Some think it's holding on that makes one strong; sometimes, it's letting go. – Sylvia Robinson

Four Hours Ago . . .

The door flies open with a bang, the sound vibrating loudly through the sizeable hotel room suite. Grabbing onto the collar of his thin blue t-shirt, she pulls him in after her, blazing a trail of kisses along the sharp line of his jaw while her fingers curl frantically through his thick brown hair. She barely notices when he reaches behind him to slam the door, his hands shaking slightly from the emotion he's finally being allowed to express.

"Chuck," she breathes, and his name melts into her throat. Almost as if it's leaving a mark upon her lips just as his fingers are leaving a hesitant yet fiery trail along the small of her back.

"Sarah," he echoes, her name falling breathlessly from his mouth. When he meets her halfway for a deep, lingering kiss, she realizes that her pulse is rocketing through her veins.

After all this time of holding back, she can scarcely believe that she's touching him now. That they're falling together onto her bed, that their bodies are moving together in a heated, instinctual rhythm, that it's his cinnamon gaze burning into her own bright blue as they move toward the point of blissful capitulation. And as she loses herself in his touch, she forgets for a moment to worry about what happens next.

It is only later, when his deep breathing fills the room and she's wrapped snugly within his warm arms, that the cold fingers of tension close in upon her again . . .

~*~

She sits with her arms wrapped around her slender frame, her blonde hair fluttering around her pale shoulders as she stares blankly at the world ahead. The wind gusts through the branches of the nearby trees, causing the leaves to rustle and the branches to wave under its feathery sway. Crickets chirp in the distance, their sounds accentuated by the gentle splashing of the shimmery lake. It's chilly tonight; chillier than she's grown accustomed to during her time in Burbank. But somehow, the chill doesn't seem to affect her. In fact, she doesn't even notice the drop in temperature. She's too preoccupied; too caught up in the thoughts winding through her mind.

Tonight marks three weeks. Three weeks since she finally gave in and allowed herself to let go. Three weeks since she dropped her guarded façade, however carefully, and peeked out from her fortified walls.

Her chest twists at the thought, and she inadvertently pulls her arms more tightly around herself. She tells herself that this is ridiculous, that she should be back home. She has a busy day tomorrow, and she needs to be rested. She needs to be in top shape if she's going to prove to Beckman that she and Chuck can do this, even despite the General's grave misgivings.

She needs to prove it to herself, too. Because if she's really going to do this, if she's really going to let go and let him in, she needs to know that she can still protect him. She needs to know that the powerful feelings coursing through her body and the electrical pulsing rushing over the surface of her skin aren't going to affect her ability to keep Chuck safe.

She can almost feel her body yearning to push off this stone cold bench, to come to a standing position so that she can walk back to the car. So that she can return to her hotel, where she left him sleeping peacefully as she quietly left the room, wearing a hasty mask to cover the emotions threatening to break through. But even despite the muscle memory yearning to kick into effect, she stays seated, staring out at the rippling lake. And when a minute passes, and then two and three, the thought of returning to her hotel room finally escapes her and she returns to the memories within her mind.

Three Weeks Ago . . .

"I really think we should get some kind of prize," Chuck says thoughtfully, his eyes dancing. Ellie and Devon have just excused themselves after a lengthy game night, leaving Sarah and Chuck alone in the living room, sitting closely together on the couch.

"A prize?" Sarah repeats, arching a brow as a light smirk plays along the corner of her mouth. She pretends as though she doesn't notice the way her skin is responding to the feel of his arm as it brushes against her own. "For what?"

"Well, come on," Chuck replies, turning to her with a smile. "We acted like a regular couple for most of the night. We're really getting good at this."

For some reason, his words combined with the wistfulness of his tone send a dull pain echoing through her chest. "We are a real couple," she finds herself saying. "We're just –"

"A different kind of couple," Chuck replies, and even his smile has turned a little wistful. "I know."

Again, she feels an almost physical pain as she watches him brush off the concept of their relationship. She knows she should end this here, that she should put a stop to this encounter. It's making her feel far too vulnerable, and she has a duty to keep herself guarded and alert. But as she studies the man gazing at her with such intensity, she can't bring herself to stop. She can't bring herself to leave. She has an overwhelming urge to make him feel better, to assure him that even though she can't show it, she feels it, too. And before she really knows what she's doing, she's leaning forward on the couch, brushing her lips against his warm mouth. "We are a different kind of couple," she says softly, forcing her own smile into place as she breaks the kiss. "But is that really such a bad thing?"

