A/N: This has been a challenge for me (thanks, Liz!). I am not comfortable writing in the present tense, so this is the result of that challenge, for me to write a story entirely in present tense. It's a fluffy, pointless kind of story, but we all love those, don't we?

She hates the snow. It's cold. And wet. And slippery.

It's snowing when she wakes up. Snowing a lot! Last night, when she got home from work, the streets were clear. The sky was overcast, and it was cold, but there was no snow in the forecast. None. So, of course, she wakes up to find two feet of it on her doorstep, and more is falling. Thick and white and heavy.

This is her first winter in her new house in Forest Hills. The schools are closed, naturally. Young laughter wafts into her house through the barely open window. It is something she and Joe talked about, buying a home and then, maybe someday, filling it with children. She hates days like this. Alone, in her empty house, thinking about Joe, about what might have been, knowing it will never be.

She walks through the house and looks out at the white, quilted back yard. She can't see the rose bushes she planted in the spring. Or the azaleas. Or the peonies. The hedges along the back fence are large and menacing -- well, they would be if there wasn't happy laughter and shouting filtering through them. The couple in the home behind hers have three school-age boys and a toddler, the daughter she imagined they'd been waiting for.

It is the boys and their friends who catch her attention, and she wonders, would Joe have wanted a son to carry his name? Or a daughter to capture his heart? They never got that far in their baby talks, and then -- and then he was gone.

God, she hates days like this.

She calls in to Ross. She and Goren don't have a case, but she wonders if one popped up in the snow. No, he tells her. No case. Take it easy today, Eames.

Make it a good day, she thinks. Never gonna happen, she knows. She doesn't have too many good days any more.

She toasts an English muffin and covers it with butter and grape jelly. Joe preferred orange marmalade, and since he died, she has not been able to keep marmalade in her kitchen. Randomly, she wonders what Bobby likes on his English muffins and turns her thoughts to the things she knows he prefers. He loves pastrami and corned beef and steaks medium rare. A hefty tumbler of Glenlivet. Lox with his bagels. Sneaking a smoke when he thinks she doesn't notice. Anything that isn't good for him, it seems, is what he likes the best. Red meat. Booze. Cigarettes. Nicole Wallace. Declan Gage.

But what about her? Where the hell does she fit in his enigmatic life? She's his partner, but is that all? Just a partner? Is she among the few good, healthy things in his life, or is she just another one of the many things that are not good for him?

She wanders back to the front bay window and sits on the cushioned seat, hugging her legs. The street is barely passable. Another six inches and no cars will be able to navigate it. She looks up at the sky, but the snow shows no signs of stopping. It's coming down more heavily. Silent. Insulating. Isolating.

She turns on the TV, for lack of something better to do. A cooking show. Great...food...oh, wait...Damn...

She hurries into the kitchen and surveys her cupboards. Sonofabitch. This last case had her so tied up she forgot to go shopping. Quickly, she contemplates the quickest route to the closest grocery store. She might be able to make it on foot. Hopefully, carrying home the groceries will be manageable. After all, what does she need? It's just her. Alone again, naturally. Ha ha! Yeah, keep laughing, Alex. What could be funnier than being alone, with no one to share the little things, like putting away the groceries and shoveling snow from the sidewalk? Keep laughing and, just maybe, someday, it really will be funny.

She bundles up, pulls on her boots, and ventures out into the snow, like an Eskimo, only not nearly as warm.

She walks down the street with the blowing wind at her back, snow swirling around her. It is cold. And it is wet. And it is damn slippery! But she makes it to the store without breaking any bones or suffering a major indignity. Three bags of groceries, and she is set for a couple of weeks. How sad is that, she wonders as she trudges across the wild tundra toward home, this time into the Arctic wind. Focusing on the sidewalk, to protect her face from the wind's bite, she's rethinking her plan, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. The three bags weight her down, feeling more like three tons to her aching arms. Heavy. And so very cold. She hates being cold. And achy. And alone.

Fireplace, she thinks, wondering where the thought came from. She has a fireplace in her living room. She's never used it, so she still has the firewood on the back deck that the previous owners left for her. It should still be under that blue tarp, across from the grill she's never used. A fire would be nice. Cozy. Warm and dry. Yes, that is just what she needs. If she ever wants to be warm and dry again.

