Just a little one-shot that snuck up at hit me over the head. Also, I'm procrastinating studying for my mid-term tomorrow...

For anyone who cares (and because music is my addiction), this was written to Rogue Wave's 'Cheaper Than Therapy' off the album 'Asleep at Heaven's Gate'

Enjoy!

Oh, this was such a bad idea.

What was she doing here? There was no way she could possibly be this crazy. She'd been making such progress in therapy. Dr. James had told her - in their last web-cam session – that she was making vast headway in her 'quest to become more independently stable'. Yet here she was, ruining two years of hard work and emotional rehabilitation with one badly thought out plane ride.

Was she really doing this?

The answer was undoubtedly yes, because she wasn't just contemplating it; she'd done it. She'd bought the ticket, sat on the almost twelve-hour plane ride, rented the car, drove up here. The scary part was, she couldn't even chalk this up to spontaneity or the heat of the moment. Yes, the coming here could be explained by that, but not how… easy it was to find him.

How easy it was to stalk him.

She knew this was where he was going to school, because it was why they weren't together in the first place. But it was scary, how she knew which dorm he lived in, which diner he frequented for his usual morning coffee, the vendor he bought his turkey and cheese hoagie from every Monday, Wednesday and Friday after his calculus class but before psychology. It was scary, because she didn't know it all because of tedious research, or frantic questioning of random passersby, or even his friends. No, it was information garnered over two long years of infrequent emails from his brother, where little details of his life would slip out. She pretended like she didn't notice when his brother mentioned the name of his dorm, or the nice little garden that was set next to the building where he had most of his classes – the one she was sitting in now. She pretended she didn't write all of these facts down in a little black notebook before shoving it into the bottom of her desk drawer, beneath layers of old school papers and other nonsense.

The same little black notebook she was clutching in her hand right now.

She watched the clock in the middle of the quad until it the time she was waiting for, making her heart race. Standing up, she ducked behind a tree as students began filling the pathways, walking to their next class or their dorms, or wherever they were going. His blonde head, broad shoulders, set expression caught her eye through the crowd, and she trailed him to the vendor, watching him order and pay for his regular – turkey and cheese. She trailed him as he bit greedily into the hoagie, making for another building in the distance, where she knew his next class was. He went inside, and she parked herself on a nearby bench.

For an hour.

She was insane. She must be, to be here, to be watching him - stalking him. Why hadn't therapy worked? Two years and she couldn't just stop herself from getting on that stupid plane? Maybe the saddest part was the impetus for this little visit. It wasn't some grand gesture, some huge happening in her life, that made it absolutely necessary to see him again. It wasn't a crises; she didn't need his help. It wasn't even the resurgence of his name, a common mention in an email from his friends.

It was a boy.

And not 'a boy' as in 'a boy she was dating, who she broke up with, and now, inconsolable, she felt compelled to fly six thousand miles to see her old flame'. No, it was a boy, no more than four years old, blonde and forlorn and rolling a small plastic car along the curb of the Parisian sidewalk. He had looked up at her, blue eyes connecting with hers, and he had given a slight, wary smile before dropping his eyes to the ground again, and she had gone to the airport, bought her ticket, and spent twelve hours staring out the window.

Oh yeah, therapy was totally working.

She waited patiently for an hour, until the familiar sight of his body, his walk, his closed off expression caught her up again, and she followed him to his dorm. Except that he didn't go to his dorm, and she began to panic. He should, logically, be going there next. If his schedule – neatly printed on page two of her little black notebook – was anything to go by, he had two hours before his next class, and he always went back to his dorm. Except that he didn't go to his dorm, he made a sharp left, and she was forced to follow, because, let's face it, it's her, and it's him. He went to a coffee shop.

Where he sat down at a booth with a girl.

How had this bit of information eluded her? Why had his brother not said anything? She could excuse her best friend for not knowing – what with her off saving the planet and not at all up to date on the goings on of her California-bound friend. But why had his brother not said anything? Usually he was quick to update her on his best friend's relationship status – although those updates were thankfully few and far between and usually lasting no longer than a month or two at a time. She had to know who this girl was, and why she didn't know about her.

She slipped on her sunglasses.

She chose the booth next to theirs, sitting with her back to them, and her pulse picked up, because he was less than a foot away from her, separated only by a faux-wooden barrier. She listened to their conversation, and it was obvious that this was a first date – a quick 'let's do coffee' kind of awkward thing.

She should stop paying Dr. James so much, because the relief was almost painful.

