Oh, it's okay. I'm right here. It's all over. Okay. Shh. I'm right here, alright. It's all over. Shh…alright.

I know who you are. Hey. I know. It's okay. Shh. It's gonna be alright.

Give it time, Bones, okay? Give it time. Everything happens eventually. All the stuff, okay, that you think never happens – it happens. You just gotta be ready for it.

Here we are. All of us are basically alone, separate creatures just circling each other. All searching for that slightest hint of a real connection. Some look in the wrong places, Some, they just give up hope because in their mind they're thinking 'Oh, there's nobody out there for me.' But all of us, we keep trying over, and over again. Why? Because every once in a while, every once in a while, two people meet. And there's that spark. And yes Bones, he's handsome. And she's beautiful. And maybe that's all they see at first... But making love? Making. Love. That's when two people become one.It is... scientifically impossible for two objects to occupy the same space.
Yeah, but what's important is we try. And when we do it right, we get clos
To what? Breaking the laws of physics?

Yeah, Bones. A miracle. Those people- role-playing and their fetishes and their little sex games- It's crappy sex. Well, at least compared to the real thing.
You're right.

There's more than one kind of family, Bones.

Sweets, I can only hope that one day you know what a real partnership is.

Are you going to betray me? No.

Of course I think that you're special.

If they don't know how lucky they are? They don't deserve you in the first place. You're wrong, okay, Bones? There is someone for everyone, someone you're meant to spend the rest of your life with. Alright? You just have to be open enough to see it, that's all.

I don't often curse my good memory-- except when it comes to his promises. I don't know what he means. I would know what he meant, if it was anyone but him saying them. I know what I want him to mean. I weigh those promises on one side of a scale, along with guy hugs and long looks and his hand at my back, or an arm slung around my shoulder as my boyfriend sails off into the sunset.

But the scale has two sides, and on the other side, there's a line, his line, along with every time he's ever pulled back when I thought maybe, he was going to cross it, finally. I have no way to measure or quantify how much that line weighs against those promises, spoken and not. There's simply no way to know... except asking him.

You know, what happened to Cam happened because . . . we had a personal relationship.
Had?

Yeah. People who work in . . . high-risk situations they can't be involved romantically because it leads to things like what happened.
High-risk situations.
Every single day it's with us. There's this line, and we can't cross it. You know what I'm saying?
Yes. I understand.

Not at all, I mean, if there were no more murders, I would probably not even, you know, see her.

I'd said I understood, and I thought for a while that I did; it made sense, as little as I liked it. But recently, I've become more confused. If there's a line, why does he keep making promises? And if there's a line, well, it hadn't stopped him from getting shot, or us from getting blown up in that taxi cab, and it certainly hadn't stopped Pam Nunan, who certainly didn't seem to know the line was there. That line hadn't stopped everything from turning cold and grey, the world and everyone in it a thousand miles away from me, until I saw him come out of that line of honor guards to tackle that terrorist, and the world burst back into color. If he probably wouldn't even see me if there were no more murders, then why does he care so much who I slept with? If there was a line, why couldn't I compartmentalize my unease around Cate Pritchard, or suppress the lurch in my stomach belying my words as I told him that I assumed he was sexually active, and that he was the one with the problem talking about his private life. I wasn't ashamed of admitting I'd been dumped. I was more afraid he would say he'd told me so, with no more promises to follow.

How much of it was mere alpha-male protectiveness? How much was partnership? How much was friendship? How much was it... something else? And how did he balance his own set of scales? I no longer knew what I meant when I repeated what I knew about endorphins and dopamines and norepinephrines and biological urges-- it wasn't merely hormonal, as much as I might try to deny it. It was 'that spark' that he mentioned, 'a real connection,' at least to me.

And now? He'd made me another promise, and we'd had dinner, and laughed about nothing in particular, and fought over egg rolls, and then he dropped me at home with another long look. A look, the promise from earlier that night, and his hand on my back as he helped me in and out of the truck.

The scales wobbled-- they're wobbling still. But I don't know if it's my right to push on the promises' side of the scale, or whether the pressure I might bring down will upset the entire scale, the promises and lines and everything else spilling out of the trays, and all hope for some kind of balance gone, the scales broken. I don't know where the balance lies.