A/N: Just something I had an inkling to write before Tuesday. I don't feel it's my best, but I had fun with it. The jump may feel disjointed, but to be totally honest, it was getting to be far too long and I actually cut several pages out that made it feel "draggy."

Anyway, as always, I love you all! Please review and make me feel good about myself!

WHEN YOU'RE MISSING HOME

You see her when you close your eyes
Maybe one day you'll understand why
Everything you touch surely dies

But you only need the light when it's burning low
Only miss the sun when it starts to snow
Only know you love her when you let her go

Only know you've been high when you're feeling low
Only hate the road when you're missing home
Only know you love her when you let her go

Well you see her when you fall asleep
But never to touch and never to keep
'Cause you loved her too much
And you dived too deep

"Let Her Go" - Passenger

Time is a fickle, temperamental beast. It does not pick up in the wake of anxiousness, instead insisting on meandering casually of its own volition – dragging on when dreaded most, leeching like a ravenous parasite to devour all remnants of patience. It does not take pity upon those who lack it, and it does not wait for those left in the dust to catch up with its pace. It continues its course and alters its trajectory for no one, ticking away like a pipe bomb on the verge of total devastation.

Toby Cavanaugh had only stepped away from Rosewood, Pennsylvania for but a month, and yet, driving past the welcome sign and into the town square, it felt as though he had never left. Nothing in his immediate sights had changed. The leaves were still ripe with color in the wake of spring. The gravel of the back road entrances still crackled harmoniously beneath the tires of his truck. The storefronts downtown still thrummed with the hustle and bustle of eager, window-shopping patrons.

But he knew better. Just because he had left did not mean that time ceased to exist. So much had transpired in his brief sabbatical, and he felt as though he had missed an episode of a television show, left to put the pieces of the mystery together while lacking key ingredients to the plot. It was to be expected, after all, when he walked away in the middle of the story – the hands of the clock still ticked away greedily, punishing him for turning his back, regardless of the fact that he had left with the best intentions. It was utterly surreal to consider that time at home continued to surge forth, even without his being around to witness it chipping away at the town's mortality.

It wasn't as though his leaving was meant to be an attempt at escaping the little suburb's grasp. On the contrary, in fact. Once upon a time, that had been the primary objective that pinched at the forefront of his mind, all hope and ambition on the horizon leading him away from the town that had all but swallowed him whole.

That was, until her. The beautiful girl that had shown up on his doorstep a year and a half ago to tutor him in French, both of them unwittingly opening their hearts to one another with positively no inkling of how that connection would grow over time and blossom into something that would intertwine them for the rest of their lives. Try as he might to resist the magnetic hold she had on his soul, he had been unable to shake her. She had gotten beneath his skin in a way that nobody ever had – in a way that gave him a greater sense of purpose than he had ever felt.

She was his everything. And there was nothing he would not do for her, even in her darkest hour. She had been pushing him away for weeks, her burgeoning dependence on Speed bleeding through the poorly fused cracks that served to barricade the many areas of her life she had fought for so long to keep separated. Everything she had been juggling had unceremoniously collapsed upon itself, and she could no longer distinguish the source of the wreckage.

Even still, after everything they had been through, he knew her love for him was rooted far deeper than the hardships that had plagued her as of late. It would take a hell of a lot more than pills to break them.

And even if she didn't care for him in the magnitude that she used to, he would continue to be her safe place to land, regardless. It didn't matter where they stood – he belonged at her side, plain and simple. And he would fight tooth and nail to keep her safe, even if his help was unsolicited.

It was why he had left in the first place. Why he had hopped a plane with what little savings he had to appear on Melissa Hastings' doorstep. Why he had endured almost a full month of sleeping on Wren Kingston's couch and exchanging backhanded pleasantries with the man who had swooped in not once, but twice to claim Spencer for his own in the brief times she and Toby were apart.

He had been so focused on making his time in London worthwhile – so intent on his own progress – that he had been rendered completely and utterly oblivious to the clock ticking by back home, counting down to the inevitable fallout of the ever building tension between the girls and the demons that continued to haunt them. It wasn't until Veronica's panicked phone call to Melissa 36 hours ago that it even occurred to him that he had stepped away from Rosewood at quite possibly the most inopportune time.

