Summer in Los Angeles finally breaks into fall, a relief from the scorching heat as they speed towards winter, and still no more evidence surfaces to damn them.

They aren't completely forgotten. Inspector Dotzler makes it a habit to call or drop by, approximately once a month, but his questions grow vaguer and his tone grows weary as the trail goes cold. The news media moves on entirely – there is always someone else missing, another murder or disappearance, and often the victim is someone much more sympathetic to mainstream America than a shady businessman newly released from prison. Maybe it is a mistake, but she can't help but feel a little safer, a little more secure, with each passing day, and a little voice whispers at the back of her mind, maybe you'll get away with it.

Lenore goes to the beach often, sitting by the shore and looking out over the ocean that holds their secret. She thinks of that night out at sea, and how Stuart's body is likely nothing more than bones now, resting on the ocean floor, becoming less and less every day until finally he does disappear in truth. She thinks of the bones and she thinks of the man, of the shock at seeing him at her door that evening. But her fear feels like a separate thing now, like it belongs to someone else. She can't think of him with any sort of affection or sympathy, despite the fact that they were once happy – not after what he did to her, what he did to Kim and Bryan, what he tried to do to save his own skin. But at times she can think of him now without being overtaken by breathless fear, and that is its own sort of revelation. She can barely remember a time when she was not afraid all the time, skittish and jumping at shadows, and finding her way back from that is like rediscovering herself.

There are some days she doesn't think of Stuart of all, nor of what she and Bryan have done. When the first of those days come, she is overwhelmed with guilt once she remembers. For some reason, she had determined that carrying the weight of her sin was the only proper punishment as she managed to evade the police. But slowly, bit by bit, she forgives herself. It is not an easy task; she has always carried a grudge beautifully and she herself is no exception to that rule.

It is not easy, but it is a start, and it is a relief.

It is Halloween and they are dressing little Amanda in her princess costume when Kim tells her that she knows her secret, and the fake plastic jewelry that Lenore had been wrestling to free from its package falls from her hands.

"What?" Lenore blurts, horrified and immediately wracking her brain for where they might have slipped, what evidence they might have left uncovered – and if their daughter discovered it, would it only be a matter of time before the police did as well?

But Kim only chuckles at her mother's wild-eyed panic, peeping up slyly from her work at tying the sash at the back of Amanda's dress. "You know," she says, her voice amused. "I know you and Dad are…'hanging out,'" she jokes, choosing the same term that she had suggested to Lenore when she had been a teenager, a time that felt a thousand years ago.

"Oh," Lenore replies, her breath releasing in a giant rush, as though she's been hit in the stomach. She's so relieved at not being caught out that it takes her a moment to digest what Kim had actually said, and then she pauses. "Oh."

She isn't sure how to feel about Kim's declaration. They haven't said anything thus far but they haven't been sneaking, either. What they are is just so inexact, and always shifting, that it is difficult to put it into words. And did they have to put it into words, necessarily? Kim may be their daughter, but that didn't mean she has to be privy to the ins and outs of their relationship. Maybe Lenore enjoys the bit of secrecy, of privacy.

On the other hand, maybe she is afraid that whatever they are tentatively building between them won't last. Their track record, after all, is far from impressive. To tell Kim, to tell anyone, is to make it real, and to make it real would make it solid, make it breakable. It's illogical to think that way, but she's had enough bad luck in love that her choices, made in self-preservation, don't always make sense.

"What makes you think that?" she asks, purposefully evasive.

Kim shrugs, obviously trying for casual but failing in the attempt as she begins to braid Amanda's hair. "It just seems like you're there an awful lot, or he's over here." She raises her eyes again from her task, a smile tugging at her lips. "And I don't think Dad uses conditioner or Venus brand razers but they're in his bathroom. I'm pretty sure he doesn't even know what conditioner is for."

Lenore winces a bit. Bryan, most likely due to his obsessive nature, keeps a nice home, but he's still undeniably a man, with a habit of purchasing dollar store shampoo and toothpaste and not much else in the way of amenities. "Kim, you shouldn't snoop," she scolds instinctively, though she can't muster any real ire. "Besides, you don't know those things are mine. They could be anyone's." She looks up at Kim, and she can't help but smile faintly at the incredulous look on her daughter's face.