Chuck swallows hard, going slightly cross-eyed as she leans against his forehead. "Was that a cover kiss?" he whispers huskily.

Sarah feels a compulsion to lie, to tell him that it really was only a cover kiss. But faced with the choice of lying to Chuck or giving in to the feelings pulsing through her chest, she leans in and captures his mouth again. And for once, she doesn't worry about the repercussions. For once, she simply allows herself to let go and let Chuck in. Because even though she doesn't know what will happen next, she knows there will be no turning back.

A sharp, cracking sound pierces through the calm night air, jolting Sarah back to the present and causing her muscles to tense. Gritting her teeth, she focuses her mind and reaches into her boot for a knife, then jumps off the bench into a crouched, guarded position. The weapon is squared directly in front of her slender frame, its lethal tip glinting in the moonlight.

"Hey, hey," Chuck says, holding up his hands in surrender, "If I promise to apologize to the twig, will you put away the weapon?" His brown eyes are widened in alarm, one foot frozen in mid-step while the other rests atop a broken twig.

"Chuck," Sarah whispers in a sort of half-groan, the knife falling slowly back to her side. "What are you doing out here?"

Chuck studies her for a moment, and she has the urge to shiver under his penetrating gaze. A mask slips inadvertently over her features, a flash of guilt reverberating through her chest. But before she can say anything, before she can bridge the gap which her walls have forced in between them both, a hesitant smile forms upon Chuck's lips. "Chocolate éclairs," he says, holding up a rumpled paper bag.

Sarah arches a brow. "You came out here at," she checks her watch, "two in the morning to bring me a breakfast dessert?"

"Well, you know," Chuck replies, taking a seat on the bench as he unwraps the paper bag, "I thought you might be hungry. And nothing satisfies hunger like chocolate éclairs. I think it's been scientifically tested."

"Hmm," Sarah murmurs, her lips twitching as she comes to sit beside her boyfriend. "I didn't realize scientists had so much time on their hands." Taking the treat from Chuck, her skin thrills as her fingers rub against his fingertips, and her heart skips a beat as a slow grin spreads across his face.

Biting her lower lip, Sarah accepts the napkin that Chuck offers her and looks down at her lap, the éclair forgotten in her hand. "How did you find me out here?" she asks quietly, even though she knows exactly what the answer will be. And as the lake ripples in front of her, the light of the full moon casting a luminescent light upon its shimmery surface, her mind flickers back to a night two weeks before.

Two Weeks Ago . . .

She watches Chuck set out the picnic that he so painstakingly prepared, everything from cold fried chicken to green salad to chocolate cake. She feels a surge of dazzled bewilderment that innocent, loving Chuck Bartowski, a man who wears his heart on his sleeve and a smile on his face, would go to all this trouble for her. That he would actually ask her to accompany him here, to this shining lake with its multi-varied trees and the balmy air feathering across its surface, when he could have had any other woman in the world.

She opens her mouth, perhaps to ask the question or maybe to thank him for his efforts, when he turns his ardent gaze upon her and she feels the sudden compulsion to hide behind the walls she has spent her entire life fortifying. And when he flashes his brilliant grin and reaches out to take her hand, causing a warm jolt to course quickly through her veins, she has to take a deep breath to keep her head from spinning.

"Thank you," he murmurs, threading his fingers through her own.

"For what?" she whispers, her heart stopping. She finds herself on the edge of an emotional cliff when her gaze locks onto his intense cinnamon eyes. Again, she has the desire to slip back into agent mode, to hide behind her familiar mask, to end the date right here. Again, she finds that she cannot move.

"For coming here tonight," Chuck replies, and she licks her lips as she notices him moving gradually toward her. "For giving me a chance."

His words have the simultaneous effect of sending a chill down her spine and a trickle of fear into her chest. But before she can decide what to do, before she can even say another word, his lips have met hers and everything else is suddenly forgotten. For that moment, when his hand moves to the back of her head and he captures her lips slowly, fervently within his mouth, her fear is forgotten and she briefly allows her walls to come down.

Chuck reaches for her hand, threading his fingers through her own and causing her to shiver slightly from the contact. He doesn't answer her question, and she knows that he understands that he doesn't need to. Instead, after a long pause, he places his éclair onto the bag at his side and turns to look at her. Immediately, her skin prickles under the attention – a sensation that increases when he finally speaks. "Please let me in, Sarah," he pleads, his tone quiet yet intense.

