AN: Sorry for the delay but I was on vacation and didn't really get a chance to work on this. This is the final chapter. The reviews have been incredible, so thank you. I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much, and please leave a comment if you do. Cheers!

The soup is delicious and she tells him so, compliments the seasoning and his culinary skills and the wine he picked, but he brushes it off with a swift motion of his hand, acts like it's nothing special, and she thinks he's embarrassed by her praise and she wonders why he's never really as confident around her as he is with everyone else. Raymond Reddington, everything seems to come natural to him, his talents are manifold and eclectic, he can carry any conversation no matter the subject, he is quite brilliant in fact, brilliant and arrogant and such a pain at times and yet he is obviously struggling to deviate his attention from the rim of his plate to her. She doesn't understand his behavior, can only guess, and there's something oddly endearing about a criminal mastermind acting shy and insecure, but it's not what she expects from him. It's not what she wants, either. She wonders if she has done anything wrong, if she has upset him in any way, because this just won't do, she wants him to look at her, she doesn't want to sit in silence. He's the only company she has. She couldn't bear losing it, losing him. She doesn't want it to be awkward between them. The truth is she misses him even when he's with her. And that should maybe frighten her as well.

"Where did you learn to cook like this?" Stories, yes, his expertise.

He raises his head then, stares at her. Takes his time before he responds.

"There was this woman in Sicily-"

"There's always a woman, isn't there?" It's such an unnecessary remark and she scolds herself for interrupting him.

Yes.

There's always a woman.

He just nods and smiles. She doesn't understand how right she is, he thinks. She doesn't understand that the only woman that matters to him is sitting right across the table.

"There was this woman in Sicily, well, in a little village right off the coast. One of my business ventures had gone wrong and I was forced to go into hiding for a few weeks. Not the worst hide-out I've ever been stuck at, I'll admit. It was quite delightful, really. This woman, Ilaria, she taught me everything I know. There wasn't much to do except for eating and I wanted to be helpful and find a way to thank her for being a gracious host, so she started teaching me about Italian cuisine, cooking techniques, everything you can imagine."

There was a fondness in his eyes she had barely witnessed.

"If we ever end up near Palermo, we will make a detour and I'll introduce the two of you. Her lasagna is a revelation."

He pauses then, takes another sip from his wine.

"The soup was alright, Lizzie. It was the expertly chopped basil and oregano that made it special."

She feels warm suddenly, and it's quickly spreading through her veins. She blames it on the alcohol. She knows she's lying to herself.

"Can I ask you something, Red?"

"No, unfortunately I didn't prepare dessert."

He hasn't lost his sense of humor. Good.

"Why did you leave earlier?"

"What do you mean, Lizzie?"

"In the kitchen. Why did you just leave me standing there?"

He's carefully deliberating his answer, she can tell, but she doesn't want empty excuses. Just an explanation that rings true.

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"Why would you think you made me uncomfortable?"

"I assumed that-"

"You didn't, Red. I enjoyed our cooking lesson. I was hoping we could maybe do it again some time. Give it another shot."

His eyes are as bright as she has ever seen them; his voice is all hope and gratitude.

"I would love to."

She is settled next to him on the couch, not quite touching him, but not quite out of reach either. He had seemed surprised when she had suggested they could share a night cap but the elegant décor of their current safe house virtually demanded it, the polished wooden flooring, the crackling fireplace, and it's not like he needed a reason anyway.

Out of all the residences they have occupied in the last few weeks, this one just might be her favorite. There's something inherently homely about it despite the obvious wealth that clings to its walls, there's bookshelves and photographs and a piano in the living room, there's a vastness that allows her to pretend things are going just fine. She hopes they won't have to leave in the morning.

They sit in companionable silence, both with a glass of Scotch in their hand. He seems mesmerized by the fire in front of him and she gets a chance to observe him from the side, just for a moment at least, before he'll notice. There's so much she wants to say to him but she doesn't know where to begin.

