She entered the apartment and tossed her shawl on to the sofa, kicked off her heels and walked into the kitchen. It was late, a little after midnight, the Jeffersonian parties rarely ended before midnight anymore, but this one had. She poured a glass of wine and pulled the box down from the shelves in the living room. She hated that she had to do this to go to sleep, what was once an occasional thing had become an every night ritual. Glass of wine, look at the pictures, go to sleep, dream of him. The same routine. They'd danced at the party, a cursory dance, it was expected, they were partners after all. However, after their dance, he'd retreated to his table, she to hers. It was becoming harder and harder to admit to themselves that they hadn't made a mistake, that one night. Pouring another glass of wine, she looked through the pictures, then standing up to put the wine away she accidently knocked them off the table, scattering them across the floor. Looking at the clock, it was a quarter after one in the morning, and she was more than a little tipsy. Picking up the phone, she called him, she got his voicemail and all she was said was, "I'm all alone, I said I wouldn't call, but I'm a little drunk and I don't know how I'll do without you."


He entered the darkened room and grabbed the mail from the floor. Kicking his shoes off, he dropped his jacket and tie on the couch and poured a shot of single malt, shooting it quickly he winced as it made its way down his throat. He dropped to the couch and stared at the door. The dance had been perfect, he'd held her in his arms, they'd floated across the floor and when the music stopped she was gone. Again. His whole mind was occupied with visions of her coming through that door, that night. That one night, the night he couldn't stop thinking about, it was constantly there. At work, he concentrated on the cases, he worked with her, but all he could think of was the way she raked her nails across his back or the expression in her eyes when he kissed her. He couldn't keep going like this, looking at the clock it was a quarter after one and he had no idea where she was, or whether she'd gone home alone. All he knew is that he'd rather feel like he did right now than not feel anything at all. He poured another shot and sipped it slowly, he was a little drunk but not so out of it that he didn't know what he was doing, he picked up the phone and called her, it went straight to voicemail and he said, "I'm a little drunk but I can't be without you, I'm on my way."

She put her shoes back on and grabbed her keys and left her apartment at the same time that he left his; they both were heading towards each other when they passed in the street. Slamming on the brakes, they stopped in the middle of the road and ran to each other, meeting in the middle of the street; he took her in his arms and crushed her to his chest as his mouth descended on hers.