She shivers and continues to slog through the blustery storm.

She tucks her head down further into her coat, focusing on the sidewalk and thinking about the fire she will build in her fireplace. So damn cold...

She doesn't see him, and she walks right into him, a wall of wool in his dark overcoat. She shivers and almost drops her bags. He grabs them. "I'll get these," he offers.

Bobby. His voice, so warm and, well, just so warm, is a welcome sound. She tries to keep her voice steady. "How did you get here in all this snow?"

He shrugs. "I drove."

"In this?"

"It's not impassable...yet."

"But...why?"

The truth of the matter is that he does not want to be alone. He feels that way more often now than he ever used to, and he's not sure why. Maybe it's because he is alone now, more than he ever has been before in his life. But he has her, he still has her, and maybe that's enough. In reply to her question, though, he turns to walk beside her, back to her house, and answers, "I didn't want you to be alone."

It's part of the truth, the half of it that concerns her, the half of it he will admit to her.

She shivers and pulls her coat more tightly around her. She won't argue with him now. They have argued too much lately and, honestly, she's glad he's here. She's lonely, even though she won't admit that to him. "It's a good thing I got a half pound of pastrami and a loaf of rye bread, then," she says. "And that spicy mustard you like." And that's all she is going to say about it.

He doesn't say anything, but he knows she doesn't like pastrami. He's glad he came over. For the first time in far too long, he has done something right for her, for them. The tension he has been carrying like a dead weight in the center of his gut lifts, and he feels good. It's about fucking time.

She opens the front door and darts into the house ahead of him, shivering and hugging herself against the cold. He carries the groceries into the kitchen and sets them on the counter before he takes off his coat. He walks back to the front door and hangs it up before he pulls off his boots. He returns to the kitchen to help her put the groceries away. She hasn't taken off her coat yet or her snow-caked boots. She pulls off her hat and scarf and leaves them by the back door.

She begins to remove the groceries from the bags, setting them on the counter. She feels his presence behind her, hovering, and she stops moving. He reaches around and unbuttons her coat, slowly, top to bottom. She feels his breath as it feathers over her cheek and she closes her eyes and breathes in his scent. Cologne, not too much, and the intermingling of cigarettes and beer on his breath. They are warm smells.

A gentle tug and her coat slides off her arms. The backs of his fingers graze her shoulders and her skin tingles, anticipating more contact. Then he is gone, taking her coat to its coat hook by the front door.

Part of her goes with him from the room, and she tries not to miss it too much as she pulls the pastrami from the bag. Then he's back, reaching toward her to take the meat from her hand, putting it in the refrigerator. He does the same thing with the swiss and provolone cheese and the milk. Her eyes narrow at him and he smiles. She takes out a package of chicken, but when he tries to take it away, she moves it beyond his grasp.

With a smile, he takes two cans of tuna from the bag and moves behind her to put them in the pantry. Then he turns back and grabs the chicken from her. She laughs and it's a beautiful sound. He smiles as he puts the meat in the refrigerator.

"Did you have something for breakfast?" she asks, trying to make conversation.

"Something, yes."

She knows. A bowl of cereal and a beer. That's another reason he came over, he admits in the silence of his mind. She focuses him, gives his existence some kind of purpose beyond himself. He needs her, even if he can't tell her that. Dammit, he needs her.

She takes a quart of orange juice from one of the bags and asks, "Would you mind starting a fire in the fireplace?"

Would he mind? Of course not. "That's not a problem," he answers. Keep it simple. Just say yes. She doesn't need to know any more.

She hears the sliding door open and close, and she wonders how he knows the wood is out on the deck. The door opens and closes again, and she hears him moving around. He doesn't ask for matches, and for a moment, she forgets he's been smoking again. The thought makes her sad. He's been doing a lot of things lately that she wishes he wouldn't, things that aren't good for him, and she worries herself sick about him. But nothing changes and she doesn't expect anything will. So she watches him self-destruct, and she worries, and that's all that she can do.

By the time she has the food put away, he has the wood arranged in the fireplace and is in the process of lighting it. "When was the last time you used this?" he asks, trying not to wonder why she would have used it.

"I've never used it," she answers.

