"You don't always have to be so strong," he murmured. "You can let go sometimes."

"Rook," she started but trailed off. He was wrong. She wasn't strong. Not today. Not here.

"You, Nikki Heat, are the strongest, most amazing woman I have ever met. I've seen you dress up as a hooker, take men down twice your size, run in heels on a daily basis, not to mention you are fantastic in bed." She laughed against his jacket. He lifted her chin and stared into her eyes. "The point is, I will always think that of you, no matter what. Plus, I like when you let me in. I like taking care of you."

The writing stops there and Kate smiles, grabbing her cell phone. So, what's Nikki's response? she types. She reads the conversation between Nikki and Rook again, amazed that he knew what she needed before she did, amazed at everything he's ever been able to give her. Her phone buzzes and she slides it off the table.

She kicks his ass. Then says thank you. Kidding, no ass kicking. She has hot sex with him that night.

She smiles, shaking her head. Does she now?

Doesn't she always? How was dinner?

Good. I have stories for you.

It takes him less than a minute to write back and he must be on his way home. I hope it involves all the ways in which you were a little terror.

You have no idea. She sends it, then starts typing again. Put it in the book, Castle. You helped me through my loss. That'll help someone else through theirs. I'll see you soon. Love you.

Kate walks through the dim halls until she reaches the office. The chairs are back in their rightful position, blanket neatly folded and she stares at the bookshelves. His titles are loud and vibrant against the more subtle covers of other novelists and she pulls that first book of his that she read off the shelf. She presses it to her heart, closes her eyes as she pictures that nineteen year old girl, lost and alone and so utterly terrified of life. So much of those days are a blur now, but she remembers the cold airport chairs, the way her hands were shaking when she opened that book, desperate for a release, to live in someone else's life. How for three hundred pages his words were solace and hope.

She sits down on the soft cushion, curls up and lets him save her all over again.