Time. What a vindictive, calculating bitch.

His usual parking spot behind The Brew, however, sat patiently vacant, as if awaiting his return with open arms, time bearing no influence on its loyalty. It was one of the few things he could rely on to be precisely as he left it. He came to a slow and steady stop between the faded white lines, putting his truck in park and taking a moment to breathe it all back in. The aroma of coffee seeped into the car immediately, bringing with it a sense of relief to be home.

"It's strange," Caleb said thoughtfully, startling Toby from his reverie. He had almost forgotten about his passenger's presence. "Everything looks exactly the same, even though it's not."

It was like he had read his mind. Then again, Caleb had been MIA for far longer than Toby, and it really was no surprise that he felt a bit wary about his return. Toby knew better than anybody that it was easy to leave Rosewood – but not so easy for Rosewood to leave you. And in that regard, the foreboding ambivalence did not discriminate in its berth of asphyxiation.

He glanced briefly at his companion, taking in the sharp lines of his anxious features. "After what you've been through the past few months, coming back here should be a cake walk."

Caleb had been brief in the rehashing of his adventures in Ravenswood, the white lies and omissions becoming increasingly apparent with each nervous breath. Toby did not push him on it, however; he knew all too well what it felt like to suffocate under the weight of people's disbelief, confidence in your own sanity faltering in the wake of their scrutiny. It didn't really matter, in that regard, what Caleb's story was. He already believed him. Whether it was the full truth or not, it was still Caleb's truth. And because Caleb had never let him down, he owed him that faith.

Even still, the details he had provided were dark and unsettling enough that Toby was grateful his friend had agreed to leave that purgatory and return home.

Caleb nodded uncertainly. "I know. And I know this is where I'm meant to be. Even if you hadn't shown up on my doorstep this morning, I would have made it back here eventually. For better or worse, I'm tethered to this hell hole."

Toby wasn't sure whether he was talking about Hanna or some broader chapter of destiny. But he would not pry for the selfish sake of satisfying his own curiosity.

The younger inhaled deeply before gripping the door handle, white-knuckled and determined. Toby followed suit, stepping out into the sunlight. The agreeable weather was refreshing after living under a constant veil of storm clouds for most of his time in London.

They trekked up the steps to Toby's loft in amicable silence, both aware of the blatant risk of discussing any critical matters out in the open. They were back in Rosewood, after all – and that meant there were eyes and ears everywhere. Even the idea of driving into town using all back roads was mostly born from wishful thinking: Toby was certain the news of their return had already reached the sinister powers that be.

Only once they had crossed the threshold and securely locked the deadbolt behind them did Toby dare breach the issue at hand once more.

"First things first," he began brusquely, instantaneously bee-lining for the coffee pot. He had been sorely lacking in the caffeine department since his flight had landed the night before. "Have you heard anything from Hanna?"

Caleb dragged a tired hand down his face, following Toby into the kitchen with what appeared to be equal enthusiasm about the prospect of coffee. "No. And her phone has been going straight to voicemail."

"Spencer's, too." Toby pursed his lips tightly as he set the carafe to brew, leaning back against the counter to properly regard his friend. "It isn't like her."

Caleb nodded distractedly, toying with the casing of his phone. It was as though the conversation had lit a hopeful fire, and he was just waiting for Hanna to hear him on some cosmic level and let him know she was safe. He chanced a brief glance at the screen, quickly enough that Toby would have missed it had he blinked. But the disappointed expression that followed, however subtle, told Toby that the radio silence continued.

"It's not like Hanna, either. Even after…everything."

There was a poignant moment in which neither of them spoke, and Toby began unearthing coffee mugs from the overhead cabinet. He wasn't quite sure what he could possibly say that would lift Caleb's spirits, as he, himself, was craving the very same reassurance. He had no pearls of wisdom for himself, much less for anyone else.