"You should have someone come in and clean the chimney, then. Just as a precaution. It looks clean enough, but you never know."

"You're sure there are no squirrels' nests up there?"

"Pretty sure, yes. I didn't see any obstructions. But still, you should get it cleaned."

She nods. "Thanks, I'll do that."

She sets a cup of coffee near him and moves to the couch to sit down. Turning on the television, she forgets that she'd been watching some kind of cooking show before she took off for the store. Another cooking show has taken its place, and she laughs, a little nervous. "I love this channel," she says, not certain if it's something he knows about her or not. "But the recipes I get from it lose a lot in the translation."

He's still squatting near the fireplace, nursing along the flames, and she notices for the first time what he is wearing. Black jeans, snug in just the right places, and black boots, defrosting by the front door. His shirt, beneath the burgundy sweater, is a beautiful, complementary shade of blue. She loves blue on him, but the burgundy, she notices with surprise, does something with the color of his eyes, makes them darker. She watches him tend the fire until it's going good.

She pats the couch beside her. "Come over here and sit down. The fire is perfect."

He hesitates, but before she can repeat her request, he moves. Rising, he walks over and sits on the far side of the couch, about as far from her as he can get. She wonders when he suddenly became mindful of personal space, and she considers moving closer to him, but decides to let him sit wherever he is comfortable.

"How?" he asks suddenly.

"How what?" she answers, hoping he has not suddenly developed the ability to read her mind. Then she wonders with a surge of mild panic, that maybe it is some odd ability he has always had...

No, stupid. This is Bobby, not some space alien. He can't read your mind. He is just incredibly perceptive and intuitive.

"How do the recipes get lost in translation?"

She huffs a little. "They just never...taste good."

"If you want...we can try one tonight. Together. We always do so much better together than either of us ever does apart."

His eyes widen a bit. Did I just say that? One beer, that's all I had. When did my mouth start developing a mind of its own when I'm sober?

"Do you have any good recipes?" he asks, hoping to divert her attention from what he just said.

"I have lots of recipes. Whether or not any of them are good, well...I don't think I'm the best judge of that. They all look good, but that's about all I can say for certain."

She hops off the couch and trots to the kitchen. He watches every move as she leaves his line of sight. She returns with a book the size of a standard journal, with a deep blue cover. She settles herself beside him. "This one has an assortment of recipes in it. I started collecting them before I married Joe. I am not a domestic person, but I like to collect recipes and give them a try. In spite of the results, I keep trying."

She hands him the recipe journal, and it is a struggle to divert his attention. She seems genuinely pleased that he is here, and he isn't sure just what to make of that. She watches him open the book and slowly turn the pages, scanning each recipe as he goes. Beside each recipe, she has placed a number. The highest number he sees is a three. "Your rating system...it's on a scale of one to three?"

"Uh, no. One to five. Mediocre is the best I seem to be able to manage."

"Some of these recipes aren't easy."

"Tell me about it."

She watches him page through the book, and she remembers a certain restaurant off Times Square, a barbecue place they had not been to in a very long time. At one time, though, they stopped there after work a couple of times a month, and every time, he ordered a chicken plate. Sometimes he chose pulled chicken, sometimes he ordered chicken breast or a quarter chicken, but he loved their chicken. Those had been some good meals, and it had not been just the food that made them that way.

He smiles and turns another page. He arches his eyebrows. "Marrakesh chicken?"

"I don't know if it's the recipe or my version of it I didn't like."

He gets up suddenly and goes into the kitchen. She hears him rummage around before he returns to his place beside her. "How would you like to try this Balsamic glazed chicken breast again?"

"The one that got a one-and-a-half?"

"That's the one."

"Think you can make it edible?"

He smiles again. "Cooking is not your strong suit, is it?"

"Not at all," she answers with an embarrassed grin. "Joe always preferred to do the cooking, which was fine with me. He could cook anything on the grill. After he died, my preference became take out."

"Maybe I can change that preference."

"Are you sure you want to try? If your cooking skills are half as good as your investigative skills, I may have to impose on you more often."

She senses a fleeting tension rise in him, but it's gone before she can identify it. "It's no imposition, Eames," he assures her, and she believes him because she believes he feels the same way she does. It's nice simply to not be alone.

