ii. (something so precious about this)

"You're working too much," her mother says sourly as soon as Caitlin arrives at the restaurant. This is the sort of greeting she expected; she doesn't even roll her eyes.

"I came to your apartment yesterday and the porter said you were still at work. It was 9 PM."

She was, technically, at work (having spectacular sex bent over her boss's desk, but Caitlin doesn't think her mother would appreciate that piece of information).

"We've started a very promising project, mom. We want to make it happen as soon as possible, so obviously – "

"You shouldn't be doing this at all," her mother says with a sigh. "You don't need the money, and yet you waste your best years in an... office, working all day, even overtime – I have told you countless times – "

Caitlin praises her self-control. She manages not to raise her voice. "I'm not doing it for money. I'm doing it because it's my passion and we can actually make a difference. Our work will help thousands, if not millions of people."

Her mother takes a sip of Prosecco. Even the gesture seems disapproving. "Thank God you're not working at a hospital. I wouldn't be able to take that."

"Why are you this way?" Caitlin asks halfheartedly; her question falls on deaf ears. Her mother is talking to the waiter, her polished brown hair curling elegantly around her face, her red lips twisting into a coy smile when the man stutters. She looks thirty-five, forty at worst and Caitlin realizes with a start that she's probably – most likely – younger than Wells. She suddenly feels sick.

"Have you heard from your father lately?" her mother asks seemingly without interest.

"No." Caitlin presses the tips of her fingers to her temples; she can feel a headache building up. She should have known this meeting would be a bad idea. "Why don't you check up on him yourself for once? Metropolis is not that far away."

"Don't be silly. He can stay in his lab till he dies, for all I care. It's not like anyone misses him."

"Mom!"

Her mother shrugs. "You and him are the same. If it came to choosing between science and – anything else, really – family, your health, other people's happiness? You're always going to choose science."

"That's not true." She's not like her father, she never will be, she'd never turn her back on those she loves –

Ashley Lord-Snow purses her lips. Her eyes look sad. "Just look at yourself."

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She stops wearing lipstick. Even though he switches his white shirts for black ones, she still worries about leaving marks that would expose their secret, shudders at the thought of their co-workers catching sight of a red mark in the shape of her lips on Wells's neck. She stops wearing pants to work – there's just too much fuss with taking them off – and fills her wardrobe with skirts and dresses in their place. She buys a fair share of VS lingerie, but even that doesn't help her unease.

She's just really out of her depth here. (There's no guide to conducting an illicit affair with one's boss – she googled it, there really isn't anything of the sort – so she has to figure it all out herself, and every mistake is solely on her.)

But the fun parts – they are probably (definitely) worth it.

"Any new developments?" Wells asks casually, as if he weren't sprawled on his office couch, with Caitlin astride him, fumbling with his fly. She raises her head, hair falling over her face. He lifts his hand and tugs the unruly curls behind her ear.

"Are you sure you want to have this conversation right now?" She wraps her fingers around his cock, and tries not to smirk at the groan she gets in response.

"Oh yes, I'm very – curious."

Caitlin licks her lips. "We'll need more power," she says sweetly, her hand moving faster. "Dr. Stone says we may need to make a deal – are you listening to me? Should I stop so you can fully concentrate on the subject?"

Her hand stills around his cock. He almost growls. "Caitlin."

"Are you sure?"

His grip on her hips says enough.

She would have laughed if she weren't so impossibly turned on; instead, she lifts her skirt.

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(Soon enough it becomes a habit – once you get a taste, it's hard to quit.

Someone should have told her that.)

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The particle accelerator becomes their number one priority. It's thrilling, seeing what once was only an untidy sketch become solid, materializing before their eyes. A huge 3D model of the accelerator floats in the middle of the main lab, where most of the team have set camp to be able to update the project as soon as they come up with new adjustments. The lab is brimming with excitement, their focus exclusively on the task at hand. Sometimes Caitlin forgets anything else exists outside those walls.

"I think we should start assembling a team of engineers, Harrison," Dr. Stone says after approving the last stability update. His wife, currently in the middle of discussing her research with Caitlin, nods her head enthusiastically.

"No," Wells says sharply, and Caitlin turns in his direction, surprised by his tone. A flash of annoyance crosses his face, but it's almost immediately replaced by a good-natured smile. She wonders if her tired mind is playing tricks on her. "It's too soon, and we can't afford to hire any more people at the moment. And I know I may be repeating myself, Silas, but I don't want us moving any further until we're one hundred percent sure the accelerator is going to work."

Dr. Stone nods, deflated. But he doesn't try to contradict their boss; he knows as well as Caitlin does that Wells's words have been dictated by nothing but genuine concern for their safety. It warms Caitlin's heart, the knowledge of how caring, how good Dr. Harrison Wells truly is.

Wells catches her looking at him and his eyes soften, the muscles in his face relaxing, smoothing out the lines on his face. He looks both young and old at once, tired and invigorated and there's something in the way he looks at her – something she can't identify but which makes her cheeks flush hotly.

She smiles at him, warmth spreading through her body.

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They have sex.

This sentence won't ever go past her mouth but really, there's no other way to describe it.

It's not fucking – he's too gentle, too considerate, too... good to call it this crudely, although sometimes Caitlin wishes he weren't. It would have been easier to compartmentalize – to see it only as a way of releasing tension, of satisfying lust. But she cares too much; knows he cares too much, too.

And of course, it's not love making. You have to love someone for that.

And she's not in love.

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Wells's house is over the top and magnificent, but not in the homely, old money way she's used to. There are no antiques here, no golden ornaments, no brocade curtains. It's modern and elegant, unreasonably cold at times, although Caitlin has never been bothered by that. It's intimidating at first, this vast space of glass buzzing with electricity, but she supposes it suits him – a man ahead of his time, with his sights firmly trained on the future. It's hard to imagine him living anywhere else.

