N/A: The Season Premiere airing in two weeks now, I'm sure everybody is tired of reading Post-LD fics. But I had to write my own, because, well, LD was quite a milestone in their relationship .'

Anyway, you don't have to worry a lot because this is a two parts fic, and the first one is not about Sara's abduction ;-)

Lisa (Mingsmommy), you are wonderful. Thank you so very much for your help

Spoilers: Up to 7x24 : "Living Doll

Category: Angst/Romance

Pairing: GSR

Rating: Teen

Disclaimer: 'CSI' and all its characters belong to Anthony Zuiker, CBS and Alliance Atlantis. No copyright infringement is intended.


Part One: Even when the wound heals...

A high mirror covered the bathroom's door.

A long fissure split it, almost horizontally.

The day her mother had harshly hit the other side of the door, cracking the mirror behind, the irregular line was crossing Sara's reflection at shoulder height. She remembered she had spent some time studying it, later that night, her index brushing over the slightly rough texture of the broken glass, feeling the tiny split under her touch.

The crack traced a line across her stomach now, exactly over her belly button. She had grown up a lot during the summer. Her body had begun to change.

Not only her body.

She'd stayed under the hot water for a long time, and the room was filled with steam. The mirror was now covered with condensation.

She used to avoid looking at her reflection every time she got out of the shower, unable to bear the image it was giving her. She was changing, her body was changing, her father was changing.

She didn't want all those changes.

She wanted the curves to disappear, so she could curl up again, forgotten by the rest of her family. Her body was now a traitor whose image she couldn't stand.

But today, as she escaped the shower, immediately wrapping a towel around her steaming body, her eyes slid over the mirror in front of her, and this time, she didn't avoid the image.

Her reflection was blurred.

The steam had softened the shapes of everything reflected in the glass, her included.

She moved closer, until she stood less than two feet away from the door. She could see the outline of her eyes, but not the anxiety or the uneasiness in them, nor the strange detachment covering the other emotions. She could see the outline of her eyebrows, nose and mouth. She could still see the excessive rosy color of her skin, having spent too much time under the hot water; but she couldn't see where her skin was grazed, as she had rubbed it too vigorously.

Quietly, the towel slid on the floor, exposing her naked and slightly quivering body, despite the warmth of the room.

And a shiver of relief went through her body as she studied her blurred reflection.

The curves were gone.

Sara was only twelve, but she was smart enough to know that what she was seeing right now was nothing but a blurred and false image of reality.

And yet, she comforted herself in the hope provided by this shapeless body.

So she stayed still, her eyes locked on the fissure crossing her foggy stomach. She stared at the dark line, again and again, barely blinking.

And then, as she was hypnotized by this invisible border, the steam started to vanish slowly, faster near the crack. And doing so, her skin reappeared.

Her whole body was made of smoke but this belt of flesh. She felt like the split was sucking her in. Yes, the split widened, spread, and she was drawn, snapped up by this growing gulf in her stomach, and suddenly, this shapeless body wasn't hers anymore.

No skin enveloped her, she was nothing but a dark abyss, and she was falling faster than ever. She was falling so fast! She didn't want to fall, not anymore!

Suddenly, the palm of her right hand hit the mirror, and with a quick gesture, almost desperate, she wiped the steam away, making her face reappear.

She looked deep inside her eyes, reconnecting with herself. Almost unconsciously, she raised her left arm, wrapping it around her blooming breasts. And when her legs stopped shaking enough to keep her on her feet, her right hand left the mirror, and her arm came around herself.

"Saraaa..." Her father's voice came through the other side of the door, alcohol piercing in his low tone.

She wrapped her arms tighter, as tight as she could.

And she closed her eyes, her face distorted by a pain she didn't fully understand.


White or pink, the occasional angry red. Flat or raised, smooth or puckered.

Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom were covered with scars.

There were those drawn on their skin in white or rosy lines, evidence of an old wound, sometimes blurred, rarely forgotten.

There were those running through their souls. So many fissures painfully filled up, which had made them who they were. They will never totally disappear, but were hidden well enough to be invisible to the naked eye.

But the eye of the loved one was never naked.

They talked about their scars.

It began innocently (enough). Lost between the warmth of the sheets, drunk on each other, intoxicated by the taste of her skin, the texture of his body, the smell of her hair, the perfection of his hands, the taste of her lips.

