After Juliet had returned to the States, three days had passed before she saw Shawn alone. On the first day, Carlton had practically ordered him to the interrogation room as soon as Shawn's toe had crossed the station's threshold. Henry had roped Shawn into a barbecue on the second day, tying up Shawn's afternoon, evening, and night, despite his best efforts to escape.

On the third day, she called him from the station and directed him to wait for her outside the Psych office, where she picked him up and sped away toward her apartment before he could fasten his seatbelt.

"Jules?"

"Hmm?

"Is this some kind of kidnapping? Because you seem, uh," he paused, searching for words. "Tense."

"No, of course not," she said, eyes on the road. "No. Just - I just - " I haven't seen you in three days. I haven't seen you since we left Vancouver, and I'm a little nervous, and I'm a little turned on, and I keep thinking about you, and - "

"Jules?"

"Yeah?"

"You passed your apartment."

She instinctively lifted her foot from the accelerator, embarrassed. "Right," she said, turning her car off the road and into a parking lot, where she about-faced and steered toward her apartment. She forced herself to concentrate - on the road, on the turn, her parking space, anything but the hot anticipation low in her stomach.

She barely remembered the time between the second she killed the engine and the moment she pushed Shawn's shirt off his shoulders.

Afterwards, Juliet propped herself up on her elbow, not bothering to hitch up the blankets to cover herself. Beside her, Shawn slept - silent and still. As silent and still as she'd ever seen him. His fist curled around the comforter. His eyelids flickered gently, mid-dream, and his body expanded, contracted with his breaths. Quiet. Steady. The antithesis of Shawn in his waking hours.

She smiled softly, barely a tug at the corner of her mouth, and raised her hand to stroke his face, her thumb tracing the curve of his cheek - repeating a previous motion. She had followed the same path earlier, thumb sliding across his cheek and down his jawline as he lay under her. She'd pressed against him, let him fill her. She'd watched his eyes close, his mouth open, felt the rumble of his voice against her palm. Jules. Oh, God, Jules.

His voice - rough, desperate, tone entirely new - echoed in her mind, and she leaned down, placing a delicate kiss on his neck. She touched her lips to his pulse-point, pausing to make sure he didn't wake before settling back against her pillow. Closing her eyes, she caught the mixed scent of his hair product, her soap, and inhaled deeply.

She hoped it lingered, at least until he returned to her like this, clothes thrown beside the bed, exposed in a way that only she could see.