There was a time when sharing this sort of silence with most people would have had him climbing the walls in discomfort. It was different with Spencer – and even Emily – who both seemed to fill the void with unspoken endearments and quiet appreciation. With others, he often felt the need to keep a conversation going, so as to maintain their interest in his company.

But it was also different with Caleb now, he realized. Their time spent gumshoeing and practically choking on sheer panic had, unsurprisingly, torn through any veils of secondary insecurity.

Nevertheless, Toby's thoughts continued to trickle from his tongue after a moment, weighing heavy on his mind. "I just wish they would contact someone. Anyone. Spencer's parents are worried sick. They're afraid she…"

He trailed off, realizing it was not his place to divulge the gory details of Spencer's recent struggles, even to Caleb. He had to remind himself that it was not like before. Since his breakup with Hanna, he was no longer privy to the important intel. It was an odd transition to navigate, for Toby had grown accustomed to – even perhaps begun to rely on – he and Caleb being on the same page. And if he was being honest, he rather missed having someone to vent to that had walked in the same shoes.

If Caleb sensed his withdrawal into secrecy, he did not bring attention to it. Instead he had wandered into the living room to bring the television to life, scrolling mindlessly through the channels until he found the local news. The girls' pictures had been plastered on the screen for the past 24 hours as the anchors scrambled for what meager updates they could provide the small town. After all, the disappearance of Alison DiLaurentis had dominated the station for months. To the blind, untrained eye, it was the most scandalous thing that had ever happened in Rosewood. And anything that happened thereafter that had any remote connection to the incident was instantaneous news fodder.

"Do you think it's true?" Caleb asked quietly, neglecting to meet the elder's eyes. "About Alison being alive?"

Toby had, admittedly, made a valiant attempt at ignoring this piece of speculation that had plagued the news tickers for the past several hours. As much as he had always regretted Alison's untimely passing, he was not exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of it all having been a smoke screen. The manipulative blond had a hell of a chokehold on those in her path, from which nobody was safe. He could only imagine the terror she would unleash following her return to the land of the living. Hell, if he knew her as well as he thought he did, she had probably already attempted to put a bug in Spencer's ear about how she could do better than the reform school brat.

Not that he disagreed with the notion. Spencer was, and had always been, so far out of his league that he couldn't even conceive of her caring for him the way she did. But to have Alison come back and start pulling the strings on matters that were none of her concern still incited a nauseous churning in his gut.

"I don't know," he began earnestly. "But if she's alive – and if you're praying for even the slightest chance of winning Hanna back – you're in for the fight of your life. Ali isn't what you'd call…supportive."

Luckily he did not need to elaborate. Caleb was already crinkling his nose in distaste, surely piecing together all of the fragmented anecdotes about the infamous ringleader that he had absorbed over the years to find feasibility in Toby's suspicion.

And of course Caleb wasn't an idiot. He may not have known Alison personally, but he had been plopped unceremoniously in the center of a world where her very memory haunted everyone she had ever touched, her posthumous grip transcending conventional influence. For God's sake, an entire faction of lunatics had banded together for the sole purpose of reigning hell on her legacy. That, in and of itself, was clear indication that she had not been any ordinary queen bee.

Caleb sighed heavily, returning the remote to the coffee table with a sense of exhausted finality. "I'm gonna go downstairs to get my laptop out of the truck. Do you need me to grab anything?"

Toby shook his head politely, already heading for the door. "I got it. You sit. Relax. I'll be right back."

Even if Caleb had wanted to protest to this gesture, something on the screen had already sufficiently distracted him from doing so. He did not even seem to notice that Toby had already emerged outside, taking the stairs two at a time back to the parking lot, jingling his keys mindlessly in hand.

He rummaged through their various luggage – each of them having been away for an extended period of time – to locate Caleb's laptop bag. At long last he found it, tucked in the center of the pile. He had just slung it over his shoulder and made to turn back when a pair of sturdy hands took him roughly by the shirt collar, whirling him around and slamming his back against the car. A parade of stars danced into his vision at once, and it took him a moment to gather his bearings, instinctively launching a practiced right hook at the jaw of his attacker.