"What do you mean?" she queries, her breath catching in her throat. A small rush of self-reproach floods her slender frame at her reply, but she can't bring herself to take it back. She also can't bring herself to look at him, her gaze instead focused on the gently rippling water.

Sighing, Chuck's shoulders slump. "I can't do this without you," he replies, his voice cracking slightly. "And," he says a few seconds later, "I really want to do this."

Me, too. "I'm here," she says. And then, because she can't stand to hear the dejection in his voice: "I'm just not very good at this."

"Then let me help," he beseeches, squeezing her hand. "Please."

She can feel the reply in her mouth, against her lips, but for some reason, it doesn't emerge. Instead, she closes her eyes against the despair in his tone, a small lump rising within her throat. She wants nothing more than to reassure him, to let him know that she feels the same way. But something holds her back. Something keeps her from moving forward, past the trap she'd set for herself long ago and into the arms of the man who has come to mean far more to her than she ever thought possible. Just as she can't move from his side, she also can't bring herself to advance off the edge of this proverbial cliff.

Swallowing hard, Chuck finally stops gazing at her and turns his attention to the oscillating lake. "What are you so afraid of?" he whispers, so low that she doesn't know whether he meant for her to hear.

She doesn't know what causes the word to slip from her mouth. Later, she'll blame it on exhaustion and raw emotion. Later, she'll wonder whether she even said it at all. But even so, and despite how many years she's spent keeping her feelings locked inside, the statement rushes forth before she can stop it: "You."

Chuck's eyes fly wide, his jaw drops and he twists to stare at her once more. "Me?" he squeaks, his free hand rising so that he jabs himself in the chest. Forcing herself to look at him, she notices the bewilderment in his eyes. But mixed with the bewilderment is something else, something which sends a shock of pain piercing through her core.

Perhaps it's this more than anything else that finally causes the dam to burst, forcing her remaining walls to crumble and her mask to slip. "I've never let anyone in like this before, Chuck. I'm sorry." The mask gone, a vulnerability echoes through her eyes that Chuck Bartowski has never before seen.

"It's not easy for me, either," he admits, rubbing his thumb against the back of her wrist. "But you're worth it, Sarah." His words cause her to bite her lower lip, and her heart to skip a beat. "I don't hold a gold medal in relationships, either. In fact, my last girlfriend almost tried to kill me," he continues, wincing. "But I really want to give this a shot. I really want to give us a shot."

"Me, too," she replies softly, voicing her earlier thoughts. "I just might not be very good at it."

"Tell you what," Chuck states, and Sarah notices the hint of a smirk upon his face, "we'll have a contest to see who sucks worst."

A surprised chuckle bubbles up from Sarah's throat, causing the tension to slowly dissipate from her shoulders. "That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen," she admits, joining him in his smirk.

"But it will be an interesting disaster," Chuck says, grinning. "Kind of like the Titanic."

"Did you just compare us to a sinking ship?" Sarah asks dubiously, furrowing her brow.

"Um, sort of," Chuck stammers, blushing. "But don't worry," he brightens a few seconds later, his grin flaring again. "There aren't any icebergs in Burbank." And then, when she shakes her head ruefully, his expression turns a little more serious. "And we'll be in it together, Sarah."

She gazes into his eyes for a long moment, her skin breaking into goosebumps under the intensity she finds there. "Okay," she whispers. "Okay. We'll give it a shot."

"Really?" he replies, and she feels a surge of warmth when she notices that the despair in his voice has been replaced by a wave of hope.

"Really," she murmurs, nodding slowly as unfamiliar emotions join the vulnerability within her eyes, surging through her heated frame. And when he leans forward to kiss her, when his soft lips move against her mouth and their tongues slide together in a sensuous, ardent dance, her fear seeps away once more. Only this time, when the kiss comes to an end, the fear doesn't come back quite so poignantly. This time, she keeps her walls from rising and her mask from sliding back into place. And in the process, she realizes that she doesn't really need them anymore, because her feelings for Chuck are a far better fortification than her personal defenses could ever hope to be.

Settling into Chuck's secure arms, the chilly night air suddenly turns just a little warmer, and her hair stops fluttering quite so forcefully around her shoulders.