She listened to them make uncomfortable conversation, then hasty goodbyes, and she waited exactly one minute to the second before leaving the diner after him. This time he did go to his dorm, and she waited outside, unable to follow him through the front doors. At least, she waited until a scrawny freshman walked by, and she convinced the boy she had lost her pass key. He was too busy staring at her chest to really refuse, and he let her into the building. He even let her use his card to take the elevator up. On the sixth floor, she got off, leaving the boy stammering after her, but she was too focused on finding 612 to care.

She found it easily.

It didn't hurt that his name was on the door, along with some other one that was obviously his roommate, but who cared about that? The bigger thing here was that he was on the other side of that door, most likely lying on his bed, one arm behind his head, staring blankly up at the ceiling and brooding about how awful his attempt at a date was. She dropped her forehead against the door, making sure to be oh so quiet so as not to alert him to her presence, because how was she supposed to explain this?

She should go.

If she left right now, he would never have to know. He could go on with his life, his existence, and never be bothered by the fact that she had stood outside his door, pressing herself against the cold wood. He could go on never knowing about that little boy, and the way her stomach had twisted into knots at the sight of his shaggy head and sullen expression. He would never have to know how even years of expensive therapy hadn't gotten him out from under her skin, hadn't removed his ever-constant presence from the back of her mind, hadn't stopped his calm, commanding voice from ringing through her head every time she tried to make a decision. She should just go before-

"Taylor?"

Apparently he wasn't in his room. She briefly considered pulling the brim of her hat low and breaking into confused Spanish, but he wasn't really that stupid. So she took a deep breath, pushed herself away from the door, and turned to face her demon.

"Ryan."

He looked confused, and not at all happy to see her, which didn't exactly bode well. It probably didn't help that she had on her stalking gear – giant hat, enormous shades, binoculars shoved roughly into her purse next to the book she pretended to read while watching him. He took a wary step forward, looking around self-consciously at the nearly deserted hall and lowering his voice so that only she could hear.

"What are you doing here?"

He was usually polite, so she guessed he hadn't meant it to come out sounding as harsh as it did. Only extreme shock could make him forget his manners. She knew she should tell him the truth, that she missed him, that she couldn't get him out of her head.

"Oh, you know, I was visiting my mother, and happened to be in the area, and decided I'd drop by…"

Way to lie. And not just lie, but be completely obvious about it. Like he wouldn't remember that her mother lived in Newport, which, as it turned out, wasn't as close to Berkeley as she really wanted him to think right now. He might even remember that she hated her mother, and would, under no circumstances, willingly come to visit her.

"Taylor, what are you doing here?"

Was he just going to keep repeating those lines? Cause if he was, this little play was going to get very boring, very quickly. He stepped toward her, and she backed up so fast she tripped over her own foot, back landing painfully against his door, the knob slamming into her side, taking her breath away. She knew it was an instinct for him to reach out and steady her – it had been an instinct, all those years ago, for him to reach out and try to grab her as she fell from the roof – but his hands on her arm, on her waist, did nothing to help her oxygen issue. She cursed her lack of grace, her intense fear of rejection that had caused her to try and run away, because she saw the metal key in his hand.

He'd just been moving forward to open his door.

Pushing the key into the lock, he opened it, pulling her in, locking it behind him again. She stood awkwardly in the middle of his room, hand pressed to her aching side, watching him turn the lock. When he turned to her, his face, his body, his voice radiated with exhaustion, and he repeated his question. Why was she here?

"I don't know."

And it was the truth. The boy – that little boy that made her heart wrench painfully – had been the impetus, but what was she doing here? What did she expect to happen? The truth was she didn't know, because she hadn't thought that far ahead. Her only thought had been to just see him again, because – despite the pictures – he was fading from her mind. Not completely, not the look of him, but the rest of him – the parts that made him, him. The way he looked around nervously, the way he thrust his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders, the way he kept his eyes on the floor as he walked. She had been forgetting those little details about him, and it made her panic.

"I'm sorry."

Because she was. If this was even half as hard for him as it was for her, she was sorry. Because this hurt – seeing him again, touching him again. Dr. James could psycho-analyze her all she wanted, but she couldn't erase the memories his hands brought to the surface. And she couldn't stand the look in his eyes – the frustration, the exhaustion, the complete loss at what to do with the ex-girlfriend from hell who flew twelve hours and six thousand miles to stalk him. So she walked to the built-in mirror on the wall of his dorm, pulling her shirt up slightly, turning sideways and twisting to see her side reflected in its surface. Already she could see a bruise forming, and it was quite fitting, she thought, having an outer wound to reflect the inner blow to her emotions. Great, now she was psycho-analyzing herself. She needed to get off that track, so she focused instead on the rising black and blue marring the otherwise pale smoothness of her skin.

He was a blur as he moved into the mirror's reflection.