The man staggered backward, caught off guard, one hand flying to his newly burst lip, the other springing back to hold Toby at bay. Once Toby's initial shock had subsided, his opponent's identity began to take form in his panicked brain. Blond hair that had once been so meticulously kempt now lay in neglected knots against his forehead, lively teal eyes reduced to mere caverns of desperation.

"Jason?" he breathed.

"Where is she?" Jason demanded wildly, his fingertips trembling against Toby's sternum in a meek attempt to keep him at arm's length. "What do you know?"

A horrific sense of realization settled in the pit of Toby's stomach, rank and restless like sour milk. Everyone had been saying it for hours: Jason's sister – the one he had loathed in life and ached for in death – was alive. The pain-in-the-ass teenage girl whom, once upon a time, he could not be bothered to care for – the very same girl whose disappearance had left him with a guilt so substantial it had carved a gaping hole in the core of his heart.

Alison had been a relentless tyrant to everyone she had ever met, and that sentiment extended easily to her own flesh and blood. And over the course of the past couple years, Jason had grappled with the fact that, regardless of her transgressions, it had been his duty to love her unconditionally – a task in which he had failed monumentally.

Toby could not fathom the magnitude of conflict raging inside Jason's cranium, fighting to find a foothold in any realm of logic and reason, seeking some sort of equilibrium for all of the mixed feelings bubbling to the surface.

When Toby did not respond quickly enough to Jason's inquiry, the elder pushed his hand warningly against Toby's chest once more. "I know where your loyalties lie, Cavanaugh, and that means you know something I don't. Where. Is. She?"

Toby grimaced in slight at the accusation. Clearly Jason had not been back long enough to brush up on all of the rewritten history.

"I don't know where she is," he began patiently. "I swear."

Jason's eyes flashed dangerously, the panicked glint in their depths catching the sun's rays for only a moment, giving them the illusion of hardened steel. "You're lying," he seethed, though the conviction in his voice had begun to falter as he processed the legitimacy of Toby's claim.

"I'm not."

Something flickered across Jason's face – something resembling the pain of coming up against another dead end, perhaps – as he took a hesitant step back, his strong-arm falling uselessly to his side. He threaded his fingers anxiously through his blond hair, fighting to control the labored breathing that wreaked havoc on his lungs.

Toby used this brief intermission to do a onceover of their surroundings, checking for any immediate indication that they were being watched. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, but that, of course, did not mean that Mona or one of her proxies was not hovering out of sight nearby.

"We shouldn't talk about this out here," Toby said in undertones. "Come upstairs. Have some coffee. I'll tell you what I know – which isn't much," he added hastily to placate the murderous expression that had darkened Jason's face once more. "Please."

Jason still looked skeptical, but the look of utter desolation that marred his features made it clear that he had expended the last of his energy.

"I just…want answers," he murmured softly, his voice barely audible over the din of traffic around the corner. He ran a quivering hand across his forehead, as if to reason with a headache burgeoning behind his brow. "I've spent almost three years waiting for them. Thinking I had a few. And now…"

He trailed off, but Toby knew how he would have finished the sentence: now everything had changed. Again. The rug had been pulled out from underneath him, and here he was, on his ass for the millionth time. And though Toby bore no attachment whatsoever to Alison, he could relate to the whiplash that had seized control of his mind. There was an undeniable disorientation that accompanied the realization that the ghosts he thought had been put to rest still pervaded every facet of his world.

Toby felt a pang of sympathy for him; it was obvious that Jason had not been sleeping adequately in the wake of all that had happened. And for an instant, he wondered vaguely how he had ever found a shred of threat in the poor, broken man.

After a pregnant pause, Jason fell into hesitant step behind him. Toby adjusted the strap of Caleb's bag on his shoulder as he ascended the steps once more, Jason's quiet footfalls echoing on his heels.

He had barely opened the door before Caleb leapt into view, a stricken expression carving concerned lines in his face.

"The news just broke," he said breathlessly. "Ezra Fitz was shot in New York night before last."