She knows how restless he gets, and she isn't surprised when he gets off the couch after fidgeting through two cooking shows and the first forty minutes of an old Gable movie. She watches him drift into the kitchen and listens to him rummage around before getting up to see what he's into. Silently, she watches him fix two sandwiches, pastrami with mustard for him and turkey with mayonnaise for her, both on rye.

He glances at her. "Cola?"

"That's fine."

He hands her a cola from the refrigerator and takes out a beer. She doesn't say anything, and he's grateful for that. They sit at the dining table and watch the snow fall in the backyard. He points out at the yard. "It will be a beautiful yard when those flowers bloom in the spring, the ones you put in over the summer."

"I'd like to put some more in when spring finally gets here."

"Don't rush the winter, Eames. It has its own beauty."

"I'd like it better if it was warmer."

A small smile touches his mouth. "There are more ways to keep warm than to cool off, and if I remember right, you weren't too happy with the heat in the middle of summer."

"I guess I just like moderation, not too hot and not too cold."

"I suppose I'm more a man of extremes." He finishes his beer and takes the last bite of his sandwich. "You can stay inside."

She watches him rise and walk into the kitchen to get rid of the bottle and wash his plate. "Stay inside for what?"

"I'm going to shovel the walk, that's all. I need to channel my energy someplace."

He wraps his scarf around his neck and pulls on his boots and his coat. She takes the last bite of her sandwich and pulls on her boots, hat and scarf. Then she joins him at the front door as he pulls on his gloves. He looks at her curiously. "You don't have to come outside, Eames."

"I'm not letting you shovel my walk alone. There are two shovels in the shed out back."

He looks at her with that look she has never been able to read before he turns and holds the door open for her. And she realizes for the first time that after she sees that look, she always gets her way.

He likes to shovel snow. The physical labor is good for his body and he likes to work up a good sweat when he can. The only drawback to physical labor like this is that there is nothing for his mind to do, and when his mind is bored, it wanders. That's not ever a good thing, except when there is a case to work. But they don't have an active case at the moment, so his mind revisits the past, not a place he ever likes to go.

He remembers when he was seventeen. A bad storm hit the city in early February and school was closed. Every time it snowed, he and Frank were expected to shovel the sidewalk in front of the apartment. He didn't mind it so much. Mr. Carrera, the super, was an older man, and he always paid them when they were done. But Frank left home during the spring, and he wasn't around to help out. So he took it upon himself to take care of it, in spite of the fact that he knew no one from the building was likely to be out and about any time soon.

When he was done with the shoveling, which took most of the day, he checked with the several elderly residents of the building, making sure they had food and set their thermostats to keep warm. The winter before old Mrs. Winslow had frozen to death during a cold spell because she hadn't wanted to run up her utility bill by turning on the heat. He and Frank had found her.

It was dark outside when he got back to the apartment. It had been one of the few times he hadn't anticipated his mother's psychotic episode. She accused him of shoveling the snow so they would have easier access to her. She was frantic and wouldn't let him close enough to subdue her. When she grazed his head with the edge of a frying pan, he left, calling for an ambulance from Mrs. Fredericks' apartment down the hall. While he waited for the police, who always got there first, Mrs. Fredericks cleaned his head wound and bandaged it. He'd stayed with Lewis for the three weeks his mother spent in the hospital that time.

Lost in the past, he doesn't hear her call to him. So she gets his attention by throwing a snowball at him, hitting him in the side of the head. The unexpected missile catches him by surprise, and he turns toward her. She's laughing. Smiling, he snatches a handful of snow and shapes it into a sphere, which he throws back at her. She turns and lets it hit her between the shoulders. It's war now.

Her aim is as accurate with a snowball as it is on the range, which works to his detriment. He quickly learns not to duck so much if he doesn't want to get nailed in the head. After the second time a lobbed snowball hits him in the back of the head and slides down inside his coat, he's had enough. He runs toward her down the half-cleared sidewalk as she sprints toward the back of the house, as well as she can sprint in the deep snow. He catches her as she rounds the back of the house, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her against him with strong arms.