"Come on. Mom. This is Dad we're talking about," she snorts, and she pats Amanda lightly on the behind. "Go play," she tells her daughter warmly. "We'll leave when Sesame Street is over, okay?"

Lenore watches as Amanda hops off, nearly tripping over the poofy hem of her skirt. This year, Amanda had been excited to get all dressed up but is still too young to really grasp Halloween, so that her favorite television show is a far greater temptation than leaving immediately, but Lenore imagines next year will be a different story. Time stops for no one, it seems.

The soft touch of Kim's hand on her wrist startles her from her thoughts, and she looks back at her daughter. "I'm not a little girl anymore, Mom," Kim reminds her gently, a bit of a laugh in her voice. "You don't have to tiptoe around me because you don't want to get my hopes up. You and Dad are both adults, you're both single, you can do whatever you want. I just want you to be happy," she finishes, her voice wistful, and for all her protests that she isn't a little girl anymore, when she looks at Lenore with those big brown eyes of hers all she can see is a child's earnestness. "It's been such a long time since I've seen you really happy."

She wants, immediately, to comfort Kim, despite knowing the truth of her statement. The last few years of her marriage to Stuart had been miserable; the last three years had been nearly unbearable. There have been happy moments, of course, but for the most part she has been in a fog, a haze of loneliness and sadness. It has been a long time since she's been happy, long enough that she's almost forgotten what it feels like, long enough that she has to pause, now, and think – am I happy? Is this happiness?

She squeezes Kim's hand, and settles on, "I'm trying, sweetie. I'm getting there."

It's November when Bryan starts traveling again; he'd taken enough close assignments with the security company, taken enough advantage of Sam and Bernie and Casey's friendship, and, he tells her, he has to get back to pulling his weight.

She knows she should be happy, that it's a sign that life is getting back to normal – or as normal as it can be, for them. Still, she worries; she thinks she'll always worry. She worried even when they were at their most estranged, and she buried her worry behind scathing criticisms and sharp barbs. But it is a bit easier than it was before; they are assignments, and not missions, and he is gone for days or maybe a week or two, rather than months on end. He is discreet, as the business requires, but he doesn't have to be silent the way he did in the CIA, and she knows where in the world he is, and when he'll be coming home.

Home is an ever-shifting idea. She's never been attached to her apartment in the first place – the last three years have been full of so much misery that she has few happy memories attributed to the place – but now she can scarcely cross the threshold without looking at the floor and thinking of Stuart's body stretched across the tiles, silent and still.

So she finds herself spending more and more time at Bryan's. He had moved again after Stuart's arrest, and so his new place has no unpleasant memories attached to it, no reminders of things she'd rather leave forgotten. Even while he's away and she has no reason to not go home, she finds herself going to his apartment. It feels less lonely, amongst his things, although it is still hard at times to not feel like an interloper. It is nothing Bryan has ever said or done that makes her feel this way; it is merely the fact of moving through the life that he has built on his own, without her, the unfamiliarity she has with the little nuances of his daily life that serve as a reminder that she hasn't been a part of that life for years and years now.

Bryan spends two weeks in New York just before Thanksgiving, working security for visiting dignitaries, and she doesn't return to her apartment once in the meantime. To her surprise, there isn't even a need to stop for a change of clothes, a pair of shoes, a hairdryer...and when she realizes that, she isn't shocked at all that Kim had noticed something. Without Lenore even realizing it, her things have largely migrated to his place, finding a foothold like weeds, carving out a place for herself in the face of the feeling that she does not belong.

She wonders if Bryan has noticed. She wonders if he minds.

He's due home on Saturday morning, and arrives earlier than expected, well before the sun comes out. The lights flicker on in the bedroom, waking her up, and she blinks open her eyes to see his surprised face looking down at her. "Lenny?" he asks, his voice edged in puzzlement. Apparently he hadn't noticed her car outside, and she isn't expected.