"What?" Jason barely eked out, his previous reluctance foregone in lieu of panicked urgency.

There was a moment in which the two stared one another down, as if wrestling with a heavy blanket of mutual distrust hanging overhead. It was gone as soon as it had arrived, as fleeting and negligible as a mosquito's wings fluttering centimeters from bare skin. In its place came a silent understanding that recent events far superseded any past reservations, a common purpose overshadowing any remnants of long-expired grudges.

For better or for worse, they were in this together.

Toby quickly shut the door and locked it once more, anxious heart thrumming malevolently in his ribcage. "Shot? When? Why?"

Caleb offered a dejected shrug, his head shaking with such vigor that his black hair swirled around his face. "They haven't said anything else."

Toby and Jason exchanged a look, during which the elder pursed his lips in silent concession. The two then darted to the living room in perfect synchronicity, Caleb hot on their trail. Lo and behold, there it was, the English teacher's face on display across the television screen. The ticker provided them with no extra details, only a continued decree of, 'LOCAL TEACHER SHOT, NYC. CRITICAL' scrolling by on repeat.

"Do you think he was with the girls?" Caleb asked, a careful hesitance lacing his voice like a persistent tremor.

Toby could not bring himself to respond. The very same terrified instinct had squeezed his heart in its bony grasp, rendering his voice box useless.

"The girls?" Jason asked tentatively.

His uncertainty said it all. He had not heard anything beyond Ali's alleged resurrection. He hadn't the faintest idea that Spencer and her friends had been declared officially missing nearly two days ago.

Did not know just how grave the situation at hand had become. Alison had always had a proclivity for creating more enemies than allies. She was a target. And she was officially back on the radar.

After sharing a brief glance, Toby and Caleb hesitantly turned to face him, the silence settling like a cloud of dust all around them, heavy with somber confirmation. Jason inhaled sharply, and Toby could depict the precise moment that the burden of this new revelation weighed upon him, his frame crumpling beneath the horrifying implication. He sat down hard on the couch, legs buckling out from under him.

Surely he was thinking the same thing Toby was. That if Alison was alive – if the girls had pursued her all the way to New York – if Ezra was with them and had gotten caught in crossfire meant for someone else –

The possibility was too much to bear. Toby pressed his palms into his eye sockets so firmly that he saw stars. He needed to find his ground. Needed to keep a clear head. He would allow himself to count to five, and only five – and then he would have to pull himself together.

"I just saw Spencer a few days ago," Jason murmured, his eyes trained somewhere that extended far beyond the confines of the loft. "I was so wrapped up in my own crap…I completely blew her off."

Toby could practically feel Jason's ballooning guilt pressing on him from all sides, dominating what little square footage the apartment contained. He was, no doubt, having flashbacks of the self-inflicted torment that had torn at his insides immediately following Alison's disappearance. The realization that his last moments with her had not been a suitable goodbye. The notion that if he had done more – maybe listened just a little bit harder…

He had already lost one sister. Now the prospect of him losing another was seeping like a toxin into his veins, his head falling slack into his hands, breaths ragged and worn with self-loathing and regret.

It was Caleb that spoke first, much to Toby's surprise.

"Listen, Jason," he began quietly. "Whatever it is – no matter what happens…"

He trailed off, looking desperately to Toby for assistance. He, like everyone else, seemed to expect that Toby's knack for unfurling words of wisdom and consolation in even the darkest of times could breach the impenetrable fog, even now, when all hope seemed to be amiss.

Toby cleared his throat. "This isn't on you, Jason. It isn't on any of us." Even as he said it he did not quite believe it, his own personal guilt welling up like a tumor in his lungs. "It's on Mona, and Red Coat, and the A-Team – "

"The A-Team?" Jason barked, derisive laughter rumbling malevolently in his throat. He raised his head, sea green eyes flashing with brash indignation. "You mean the A-Team that you were a part of? The A-Team that you swore your loyalty to, completely destroying my other sister?"