She hasn't laughed this much in a very long time. She has forgotten how good it feels to laugh, to really laugh. He doesn't turn her loose immediately, but as her laughter quiets and she realizes exactly where she is, he releases her. When she turns to say something, he isn't there. He's gone back to the front of the house to continue shoveling. She chews on her lower lip and looks up at the still falling snow. Then she trudges through the snow back to the front of the house.

She decides it best not to start another snowball fight, uncertain about how the last one ended. He doesn't say anything about it; he just shovels the sidewalk while she finishes the walkway to the house. When she's done, she looks up and sees that he's shoveling the sidewalk in front of her neighbor's house. She's not surprised that he remembers that the couple who live there are in their eighties. She goes into the house to build up the fire while he finishes.

She makes herself a cup of tea, and when she hears him on the porch, she sets the coffee pot brewing. Stepping back into the living room, she watches him hang up his coat and scarf, and he takes off his boots, setting them beside hers under the coats. She smiles at him. "That was a nice thing to do, shoveling the Gardners' walk."

"They don't need to be out there shoveling."

"Sometimes their son comes over to help them."

He shrugs. "I was already warmed up."

She returns to the kitchen and pours him a cup of coffee, adding milk and taking it to him. He thanks her and she asks, "Where were you before?"

He gives her a puzzled look. "Where was I? I was out there shoveling..."

"Yeah, but you were far away."

He becomes very uncomfortable and walks toward the fireplace, standing in front of it and looking into the flames. She senses his withdrawal, and it frustrates her, but she has come to expect it from him. She changes the topic. "It's almost dinnertime. Do you still feel like cooking?"

He nods after a moment. "I promised you dinner."

She doesn't want to get into any kind of debate, so she just nods with a smile that she hopes will tell him that everything is okay, and she sits on the couch. He looks at her, breaking eye contact just before it becomes uncomfortable. She watches him disappear into the kitchen.

She peeks over his arm at the skillet on the stove and smiles at the wonderful odor of the dark vinegar, red wine, onion and garlic as it simmers. The earlier tension has dissipated as he puts his efforts into cooking her a good meal. She takes another deep breath. "Mine never smelled that good. What's your secret?"

He shrugs. "I'm just following the recipe."

She punches his arm, playful. He laughs, and she realizes he hasn't done much of that, not since the Miles Stone case. She'd loved seeing him so excited, so playful, so much like he had been earlier in their partnership. She had been reminded then of the Bobby she once knew, the Bobby she still misses. Now, she sees that man emerging again from a shell of uncertainty and grief. She rests her head on his arm, simply happy to have him there as she watches him cook.

When she rests her head against his arm, he closes his eyes momentarily. Then he steps away, moving to the refrigerator to grab the chicken. Deftly, he opens the package, washes the chicken and sets the two breasts in the simmering sauce. Then he covers the pan and lowers the heat.

It's taken him this long to regain the nerve to look at her. She looks expectant. He nods his head toward the pan. "That needs to simmer for an hour or so."

She considers him for a moment before she smiles and asks, "Can I interest you in a game of chess?"

She knows better than to play cards with him. She's been on the losing end of gin rummy too many times. But chess...her father taught her to play when she was little and she grew up playing with her brothers. She remembers that Joe enjoyed a good game of chess, too, but she pushes that memory away for now. She is pleased when he returns her smile and replies, "Sure, Eames. If you want."

If you want... How often has he said that to her? It's always where she wants to eat, what she wants to do. He rarely imposes his own preferences on her.

She gets a wooden case from the hall closet. It's been too long since she's brought this out. She kneels beside the coffee table near the fireplace and opens it reverently. Laying out the chess board on the carpet between them, she pulls out the glass pieces, setting the smoky gray ones in front of him and the clear ones in front of her.

When she looks up, there is a curious look on his face. "What?"

"I was just wondering why you chose white."

"White...oh...Did you want white?"

He shakes his head. "No. I usually play black. I guess it's just coincidence."

"Force of habit is more accurate. My dad played black when he taught me, and Joe always liked black."

The expression on his face changes briefly at the mention of Joe. She sees a sadness in his eyes that is too familiar these days. But he looks away, at the fire, then down at the chess board, anywhere but at her. "Bobby..." she starts, tentative.

"You go first," he says, cutting her off, not wanting to hear what she is about to say.