His hands were on her waist and his mouth was on hers before she had a chance to react. It took her a few minutes to realize what was actually happening, that his hands had pushed her shirt up father, breaking from her mouth to pull it completely over her head, and then his lips were back on hers with a crushing force. It wasn't until his fingers had worked the button of her jeans loose and pulled down the zipper that her brain turned on, and she finally got that she was here, and that this was him, that he was tearing her clothes off, that they were alone in his dorm. By the time she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, he had pushed the pants off her hips, and she stumbled out of her shoes, stepping on the bottoms of her jeans to pull them completely off. His hands slid up to cup her ass, pulling her into him so she could feel the hard proof of his need trapped between their bodies.

He was wearing too many clothes.

She knew – somewhere in the back of her mind, that little part of her brain that still held some reason – that this was bad. Not bad, because this part of their relationship they did very well, but bad because he'd said all of six words to her after she flew from Paris to stalk him around campus all day. Bad because this would just open up a Pandora's Box-worth of issues, but even though her brain was telling her to stop, her hands were gripping the bottom of his t-shirt, and he raised his arms as she dragged it up. They waited until the fabric forced their lips apart to break their kiss, and when the shirt was on the floor next to hers, he lowered his hands slowly to the waist of his jeans. She stood there, eyes caught on his, both their chests rising and falling with desperate breaths, as he popped the button of his jeans open, the metallic grating of the zipper being pulled down filling the room.

This was bad.

Somehow his gaze, dark and piercing and locked on hers, was making her brain shut down, her body flood with hot endorphins. She heard his pants hit the floor, but she couldn't look down, couldn't look away from his eyes. Usually she was good at reading him; back then all she had to do was look at him and know exactly what he was feeling, what he was thinking before he even thought it. Right now she hoped she was reading him wrong, because the only emotions she could see were lust – not surprising given his actions -, confusion – also not surprising given her actions -, but there was also fear and anger in the mix, and that was scary. She had forgotten how angry he could get.

She had forgotten how hot he was when he was angry.

He stepped towards her, and she had to take a step back –the strength of his gaze was almost like a physical presence, forcing her back as he moved forward. So she stumbled back, all thoughts of Dr. James' encouraging speeches about being a strong, independent woman flying out of her head as he stared her down. Her knees hit the bed and his hands were on her waist before she had time to fall. They kept her upright - his hands - gripping her hips almost painfully, and he slowly brought his naked body to press against her. She broke the silence as a whimper tore from her throat at the feel of him.

It had been two years.

His head dipped down, bringing his lips near to hers, and he left them there, hovering but not actually touching. Which was really frustrating, because she was aching to kiss him again, but he seemed hell bent on making her suffer. She tried to lean up into him, but he pulled away just enough so that she could still feel his hot breath on her lips. All of her attempts at feminist strength left her, because she whimpered again, and this time it came out begging and desperate. She swore she saw a smirk pull at the corners of his mouth.

The bastard.

His right hand left her waist, trailing his fingers up her spine and stopping at the clasp of her bra, which he snapped off in one deft movement – she forgot he could do that. It seemed he couldn't break their staring contest either, because he didn't even glance down when the fabric was gone. Instead he placed his palm flat between her shoulder blades, pressing her forward and into his chest as his other hand slid down to pull at her panties. Her stomach was fluttering madly, making her heart beat wildly in her chest and her nerve endings crackle with electricity. And she was actually shaking with anticipation as he pushed the little scrap of fabric down her legs.

Way to be really needy.

Seriously, therapy had done absolutely nothing to break her of this incredibly unhealthy codependency thing she had with him. And the time apart hadn't done much either. If anything it had made her more pathetically desperate. She remembered hearing once that being away from someone made you idealize them; made them more beautiful in your mind. Yeah, not so much. The pictures that she had of him – carefully pasted onto pages 23 through 57 of that little black book – did absolutely no justice to the real thing. And he'd grown since she last saw him – two years will do that to a person – and he looked… harder. Scruffier, definitely, and more haggard.

She wondered if she did that to him.

It didn't matter anymore, because she was somehow on the bed, and he was on top of her, just goddamn staring at her. He seemed determined to not touch her, but he finally broke eye contact with her, raking his eyes up and down her body as she lay below him. Warmth flooded her face, and she knew she was blushing furiously, but she wasn't sure why. It wasn't like he hadn't seen her naked before. But maybe it was because it had been a long time, and if he had changed, there was a high probability that she had as well. What if she hadn't changed as favorably as he had?

Plus, no one had seen her naked in two years.