The meeting of their naked skin and whole bodies was still something relatively new, and each experiment brought back the same question and realization:

How could have they survived without each other for so long?

Because it was clear now that they would never be able to live without each other again. They were completing themselves, and nothing had ever felt this right and perfect before. Ever.

And Grissom was truly delighting himself with every inch of skin she was offering to him, and was resolute not to forget a single one.

That's why he stopped, as he was covering the whole length of her left leg with kisses, when he discovered the small white mark on her calf, and asked with curiosity how she'd got this one.

"A race in the wood, with some boys from my street. I still managed to win."

For the next scar, her answer was:

"A slap from my father, sent me into a sharp table corner."

When she saw the rising guilt in his eyes, and his sudden dumbness, she took the lead, and quickly found a scar she could question him about.

And it became a habit. When one of them discovered a scar, the other explained how they'd gotten it, and vice versa.

They talked about the visible ones, and about those which weren't. Without much surprise, she had more visible marks than he had, but it didn't really matter.

Because without much surprise either, his invisible scars, she found them anyway.

And together, they were healing their wounds.


If he hadn't gone to Tommy Gordon's birthday, Gil would never have broken the glass.

Because every thing began there.

The other kids didn't like Gil. It was easy to think that the feeling was completely shared, but it wasn't. Gil didn't dislike his schoolmates. He just found them...intriguing. He liked to stand aside and watch rather than participate, and by doing so, he was said to be antisocial and withdrawn. Which, in a way, was true; but HE knew what it was all about.

For example, in all modestly knew that he was smarter than the other kids. At six years old, he had finally started going to school. But what he was doing there, and what he was "learning", he had known it all for a long time. So in class and during activities, not wanting to show himself, he was doing what he loved the best: quiet observation.

His school-teacher knew he was smart, and thought he was shy. His classmates thought he was uninteresting, way too serious, and just plain weird. During recess, he was always chosen last, because he ran too slow. If you had asked him why he was slow, he'd have said that it was because he was calculating the statistics and probability of victory. But nobody ever asked, so he didn't say a word, and calmly continued to be ignored by the others.

But in every respectful neighbourhood, there were some rules that you just cannot escape, even if you were the least popular kid around.

And going to a birthday party was one of those rules.

Birthday parties. Where you had to go with a silly present and this hideous bow tie that Mommy always put around your neck because you were so cute with it.

Tommy Gordon had celebrated his birthday the day before and Gil was invited, of course. He had shown up. With the stupid present and the hideous bow tie. And from that action had resulted three reactions:

One of those rare 'manly' hand-to-hand fights, completely belittling, but obligatory under the circumstances.

A lecture from his dad.

And above all, an experiment, which he was just about to put into practice.

Sitting legs crossed on the living room couch, Gil was sipping his glass of milk, and seemingly absorbed in one of the rare TV program of the day. But if his eyes were focused on the black and white images, their blurred aspect was proving that his mind was on something else.

Underneath his skull, his brain's cogs were working at top speed, making the necessary correlations and deductions for the realization of his experiment.

It had begun when Tommy had made fun of Mommy. Gil was used to the other kids' cruelty; they regularly took a vicious pleasure in playing a game called 'Let's go annoy Gil'. It was mostly verbal attacks, rarely physical, because he knew how to defend himself if he had to. But he couldn't bear for his Mommy to be involved in that stupid boyishness. Yes, Mommy was different, he knew it very well. Yes, at home, they used their hands instead of their mouths, and so what? He'd never doubted that despite her disability, she was as much loving as any other mom.

But Tommy had dared to make fun of her, and tried to shake his certainties.

So of course, when the kid had ridiculously mimed the signs that Mommy had made when she had dropped him, wickedly imitating the sounds which sometimes escaped her mouth without knowing it, Gil hadn't hesitated a single second. He had charged.

He'd hit Tommy, Tommy had hit the table. The impact caused two of the glasses to fall and break on the floor, soon joined by Tommy, Gil still attached.

Eventually, they'd been separated by adults. Tommy's mom had gone completely hysterical when she'd seen the bloody hands of her baby, and immediately called a doctor –even if it appeared that the cuts were just superficial. Her second immediate phone call had been for someone to come and take away the delinquent who'd dared to touch her dear son, and who was obviously just as whacko as the entire Grissom family.

In spite of his exaggerated sobs and his mom's hysteria, Tommy had managed to stop his tears long enough to shoot him a cruel and victorious smile, before he whispered to him:

"See, I have real mum."