Part of him knew that he had nobody but himself to blame for Jason's allegations. He would not deny that, despite his best intentions, he had made more messes than he had cleaned up. He had devastated Spencer, who had clung so vehemently to her love for him that his betrayal all but broke her heart, reducing her to a shell of her former self. And for that, he would be spending the rest of his life fighting to restore that trust.

But the other part of him – some distant, instinctual beast raging with testosterone – abhorred the implication that he would do anything to purposely hurt the woman he loved. The accusations were not undeserved, but hearing them over and over again on repeat, like a broken record, had begun to take a toll on his patience. The only person he owed any rationalization to was Spencer. Everybody else would do well to mind their own goddamn business. He was tired of explaining himself.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he seethed. "Maybe if you took a second or two to put down the bottle and face the real world like a man – "

Jason was on his feet in an instant, taking long strides in Toby's direction. They would have been nose-to-nose in seconds if not for Caleb's intervention. The youngest had stepped between them, blocking Jason's path with purposeful apprehension.

"Give it a rest, Jason," he commanded, much of his intended sternness falling flat in the gravity of the situation. "It's your right to be suspicious, but let's talk a little bit about your fact checking first. Toby did what he had to do to keep the girls safe. Something none of the rest of us – including you – had the balls to do." Jason opened his mouth, likely in an attempt to protest, but Caleb unceremoniously cut him off once more. "If you choose not to believe that, that's fine. Do what you want. But for the time being – in the face of everything else that's going on – you owe it to the girls to at least show a little respect to the guy that put everything on the line to help them."

Toby's gratitude for Caleb's loyalty was infinite. He had not realized how much he had missed having a male companion, but he was quickly remembering precisely why he had enjoyed his company in the first place. Caleb Rivers didn't stand for anyone's bullshit. And Toby needed a little more of that kind of certainty in his life, especially now, when doubt and darkness hung so malevolently overhead.

Jason was eyeing him now, some slim degree of remorse and uncertainty flickering past the gateways of his narrowed eyes. He seemed to be processing Caleb's impassioned speech somewhere in the depths of his fricasseed mind, looking as though it required so much energy that he was on the verge of collapse. The exhaustion was taking hold once more – he simply did not have it in him to argue.

"Is that true? Were you playing double agent?"

Much of Toby's own anger had ebbed dramatically, and he felt suddenly winded in the downturn of his adrenaline rush. He nodded quietly, but did not speak.

Jason pursed his lips together, the tension in his shoulders visibly eroding back into the air around them. "That either makes you really brave, or really, really stupid."

Toby could not help himself. He chuckled darkly at the statement, finding it difficult to be offended by the implication. "Probably a little of both, honestly."

And then Jason's expression cracked too, his mouth curling upward on one side in a somber smile. He did not have to say it – his gratitude, however silent, was evident in his changing body language. He believed him. And really, that was all Toby could have asked for.

"Are we good?" Caleb demanded, glancing back and forth between the two with expectant eyes.

"Yeah," Jason said quietly. "We're good."

It was only a split second later that Toby's phone began to ring, jarring the three of them from their catatonia. He did not even look at the number – he had answered the call and raised it to his ear without hesitation. "Hello?"

"Toby, it's me."

"Mrs. Hastings," he breathed. The other two sprinted to flank his sides, each hovering as close to the phone as possible with bated breath. "What's going on? Is Spencer okay?"

There was a pause on the other end. In reality it probably only lasted a mere few seconds, but the anticipation clawed mercilessly at his insides until he felt ready to burst.

"She's fine," Veronica said at last. "And she's asking for you."

It was a short time later that he crossed the threshold into the Hastings homestead. Her family, Melissa included, was sitting in the living room when he arrived, drowning in a somber silence that seemed to permeate the very air around them. Peter was perched in the armchair, a tumbler of bourbon in hand, worry etched in his features. Spencer's sister and mother held one another on the couch opposite him, their minds clearly reeling with worry and shock. For not only were they met with a glaring relief for Spencer's return, but also a sobering awakening that the teenage girl next door had, for all intents and purposes, risen from the dead. It was enough to render anyone into belabored speechlessness.

They barely noticed him walking in. It was only after he had announced his presence that they paid him any mind, quiet ruminations about Spencer's ordeal put on hold long enough to greet him properly.