She waits a moment longer, but he doesn't look at her. She wonders how she misstepped as she grabs her knight and moves it.

They are engrossed in the game when the timer in the kitchen buzzes. He moves his bishop. "Check," he says as he gets up to check on the chicken.

She isn't surprised that he's such a good chess player, and she likes that he's giving her a run for her money. As in their partnership, they are well-matched. She moves her king out of harm's way as he returns. "Five more minutes," he says as he sits and studies the board. He moves his knight.

She watches his hand as he grasps the glass horse. He has strong but elegant hands, always busy, like his mind. He dips his head. "Eames?"

She smiles, drawn from her reflection. "Sorry," she says, looking down at the board.

As soon as she takes her hand off her rook, she knows she made a fatal mistake. All he has to do is move his bishop and then his queen and he has her. But he doesn't do that. Instead, he moves his knight again, leaving his king open and vulnerable. She slips her own knight in and announces, "Checkmate."

With a sly smile, he knocks over his king and gets up. She watches him walk to the kitchen. That was an elementary mistake he made, and she realizes that it was no mistake. She puts away the chess pieces and the board, returning the case to the closet shelf. She walks to the kitchen and stands in the doorway, her arms crossed. "You let me win," she accuses.

He looks up from the pan, surprised. "No, I didn't."

"Don't try and pull that on me, Goren. You could have had me in two moves, but you made a rookie mistake. You're a better player than that."

His answer is noncommital. "I'm tired. I guess my mind wasn't fully on the game."

She leans back to look out into the backyard. It's dark and the snow is still falling, illuminated by the light shining from above the deck. "You do realize you can't go home tonight, don't you?"

He sets the pan on the stove and looks at her. "Don't worry about me, Eames."

"The streets aren't passable any more."

"Eames..."

"I'm not going to debate this with you. You'll just stay here."

He holds out his hands, palms up. "I don't have a change of clothes."

"What about the gym bag in the trunk of your car? You always keep a change of clothes in it."

Damn, she knows him too well. He turns back to dishing out the meal, and he searches for another excuse not to stay. "Eames..."

"The closest subway entrance is too far in this weather, and you aren't walking to Brooklyn. I'm not taking no for an answer."

He knows too well the stubborn set of her jaw. If he chooses to argue, it could get ugly, and he doesn't want to go there. Reluctantly, he concedes. "Dinner's ready," he says, defeat in his tone.

"Don't sound so dejected. The bed in the spare room is comfortable." She motions toward the refrigerator. "There is a bottle of white wine on the bottom shelf."

He nods, setting the plates on the table. She sets out the silverware and gets two wine glasses from the cupboard. He opens the wine bottle and fills both glasses halfway.

She takes a bite of the chicken and looks at him across the table. "How did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Make this so damn good!"

"It would have been better if I'd thought to marinate the chicken."

"You realize you're going to have to cook for me again."

He gives her a smile, but there is a sadness behind it that she doesn't understand. "I'll be glad to cook for you any time, Eames."

It's always 'Eames', she muses. He rarely calls her 'Alex'. Always, he has to keep that distance between them, to remind them both of their roles in each other's lives.

The rest of the meal passes mostly in silence, and they clean the table and load the dishwasher together. He washes the wine glasses by hand and sets them in the drain. "I'll get my bag out of the car," he says.

She builds up the fire as she waits for him to come back in. When he does, he says, "There's another foot of snow on the walk."

"We can shovel it tomorrow."

He drops his bag near the couch after hanging up his coat and pulling off his boots. When he sits beside her on the floor by the fire, she can smell the fresh cigarette smoke on him, but she decides not to say anything. Let that be a battle for another day.

She hugs her legs and watches the flames. The only light in the room is cast by the fireplace. He speaks softly, and his voice is like a caress. "Have you ever gone camping, Eames?"

"Sure. Dad took us camping every summer."

"And since you became an adult?"

She shakes her head. "No. Camping is something I left in my childhood. What about you?"

"I like camping, but it's been awhile. The last time I went camping..." He trails off, and she sees the small smile that catches his mouth. "It was a very good time," he finishes.

"What made you think about camping? The fire?"

He nods. "Didn't you sit around a fire when you went camping?"