Luckily for him, the doctor had arrived right at that moment, preventing another collision.

Daddy had quickly followed, and together, they'd left the house, crushed under the shocked and reproving looks. He had not shouted at Gil. Daddy never shouted, never raised a hand to him. But strangely enough, his disappointed look was even worse than a slap or booming anger. When he asked Gil to explain his behaviour, his voice when he'd answered was low and full of shame. But it was also a little challenging, proving that he didn't regret having defended Mommy. And Daddy had understood, somehow. And then came the lecture, and the punishment, which consisted of helping Daddy in his conservatory every evening until next vacation. And they'd agreed on the fact that it was not necessary for Mommy to know about this incident.

And a day later, he found himself with a mind on fire, staring at his glass of milk with interest.

Because he was going to prove Tommy Gordon that Mommy was exactly like any other mom. That just because she couldn't hear the sound of his voice didn't mean that she loved him less. And not being able to prove that to Tommy face to face, he was at least going to prove it to himself, once and for all.

Dragging his eyes away from the glass, he looked to his left, towards the kitchen, and watched for a while as Mommy was ironing the clean laundry.

And then, still looking at her, he extended his arm, and dropped the glass.

It hit the floor, and just as he expected it to do, broke in a thousand pieces.

He stared at Mommy, waiting for a reaction, any reaction. But she didn't even blink. However, she eventually raised her eyes from her task, surely feeling his glare. And when she met her son's eyes, a tender smile spread on her lips, this smile he loved so much, the one crackling in her blue eyes, and which made him feel like nothing wrong would ever happen to him. He returned her smile, and she put her eyes and mind back to the laundry.

Somewhere inside of him, he knew that this smile was exactly the answer he'd been looking for. But the child that he was wanted more at this instant.

So, he slid to the floor, kneeling over the mess, his pants absorbing the milk. Full of confidence, he grabbed a piece of glass, and studied it for a few seconds, turning it between his fingers. And then, with determination, he slowly closed his left fist around the sharp piece. He took a deep breath, and tightened his hold, as tight as he could.

It hurt of course, and almost immediately, tears of pain invaded his eyes, which he quickly closed. But he forced himself to count to ten before loosening his fist, and it seemed to be the longest seconds of his life. When he finally dropped the glass and opened his eyes, his fingers were spattered with blood. It dripped on the parquet, mingling with the milk. And he was sincerely shocked by the image.

Shocked by what he had just done, because it was completely stupid, and it really, really hurt.

But just when he was about to give up and let out the sob that was blocking his throat, ready to run to Mommy, a thud and a throaty sound came from his left, in the kitchen. He turned his head to see his mom running towards him, completely panicked. Within a minute, she had wrapped one of the warm linens around his bloody wound, and carried him to the car.

Once again, he had succeeded. Mommy was reacting exactly as he had wanted her to. Like every loving and caring mum.

And for the first time in his life, what he felt wasn't a modest and delectable pride, but a sharp guilt full of shame.


It's been several minutes now since Sara's fine fingers had started to absent-mindedly play with those of his left hand, and it wasn't until she asked the question that he really noticed it.

"I always wondered how you got these scars."

He dragged his eyes away from the screen, intrigued by her question. Comfortably installed on the couch, she was cozily nestled against him (not to say half sprawled on). He had wrapped his left arm around her waist, and was realizing that she'd spent most of the time studying his hand rather than focussing on the movie.

"Which ones?" he asked with a small smile, loving the small frown of curiosity on her forehead, and the pursing of her lips, as she didn't take her eyes from his hand.

"These." She answered, lightly tracing tiny lines inside his palm and fingers. He forced himself to stop looking at her face long enough to see which marks she was pointing at.

He smiled sadly when the memory of the wound came back, a little tarnished by all these years gone by since then, and eventually answered: "It's the result of one of my experiment. A painful one, I have to say. I was six years old, and I was ready to do anything in order to prove that I was right, even if it meant suffering. And don't say that I haven't changed." He quickly added when she raised her head, the reply ready to escape her lips.

She closed her mouth again, chuckling softly, and her eyes were sparkling when she asked:

"And what did you managed to prove, Mr Grissom, as the proud six year old you were?"

For a second –or maybe it was ten or thirty- he didn't answer, losing himself in the shining gleam in her eyes, finding it hard to concentrate with the feel of their fingers, which had started interlacing again, more slowly, more sensually.