Veronica had instructed him to the stairs, explaining with withdrawn weariness that Spencer was resting. This, of course, did not surprise him. Though he was still unsure of what all had transpired over the past few days, he knew, most certainly, that she would be exhausted.

He took a moment to study her as he entered the bedroom, overcome with a barrage of sudden emotion. It had not been all that long since he had seen her, truthfully, but it inexplicably felt as though it had been years. She was a sight for sore eyes, a vision of perfection – regardless of her unkempt appearance – filling a void in his heart that only she had the power to satiate.

She had not noticed him yet, her eyes trained in the direction of the window, her free shoulder rising and falling with each steady breath. He climbed in quietly behind her, his arm encircling the lithe circumference of her waist. His face found solace in a sea of curls, breathing in deeply to rediscover her scent.

"Toby," she murmured, turning to face him. There was delighted surprise dancing in her eyes, her lips curling into a meager smile. "You're here."

He marveled at the flawless planes of her face, meeting amicably at the rosy angles of her cheekbones. The way her dark eyelashes accentuated her toffee colored irises. How her immaculate mouth softened so affectionately with his name on her lips. He leaned down to kiss her with gentle deliberation, pulling back only when he was certain it was not a dream.

"God, I missed you," he said quietly, tugging her frame more closely to his. She turned back to the window, her body curving perfectly flush with his, lacing their fingers together.

"I missed you, too."

He lowered his face to the refuge of her dark tresses once more, letting out a contented breath. "You scared me."

She faltered in her task of weaving their hands in and out, pausing guiltily at his declaration.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm okay."

"And the others?"

He felt her nod resolutely against him. "We're all fine. Ezra, too."

He wanted to ask her about it. Wanted to silence his fears, once and for all. But he did not want to push her if she was not ready to discuss it. So he bit his tongue, instead planting a chaste kiss where her earlobe met her neck.

"I wanted to thank you, by the way," she began timidly, "for going to Melissa."

He squeezed her hand in his. "You needed your sister."

"I need you," she murmured. It was not resentment or bitterness in her voice, but something more like regret and self-deprecation. She angled her head back toward his, her temple resting pleadingly against his chin. "My family has been great. And I appreciate everything they've done more than words can describe. But you…You're amazing for tracking down Melissa, and for staying in touch with my parents during my recovery. And it's because of that – because of how much love you show me each and every day – that I need you. And all I've done is push you away. And I'm so, so sorry."

He felt a rogue droplet of moisture travel down the curve of his jaw, and he instinctively relocated his hand to her face to wipe her tears. He hated nothing more in this world than when she cried over him.

"You have nothing to apologize for," he said reassuringly. "You weren't yourself."

"And you loved me, anyway." She exhaled shakily, her cheek quivering against his palm. "Even though I didn't deserve it."

He briefly recalled his earlier fears about Alison's malevolent influence, and felt suddenly quite foolish for ever allowing it to poison his faith in the woman he loved. What they had transcended anyone else's reach, untouchable and unfailing in the wake of their darkest struggles.

He pressed his lips to the bridge of her hairline, delighting in warmth of her silken skin against his mouth, fighting to control his own oncoming emotion.

"You deserve everything and more, Spence. Don't ever doubt that. Not for a second."

If she had any intention of protesting further, she held back. He had a feeling that she was far too exhausted to argue. And if he was being perfectly honest, he was feeling quite the same way. He could feel himself beginning to drift off, slumber yanking him into its undertow with alarming brevity.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice heavy with impending sleep.

"I love you, too."

Time. It had done its damnedest to foil him in the past month – over the course of the day, even – reminding him that no matter what choices he made, it was one phenomenon that he would never be able to control.

But he didn't find himself minding so much, now. Because for all of its vindictive, sinister intentions, it had managed to give him something in return.

Spencer was safe. And he had all the time in the world to hold her, precisely like this, with no concern for the minutes lapsing outside the room. Because they were infinite. And no measure of time – no clock, calendar, or season – could ever take that away.

END