His eyes flicked back up to hers, and she let out a shaky sigh of relief at the heat in his stare, the way his tongue darted out to lick his lips. His head dipped back down, but he still didn't kiss her, and she wanted to kill him for being such an ass about this. That feeling lasted all of four seconds before he started to slowly move down her body, letting his hot breath ghost over her skin.

"Ryan…"

Her voice was a shaky whisper, pleading and desperate, and he paused to shoot her a smug look before finally placing a chaste kiss on her hipbone. It was so pathetic, the cry that came out of her, the amount of electricity that tore through her body with that simple touch. Then his hand slid up her thigh, hesitating a second before pushing one finger into her, and she couldn't handle this. It was too much – all of it was too much. Coming here, seeing him again, and now this?

She wasn't at all prepared for this.

But he was looking at her, eyes dark and glinting as he pressed his tongue to her, making her hips buck into his mouth. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a calm voice dimly wondered how she could have forgotten how he felt, how this felt; she had spent the last two years with only her own hands and Mr. Happy to keep her company, and neither of those things came anywhere remotely near this. Then suddenly it was gone, and he was moving up her body, eyes locked on hers again as his arm slipped around her waist.

She knew what he wanted.

So she hooked her legs around him, choking out a cry as he pressed up against her, the tip of him sliding in, and she couldn't believe how much she wanted this. So what if it was bad, so what if it caused a whole mess of problems? It didn't matter, because this was so right. And her mind would have continued to ramble off a list of reasons why it was right, if he hadn't sheathed himself all the way, making her body arch and her mind go blank. She was overfilled with him; her body had almost forgotten how to handle this – the feeling of him pressing her into the mattress, his rough hands gripping her waist, the way he moved inside her.

She wanted to cry, because she had almost forgotten him.

He moved slowly, lazily, drawing out their reunion with almost painful languidness. He was driving her insane, and he seemed to know it, because he was giving her that look – the one she remembered from all those years ago when he used to tease her about whatever crazy thing she had said. And he wouldn't even kiss her, letting his mouth hover over hers for a few seconds before pulling away entirely to focus on her eyes again. She wished he would stop doing that – it was unnerving; she wished he would say something, or show some sign he felt anything other than the need to make her pay for stalking him. Because that's what he was doing, right? Making her suffer for being such an emotional wreck? She deserved it.

But she didn't deserve him.

She knew she didn't. He'd had so much trouble in his life; he didn't deserve to have her piled on top of that. She was a wreck; needy and desperate and clingy. She was an awful person for doing this – for coming back into his life and turning it upside down. Wanting to apologize, she opened her mouth – which seemed to be the impetus for his self-control to break, because he crushed his mouth to hers, hips thrusting into her wildly. His tongue was hot and dominating in her mouth, his moans of excitement muffled against her lips. She felt the heat wash through her body, pulsing from her head to her toes, rushing back to collect in her belly before she let go, digging her nails into his back as she rode the waves of her orgasm. Which set him off, and he gave one last heavy thrust before releasing himself into her.

Oh God.

When she came down, his head was dropped to her shoulder, breath coming out in heavy gasps, his flushed body collapsed completely onto her. Her entire body was on fire, still tingling, nerve endings fried. He gave a groan, pulling out of her and rolling off to the side, onto his back, where he stared up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling in an uneasy rhythm. Looking at him, she couldn't help but want to cry, because she knew this had been the worst thing possible. She wanted – she needed – to get over him, and sex wasn't exactly the best way to go about that. She wasn't looking forward to her next appointment with Dr. James, where she would have to tell the woman about this, about her relapse.

Because that's what he was – an addiction.

She was a junkie for him, and she'd been living off a diluted mix of blurry photos and old voicemails for two years. But this… she'd just taken a hit of the good stuff – the pure, uncut him. She should go, before she got too high, too drunk off of just looking at him, just being next to him. She should go, while she still had any willpower, while she still had control of her brain. It would be hard, yes, but she'd done it once – walked away from him. Well, she hadn't so much walked away as he had pushed her away, but it was the same principle. She'd had to leave him, and she'd never gotten over him.

"Go to sleep, Taylor."

His voice was heavy and low; he mumbled it as he pulled her against him, and she immediately felt herself relax. His secure arm around her waist, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the confident way he pulled her into him melted away all of her fears. They would figure this out later – they would have to, because she was falling asleep and very much unwilling to break the peaceful silence. She had forgotten how good he was at dispelling her insecurities, at making her feel safe and warm and protected and sane. She knew this was where she belonged, because she was a better person with him - the kind of person she had strived for two years to regain. So yes, they would figure this out later, and she was determined to make this work, because he calmed her mind. He made all those loose ends in her brain fuse back together into a cohesive whole. He was just what she needed.

Plus, it was cheaper than therapy.