And barely a few millimetres was separating their lips when he murmured his answer:

"That a manis ready to do anything to be loved by the woman he loves."


His mom, and their entire neighborhood, had always thought that he hadn't understood what was happening, at least not until he'd been to the hospital with her, hearing the terrible reality from the doctor himself.

The whispers were all the same:

"Thank God, the kid didn't realize it immediately. Can you imagine, how traumatizing it must be, knowing that you've watched the TV with your father's body on the couch?"

But what he'd never said to his mom was that he knew. He knew all along.

He had heard it long before his mother arrived in the living room and tried, helplessly, to wake her husband up. Long before she sent him to their neighbour's, completely panicked, so they could call an ambulance for her. She'd kept him away from the room then, from his dad, until they were at the hospital. Where, according to her, he had found out about his father's death. That he'd denied the painful truth up to that moment, as he stood in this hall stinking with antiseptic, yes, without a doubt. But he had known it all along because he'd been able to hear it.

Perhaps it was because he lived half of the time inside a silent word that he was so aware of every little noise around him. Or maybe it was because he knew that his mom's disease was hereditary, which meant that one day, months, years, or decades from now, he wouldn't hear a thing anymore.

The fact was that he had great hearing, and that detail mattered a lot to him.

And that day, as he was watching a baseball match with his dad, and his dad had 'fallen asleep,' it hadn't been long before he understood that something was off. Because when his dad was sleeping, he snored. Not loudly, but it was impossible to miss the hiss escaping his mouth with every deep breath he was taking, at least not for Gil.

And that day, there had been no hiss, not even the slightest one.

He first understood it in his gut.

His eyes were still fixed on the screen, but his ears had noticed that something was wrong, that something was missing. And a loud alarm began to scream in his head, but he tried to ignore it.

When this feeling of 'wrong' increased considerably, giving him goose-bumps, he still refused to turn around and take a look at his dad.

It was understandable. He knew deep inside that it wasn't normal, at all. And he didn't want to confirm his fears. He simply wanted to keep watching this game, their game; and when it would be over, they would have dinner with mom, commenting on the game between bites of food, so they could use their hands.

But soon, too soon, this uneasiness, this unspeakable terror, became stronger than anything else, and he was unable to stay immobile one more second.

And then, he turned around, preparing himself as much as he could to have a horrific vision.

But what he saw was nothing more than his dad, sleeping peacefully on the couch.

But Gil wasn't stupid. Unfortunately.

"Dad?" he called out softly. No answer (of course). A sting of panic. "Daddy?" More pressing and still no answer. Wave of acid in his stomach.

He tried again, twice, three, six, ten times. The silence alone replied, which was only broken by the shouting of the crowd, from the game. His game.

Eventually, he turned away from the sleeping form, putting his eyes back on the screen.

He started squeezing his fists, hard. He squeezed until his muscles hurt, until his nails dug in his skin –and yet they were short. But he ignored the pain.

And he began to bite his lip, the right corner, as he always did when he was nervous. Or angry. Or panicked. Or whatever feeling you could have when you understood that your father will never open his eyes again.

Except that this time, he bit hard. His canines imprisoned the flesh, and pressed harder, and harder. And the pain was shooting, but real. He squeezed, and squeezed tighter, until he felt something warm drip on his chin.

He took out his handkerchief, and put it on the wound. With the tip of his tongue, he understood that the cut was deep, and that a stitch might be needed. But he also knew that when his mom entered the room, anytime now, she'd have some graver concerns than to give a damn about a bloody lip.


He would have a scar.


Sara entered the bathroom staggering a little, her breathing unsteady.

She by-passed the door, and with both hands, pushed it until it closed with a snap. Her clammy palms slowly slid over the mirror's smooth surface, creating an unpleasant and unbearable squeak. When her hands finally left the glass, they were quickly replaced by her forehead. It's the coldness against her skin that made her notice the fever.

Why did she have a fever?

She couldn't concentrate, she couldn't think. Because of the complete numbness of her limbs. Because of the uninterrupted buzz inside her head. Because of the violent heartbeats against her ears. Because of this wretched nausea gripping her stomach, making her beg not to vomit.

She didn't want to throw up. Please, not now, not now, not now, she didn't want to throw up, please.

The nausea.

That was the reason she had a fever.

Why was she nauseous, then?


