This marks my 100th story! :) This feels quite momentous to me - I don't think I ever envisioned I'd reach this number - and so I'd like to take this moment to thank all of you! Friends old and new. Flailers and cheerers and silent readers. Critics, encouragers and supporters. I wouldn't have gotten this far without all of you; certainly wouldn't have had nearly as much fun! And every review, kind message and note, every emotion or experience you share in response brings me such joy! With gratitude for these amazing, encouraging and humbling experiences – THANK YOU!

Dedicated to my wife. Whom I met because of this wondrous world called fanfic. Without whom I wouldn't be all that I am. Who is my most staunch supporter, my hand-holder, my cheer-me-upper when I need it most. Who doesn't realize how wonderful, how truly spectacular she is. T - You are my whole heart.


A season four story, set vaguely after 4x09, "Killshot."


(ancient Greek)

(n) the perfect, delicate, crucial moment; the fleeting rightness of time and place that creates the opportune atmosphere for action, words, or movement; the time of possibility.

also, a word for weather.



The first time it happens, he barely dares to move. Has to remind himself to breathe, in and out, in and out.

For just a moment he wonders if this is a dream but he dismisses the notion immediately. He knows. The touch of her fingertips is too real. Cold as they scatter over his skin, tentative in the way they skate past the curve of his ribcage and then settle on his waist. The fleeting press of her knees into the back of his, and the lithe lines of her draped alongside his body, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, yet, not close enough to touch.

He lies on his side, stares unseeing into the darkness of his bedroom, doesn't dare to move lest he scare her away. He wants to keep it, can't quite grasp that it's real; this fantasy, this apparition in the dark of the night; this hushed, dreamlike moment where she is curled into his bed, her slender body barely making any indentations in his mattress.

He wants to keep her.


It is the middle of the night, the wintry cold howling outside the window and somehow, she has come to his home and crawled into his bed.

He pretends to sleep, to not wake up while she settles beneath his comforter and sheets, his body tensed and all his senses focused on her. He's keenly aware of each breath she takes, every slide of her limbs and subtle twitch of her fingers. The scrape of her toes along his calves is ice-cold against his skin, such a stark contrast to the heat coming off her body, now trapped underneath the blanket. His throat clogs with a tangle of emotions when the breaths she sucks into her lungs sound too suspiciously like sobs.

He doesn't know how she'd come in - had his mother let her inside somewhere around two-thirty in the morning or did she utilize her superior lock picking skills? Doesn't know why either, but he doesn't care one bit.

Tendrils of her scent cocoon him, bridging the wide, obscure chasm of longing that gapes between them. The feather-light weight of her palm over his waist their only point of contact, the only touch she seems to allow herself. So close and yet, so apart.

So lonely.

He breaches the divide. He can't not reel her in, tug her closer, the need to feel her against him a stark, unbearable thing that makes his heart clatter in his chest. Ever so slowly, as if he's approaching a skittish animal, he moves his arm, holding his breath while his palm settles on top of her hand, his fingers finding a home within the gaps of hers.

The silence seems to pulsate between them; her body feels taut, frozen in place but her fingers tremor at his waist. He tugs at her hand, her arm, pulls her close until her body is spooned along the length of his back, fitting around the curve of his rear and the slant of his thighs, like puzzle pieces made to click together, her curves and angles filling all his empty, yearning spaces.

He presses her palm to his chest where his heart beats just for her, and her fingers curl over his collarbone, once, twice; evanescent scrapes of her nails that make his skin tingle. She wiggles her hips, fitting herself more firmly against him, getting comfortable. Heat unfurls in his midsection, races through his veins and he has to bite back a groan, vigorously squashes it down. Her icy toes poke his calves. He lifts his leg, creates a small gap of space for her to slide her feet between his shins, and then he folds the warmth of his limbs closed around her.

And then her whole body seems to just melt, relaxing against him as if a heavy weight has been lifted from her, her lips just barely brushing his spine as she sighs tonelessly.

He tries to keep his eyes open, doesn't want to fall asleep, doesn't want to miss a single moment of Kate Beckett in his bed, draped warm and so, so soft against him. But her breathing evens out; her warmth and the familiar lure of her scent, the steady rise and fall of her chest lull him into a sense of comfort, of rightness he hasn't felt in a long while.

The next thing he knows, he's coming awake to the early morning grey that tickles his eyelids and she is gone, has left only the faint imprint of her head on the pillow.

He rolls over, buries his face where her scent lingers in his linens. He draws in a deep breath, soaking in the ephemeral reminder of her presence. His stomach churns with the way he aches for her, cold and forlorn.

From that day on, he leaves his loft unlocked.


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