"I'm sorry," she says awkwardly, her voice thick with sleep as she props herself up on her elbows, suddenly uncertain of herself, if she has crossed some sort of invisible line that she should not have passed by letting herself into his home as though it were her own, sleeping curled up in his bed while he was away, waiting for him like they were still married. "Should I…?"

"No," Bryan immediately answers, cutting her off before she can finish expressing her doubts. He sits beside her, the bed sinking under his weight. He puts his hand on her knee, squeezing reassuringly through the sheet she has tossed over her. "No, of course not. I'm glad you're here." He looks exhausted, his face creased with weariness, heavy bags beneath his eyes. She frowns, concerned, wishing for not the first time that he would find something else to do, for his own sake, rather than run himself ragged with the line of work he's chosen.

They're both so much older and so much more tired, and she wonders if they'll ever be able to rest.

"Everything went okay?" she asks, her voice laced with worry. She remembers those rough years after he had joined the CIA but before they divorced, when he would come home closed-lipped but sporting new scars, angry and deep. This isn't the same, but she still wonders sometimes if she can bear it again – but then, leaving him in the first place hadn't stopped her from worrying in all those years inbetween.

He nods, his free hand passing briefly over his face. "Yeah, it went well. Just, you know…long flight back."

"Well, then, come to bed," she says sensibly, before taking a moment to smile ruefully at the humor of inviting him to sleep in his own bed. If Bryan finds it strange, he doesn't comment.

She's half asleep again by the time he finishes getting ready and the light goes back out, before she feels the bed shift a second time, the rustle of the sheets as Bryan slips in beside her. Unexpectedly, he reaches out for her, his arm sliding around her waist, fingers brushing the bare strip of skin exposed between her tank and her shorts. His hand is warm, and she gives a small, sleepy murmur of contentment. His fingertips are callused, the skin of his palms rough and weathered, but his touch is always soft, part of the walking contradiction he can sometimes be.

Unbidden, she remembers her therapist's words, this type of men, and she thinks about how there is blood on both of their hands. Blood on their hands, and yet Bryan can still touch her this way, with gentle affection, and it makes her feel like the world just might keep turning after all.

"I missed you," he murmurs, and there is such an undercurrent of wistfulness in his voice that she knows, instinctively, that he doesn't just mean the two weeks that he'd been away.

She twists in his embrace, turning to face him, though the room is dark enough now that she can't make out his expression, merely his outline. She seeks him out with her hand instead, brushing her fingertips over the stubble of his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. He turns into her touch, his lips brushing the inside of her wrist, his fingers closing over hers as though to hold her there.

It surprises her, a bit, to hear him say that. Bryan has always been so stoic and solid, moving so comfortably through the single life he'd built for himself, the life he'd chosen for himself, always seeming to find it easier than she did to maintain some sort of boundary and distance between them. She knows he felt guilty for all the years he had spent away and missed with Kim, but in all that time he had never married again, never seemed close from what little she knew of his life, and so she had assumed that he preferred it that way, preferred to be alone. It has been easy, then, to think of herself as intruding or imposing, but perhaps in truth Bryan hasn't just been alone, but lonely as well.

A surge of tenderness floods her veins at the thought; she had worried for so long about imposing, had hated feeling needy. She has never before bothered to consider that perhaps there is something he needs in return, that perhaps their relationship isn't as unbalanced as she had feared.

Perhaps, she thinks, it is time to stop preparing for failure.

Carefully, she eases closer, seeking out his mouth in the dark first with her fingertips, then with her lips, kissing him softly. His hand falls away from her wrist, settling heavily on the small of her back instead, warm and comforting. Solid and sure, like him. "I missed you, too," she says quietly, honestly. She feels like she's spent endless time missing Bryan, all the long, long stretches he would be gone while they were married, and even – maybe especially – the years after.

She feels, rather than sees, his smile, and she turns again, closing her eyes. The nightmares still come, most nights, and perhaps they always will. But she's learned to find solace in the fact that the morning always follows.

A/N: Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed – if you did, please take the time to leave a comment. Your thoughts are greatly appreciated. That marks the end of this story (at least for now). Thank you to everyone who took the time to leave me words of encouragement. I'm so glad you enjoyed it, and thank you for taking the time to leave feedback. It really means the world.