It all came back to her in a gun shot, a stab in the heart (literally speaking, sickly enough). All she had managed to forget in the dark corridor, during the time it had taken for her to come from the bedroom to the bathroom. She saw everything again as if she was back in there.

She was nauseous because...Because her father had wanted too much. Because her mother had stopped him by thrusting a knife in his body (several times). Because there was so much blood, so, so much blood, and because she hadn't been able to stop the flow, and yet she'd tried, she had really, really tried! Because the smell had been unbearable, and because the smell, oh that smell, it had followed her in her shelter.

She suddenly opened her eyes. Taking herself from the door, she looked at her hands. Red.

Putting her eyes on the mirror, she saw both trails that her fingers had left on the glass, and realized that if her hands were clammy, it wasn't caused by sweat.

And when she looked past the dark trails and saw her reflection, her own image made her sick stomach jump. And because her parents had at least succeeded in giving her some good rules during her messy childhood, she managed to reach the sink before she emptied her stomach.

But the hiccups shaking her body didn't stop. On the contrary, they increased, her loud and erratic breathing resounding between the walls, premise of tearless sobs.

She couldn't do it anymore, it was too much, way too much, she wasn't in control of anything, she didn't understand anything anymore. She just wanted this to stop, everything had to stop, now, it was enough! Enough!

All of the sudden, she grabbed the pumice stone that was on the edge of the basin, and with all her strength, she threw it against the mirror.

The sound of the explosion pierced the air, but the glass didn't shatter on the floor. A large cracked halo spread across the surface, and new fissures appeared from the old one.

But the mirror was still there.

Why wouldn't it break?


She found herself hitting the glass as hard as she could, screaming "why?" again and again through her sobs. Until the halo broke eventually. Until most of the mirror was on the floor.

Until she found herself curled up in the shower, holding her bloody right hand against her chest, shaken by violent and now tearless sobs.

Until some neighbors finally called the police, the number of screams from the Sidles having exceeded its usual quota that night. Especially the kid's.

Until her life ended at last, and began again.



She'd always been captivated by his lips.

She had this clear memory of their first meeting, when he'd suggested that they should continue their discussion over a cup of coffee. And while he spoke, her gaze had literally been hanging on his lips.

It had been sincerely innocent and platonic at first.

There was such passion in his voice, such fervor, she couldn't help but inhaling every single word that was escaping his mouth. And she liked the fact that she could act like this without freeing the primitive animal hidden in him.

But truth being told, after some time, she would have been more than willing for the primitive animal to free itself.

But he'd been the perfect gentleman.

He had never tried to take advantage of the powerful and unmistakable sexual tension that was surrounding them, when she would have given up everything for him. When she actually had given up everything for him.

Yes, for almost seven years, he did absolutely nothing at all.

But it didn't really matter, because after the wait came the reward. She'd discovered that his lips excelled in different kinds of passion.

She had never lost herself so completely and desperately in a man's kisses, whether they'd been laid on her mouth or on her body.

But with him...

His lips caressed her skin, and her entire body covered with goose-bumps. They found her most sensitive and receptive spots, and made her shudder, then made her moan. And even when they nested in the crook of her neck, they eventually found their way up to her ear. And the words they whispered had the same effect on her soul that they'd had on her body.

She had quickly noticed the tiny scar on the right corner of his lower lip. It was barely visible, hidden by the curve of his mouth; if she hadn't had the chance to explore his lips so thoroughly, she might have never found it.

And until now, she had never asked him the question. It wasn't because she was afraid to discover that in the past, he'd had such a passionate partner that she couldn't restrain herself from giving him a little souvenir, or any other reason of that kind.

And she asked him today almost randomly.

She'd been awake for some time now, and was simply watching his relaxed sleeping face. She knew from his breathing he wasn't asleep, though. Like her, he preferred to remain quiet, keeping the safe feeling that they were in a bubble. Soon, too soon, the bubble will burst, and they will have to go back to the real world; but they still had time.

He was letting her watch him, as she sometimes let him watch her.

Her right hand finally reached up to his face; she was unable to keep looking at him much longer without contact, even the slightest. Her fingers slid over his cheek, which she had shaved barely two days ago. She loved him as much with or without his beard, but it always was a pleasure to feel his bare skin against hers again.

She let her fingers wander over his face, gently brushing over the small scars he'd got throughout his life, and which he'd talked to her about. And it warmed her heart, just knowing that he'd got this small mark on his left temple in High School, when his Lab partner was unable to carefully measure dangerous substances. Or the origin of this whitish scar on his chin –well, she didn't really know the whole story, but it implied a high testosterone level-, or that one near his scalp – a crime scene badly secured by a young and incompetent cop.