"Sure. We roasted hot dogs and made s'mores. All the stuff kids are supposed to do when they go camping. Let me guess—that's not what you did."

He shakes his head. "No. I've never made s'mores by a fire."

"You don't know what you're missing. I wish I had graham crackers and marshmallows."

"It's all right. There was a lot I didn't get to do as a kid, but I got over it."

She is quiet as the fire crackles and snaps in the silence. She looks at him. "Where did your mind go before, when we were shoveling?"

"I was just remembering another snowstorm, that's all."

"It wasn't a good memory," she says because she can read his body language; she can see his tension, even now.

"No," he agrees. "It wasn't."

He is lying on his side, propped on one elbow, playing with a pencil he found on the coffee table. His hands are always busy. She wants to reach out to touch him, to reassure him, but she knows the contact won't be welcome. So she reaches out with words. "Tell me about it."

He watches the flames, then he tips his head back and looks at her. "It's not really something you want to hear," he says. "There is no happy ending."

"Sometimes, you have to make your own happy ending. Tell me."

He returns his attention to the flames and says, "Only if you promise me you won't tell me you're sorry. It's over and done with and there's nothing to feel sorry about."

"I promise."

Hesitantly, he told what had happened during that blizzard thirty-one years ago. She remembered the storm, but through the eyes of a little girl, not a troubled teenager. She remembers playing in the snow with her brothers, building snow forts and having snowball fights. She has never in her life been hit with a frying pan. When he finishes, she doesn't comment on any of that. All she says is "Lewis was a good friend to you."

His shoulders relax a little. "Yes. He still is."

"What did you guys do when you were kids?"

"Mostly, we got into trouble. When we were little, we did stupid things, like most kids do. The trouble got bigger as we did, but it was never really serious. One Friday night, there were three of us. Me, Lewis and his girlfriend, Cheryl. We got stoned down by the river and then we stole a car. That was the worst trouble we got in together."

She laughs. "What kind of car?"

"A Camaro."

"Nice. When I was sixteen, my boyfriend and I stole a Firebird. I got grounded for a month after my dad talked me out of trouble with the owner."

"I never got grounded."

She arches her eyebrows. "Never?"

He shakes his head slowly. "No, never. The cops caught up with us in the Camaro the next day. We'd dropped Cheryl off at home sometime around four and then we scored a fifth of whiskey and a couple more joints. We were trashed when they caught us. We were lucky the owner decided not to press charges because the car was undamaged. They called my dad because Mom was in the hospital. That was where my luck ran out."

She moves closer to him. At the same time, he rolls onto his back, and his head comes to rest on her leg. He immediately starts to sit up, but she stops him, pressing her hand against his shoulder. "It's okay," she says softly and she rests her hand on his head.

Gradually, he relaxes, and he lets his head remain resting on her thigh. "What did your father do?" she asks.

His face is grim as he recalls the beating his father gave him. "You don't want to know."

Maybe he is right about that. She touches the hair that curls at his forehead and he watches her face. Slowly, he reaches up and touches her cheek. She looks into his eyes as his fingers brush over her ear. Then he presses his fingers against her head, gently, ready to withdraw at any sign of resistance from her. She offers none, and he guides her face closer to his, into a tentative kiss. Her hand strokes his hair and he deepens the kiss. She tastes wine and balsamic vinegar and cigarettes as his tongue explores her mouth.

He shifts his position, lifting himself from the floor and turning so that he presses her back onto the carpet. She pulls back for a moment, breaking the kiss to look into his eyes. They are darker than she has ever seen them, and she runs her thumb lightly over his lips. "I only want one thing before this goes any further," she whispers.

"What's that?" he asks, his voice deep and husky with desire.

She battles her reaction to that voice and answers, "You have to call me Alex."

He smiles, and for the first time in what seems like forever, it's a smile that brightens his eyes and makes him look young again. "I can do that," he murmurs as he draws closer again. He whispers against her lips, "Alex."

It's three in the morning when she stops to look out the window on her way back from the bathroom. There is four feet of snow in the yard, with large flakes still fluttering down from the sky. It's cold. And wet. And slippery. Then she looks over her shoulder, at the man sleeping soundly in her bed, and she pulls her warm robe more closely around her. She loves the snow.