"I'm scared," she tells him.

"I know." He takes another sip before he places his glass on the table and turns around to face her. She waits for more, some kind of affirmation, but instead he reaches out and tugs a loose strand of hair behind her ear, lingers there before continuing.

"You're strong, Lizzie. You're so very strong. And no matter what you are going through now, you will prevail in the end. I promise you that."

"How can you possibly know that?" she asks and her voice is too soft, too quiet.

"Because I know you, Lizzie." That's all he offers her. "Because I know you."

Slowly he leans back against the cushion and she's suddenly speechless, watches as his hand rests in the space between them and she grabs it, doesn't even think about it, and intertwines his fingers with hers, very carefully avoids his gaze through it all.

She can't imagine life without him.

"Can I stay in your room tonight?" she finally manages and she doesn't want to sound desperate but she can't bear the idea of being by herself after everything that has just transpired between them, however arbitrary it might be, however true.

When she turns her head she finds his eyes fixated on her, and there's something raw and uninhibited, something blatantly honest in them, and she tries to remember if anyone has ever looked at her like this and before she can explain, he simply nods.

"Okay."

That easy. Just this once.

She wakes to darkness and an empty bed.

Her mouth is dry and she rises to get something to drink, rises to find out where Red is. She had fallen asleep quickly, can only remember the way he had told her goodnight, his voice low and sad, before he had turned off the light. She had almost asked him to come closer so she could feel his warmth. Almost.

It's late or early or somewhere in between when she descends the stairs, she really just wants some water, and then she hears it and she thinks she must be imagining it. The soft cadences of a piano, a record maybe, but no, this sounds too real and maybe she should go back to bed or get her gun, maybe sleep deprivation leads to hallucination, and she should really call for Red.

Unless...

As she enters the living room she spots him, back towards her.

She doesn't want to disturb him and she certainly doesn't want him to stop, it's quite beautiful and how hadn't she known that he could play like this? That he could play at all? Why even keep such talent a secret?

Slowly she takes step after step until she is standing right behind him and he must have noticed her, how couldn't he, but he doesn't even flinch, simply continues playing, and she sits down next to him on the small piano bench, their legs touching, and just remains still. She watches his fingers, the way they skillfully glide from key to key, and when he plays the final note she feels like she has just lost something of great importance.

"Go on?" It sounds a little too pleading. She should have thanked him first for not sending her away.

He looks at her, somewhat wistful and tired, a faint smile appearing on his lips before he resumes, and she recognizes it immediately, she knows this song, its title, and for some reason she knows he means it.

Liebestraum has always been one of her favorites.

It's no longer the music she focuses on, no, it's the man beside her, his feelings that he guards so carefully, and she runs her fingertips over his neatly cropped hair, down his cheek, his neck, the ghost of a touch, and she loves the way he closes his eyes as if nothing will ever feel as good, as if he's dreaming, and he stops playing then, tries to steady his breathing, he's nervous and unprepared.

Lizzie.

It sounds like a melody.

And he moves a mere inch, the contact gone, and he looks pained.

"Red, look at me."

And so he does, concentrates on her whisper.

"What are you so afraid of?"

And she leans in without giving him a chance to respond, kisses the corner of his lips, and he turns just the tiniest bit, and that's it, that's enough.

He sighs, pulls her closer, it's something new, something intimate, something he can't quite process in its entirety because it's quite literally breathtaking.

He never wants it to stop.

When she withdraws, his eyes are still closed. He opens them reluctantly.

"Let's go back to bed," she says. Takes his hand, but he doesn't move.

Instead he traces the scar on her wrist and she shivers, the way he touches her is impossibly gentle, and her pulse quickens and she knows he senses it, too.

"Lizzie." This is so much more than he deserves. "I'm so sorry. For everything."

"I know, Red. I know."

He looks at her like this can't be real. Once again presses his lips to hers, savors every movement and sound, the reality of it all. Her skin is so soft.

"Okay. Let's go back to bed."