He had opened his eyes under her touch, proving he was indeed awake, but she had yet to meet his gaze. He let her continue her silent exploration, watching her just as seriously and tenderly, until she eventually direct her attention to his lips. Her finger drew the tiny line hidden there.

"How did you get that one?" she murmured.

She finally locked eyes with him, and was instantly caught by the intensity in them. For a second, she allowed herself to get lost in the feelings it created in her; those delicious butterflies in her stomach; the momentary halt of her heart; this shiver running through her back, a mixture between beginning desire and affection for him so powerful it almost hurt.

His lips curled up in an amused and tender smile, and his voice wasn't louder than hers when he replied: "I was wondering when you'd notice it."

She chuckled softly, unable to stop her own grin, her palm resting on his warm cheek again.

"Oh, I noticed it long ago." She teased. Beneath the sheets, she rubbed her toes against his calf, obliging their legs to cross, then to interlace; doing so, it considerably and deliciously increased the contact between their bodies. "I was just waiting for the right time to ask."

He didn't ask why she thought now was the right time. He didn't have to. He slipped his arm around her waist, dragging her closer to him, intoxicating both of them a little more with every passing second with their closeness, the exhilarating and so comfortable warmth of their bodies.

He leaned his forehead against hers, and closed his eyes. For a second, he allowed himself to get lost in the feelings invading his entire body and soul. This feeling of well-being and absolute trust that he had discovered the day he'd let her enter his life, totally and absolutely. This deep-rooted need to blend himself into her -without any sexual allusion- completely, helplessly. Because he couldn't make it anymore without the feel of her skin, without her smell, without everything that she was, her aura as much as her soul.

He finally opened his eyes again, and so did she, eventually. Her gaze was slightly blurred, as his must be. When he spoke, there was no hesitation in his voice:

"I got this scar when my father died."

A strong emotion filled up her eyes, but it wasn't pity. It was real compassion, mixed with some worry. She knew how and when his father died, and what consequences and impact it had had on his life at that time. She nestled a little more against him.

"I bit my lip. I bit it until it started to bleed. It seems crazy and thoughtless now, but back then, I just wanted to...I don't know. It was incomprehensible. I had anger and resentment against him for being gone so suddenly, against myself for having those feelings. And I just wanted to feel a pain that I could..."

"That you could control..." she murmured, and he slowly nodded, slightly surprised. "A pain that you had caused yourself, which you could stop if you wanted to, and which was above all able to cover, even for a short amount of time, this other uncontrollable, unbearable sharp and shooting pain."

His surprised had faded away, replaced by a sad understanding. He knew she was referring to her own past, and it grabbed his heart painfully.

She slightly moved away from him, lifting her right hand, which had been resting on his chest, up to his eyes so he could see her palm.

Looking closely, he noticed the light white marks blending with the lines of her hand, taking shape on the bottom of her palm.

He frowned. For a second, he thought that it was the scar from the cut she'd got during the lab's explosion. But he quickly remembered that this one was on her left hand.

He slid his eyes back to hers.

"When my father died, I locked myself in the bathroom." She whispered. "And I broke the mirror. I broke it almost with my bare hands, until it was completely shattered on the floor. Until my hand hurt badly enough for me to forget just for a second what I had just seen." She let out an empty laugh, and her voice slightly broke when she added: "It's funny the stupid things that we can do when our parents die. When we're in pain."

He was unable to say anything, then. Unable to think properly, shaken by a new wave of feelings dazing him. Completely numbed by his old pain emerging from his core; by Sara's. By theirs.

Now more than ever, he knew that this bond between them was rare, indescribable and more powerful than anything he had ever felt in his life, or would ever feel again, and he wanted it to never, never, never end.

And no words were needed to know if these feelings were shared.

They knew it in the way their lips found each other, desperately. In the way their hands got lost on skin, in hair. In the way their bodies claimed each other, looked for each other, found each other.

And they knew it when their souls met, during this fleeting and yet so powerful instant. This instant when everything stopped and vanished. When the same prayer was emanating from every single cell of their beings…

Please, never, ever let this end.

Six weeks later, Sara disappeared.

End of Part One


N/A: The second part will be all about Sara's abduction, during and after the event. So bear with me if you dare :p