His study – in comparison – is a mess; boxes of unpacked books piling up against the walls, unfinished projects and piles of notes stacked on every surface.

"It's all inconsequential right now," he says with a shrug, when she asks him about it. "Every project is on hold until we finish the particle accelerator. Can't be wasting my time on such small things," he adds with a chuckle. She supposes it makes sense, but still – the thought of potential breakthroughs lying discarded on the dusty floor bothers her too much to leave it alone.

Wells begrudgingly lets her drag the boxes of notes into the living room, trying to hide the fond smile that tugs on his lips. She starts sorting through his stuff – she feels shamelessly giddy at the thought that she may be the only one to ever witness the brilliance of some of his projects – after all it's possible that he won't finish them, even after the launch of the particle accelerator. He may lose interest in them or decide they're not worth publishing, but Caitlin likes to think that his ideas will still live in her mind.

She sits on the floor, leaning her back against his legs, organizing the jumble of papers into neat piles while Wells works on his laptop. There's nothing strange about this domesticity – after all they're colleagues, and friends, and that's something friends do –

Until Wells tugs her up and pulls her onto the couch beside him, his warm hands slipping under her blouse. (By then, of course, Caitlin has no mind to think of any strangeness at all.)

She makes a strangled sound when he unclasps her bra and presses his mouth between her breasts. She arches into his face, her breath coming in quick, short gasps.

"That's much better than my office couch," he murmurs against her skin, mouth moving to her left nipple.

"It's still – it's still a couch," she chokes out between moans.

She barely manages to catch her breath when he lifts her – she winds her arms around his neck to keep her balance – and carries her to his bedroom as if she weighs nothing at all. She's still trying to get used to this – how unexpectedly strong he is, how deliciously hard his body is against her curves. He lays her on his bed and she pulls him on top of herself, almost ripping his shirt in her hurry to get it off.

His mouth sighs over her throat when he slides into her.

Her body is ablaze.

(She is not in love.)

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Rules are good, so she comes up with at least twenty more.

She never stays the night. Doesn't leave her stuff in his house (broken, just once, when she left her copy of Pride and Prejudice on the bedside table and it must have fallen off, but it shouldn't really count because it wasn't intentional or anything). Carries her toothbrush with her, never leaves it in his bathroom. Insists on paying for her dinner. Never, ever wears his clothes.

It's important to remember what this is: temporary. An arrangement between friends who happen to be physically attracted to each other. It happens, it's not that unusual.

It's important to remember that she's not allowed to feel anything more for him than friendship (and, very well, passion and all-consuming lust but that's part of their arrangement).

It's important to remember that he's her boss. That he's twice her age. That there's nothing more important to him than his work and that he would never pick her over it. That he would never fall in love with her.

(But sometimes she wonders, unwittingly, if it's happening to him, too – if he misses her as soon as she closes his door, if she's the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up in the morning. Wonders if his hands are constantly aching to touch her skin.

It's silly and she hates herself for it, the way her heart seems to be in conflict with her brain.

"Do you want to stop?" he asks once, because apparently she's an open book to him and he can read her unease as if it's something he's been studying for years on end. The body language of a distressed Caitlin Snow: another remarkable project of Dr. Harrison Wells.

And does she? Oh, she really, really should.

She lets out a strained laugh. "Do you?")

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.

Caitlin is not ticklish, thank you very much, there's just this one spot behind her knee that should never ever be touched. Because of reasons.

Wells kisses his way up her leg, his hot mouth leaving a trail of fire in its wake. It's good, so fucking good, until he reaches her knee. She lets out a scream – decidedly undignified, quite possibly inhuman – and nearly kicks him in the head in retaliation. He chuckles against her skin, the smug bastard, then does it again.

She tangles her fingers in his hair and yanks him up. Her breathing is ragged and she can feel a blush spreading across her face, down her neck; she gives him a warning look, but his smile only gets wider. He presses his lips to her navel. Caitlin sighs.

"What's that?" His mouth leaves her skin and it's probably the most annoying thing to ever happen to her. She looks down, to the spot above her hip he's circling with his index finger.

"You mean that beauty spot? I keep forgetting to get rid of it."

Wells looks at it intently, like he's trying to solve a mystery. He traces the spot with his finger, featherlight, barely there.

"It's going to leave a heart-shaped scar," he says absently. She cocks an eyebrow. It looks as if he's remembering something.

The moment passes quickly and he smiles, his hand moving up her belly. "It looks like it will, anyway."

It's strange – she wants to ask about it, but she can't even pin-point the reason why she thinks so in the first place. The look of remembrance on his face? Maybe his long-gone Tess had a similar mark.

She forgets about the question anyway, as soon as his lips touch hers once more.

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She's tired and annoyed, and she's just shut the door in Hartley's face – an indication of how little of her self-control is left at this point. It's half past ten and everyone is still working, red-eyed and weary, moving through the lab like ghosts. Caitlin is sure that if she doesn't leave now she'll fall asleep on her desk. (Or slip into near-hysterics, like Louise.)

The 3D model of the accelerator swirls hypnotically in the middle of the main lab.

She really needs to leave.

Wells is sitting at his desk, and Caitlin has to knock twice on his open door to get his attention. His smile is stretched, the tired lines on his face deeper than she remembers. There's redness in the corners of his eyes.

"I'm almost done compiling the engineering team," he says. It sounds flat, joyless. She blames it on his tiredness.

"When was the last time you ate?" she asks, walking up to him. Wells drags his hand through his hair, ruffling it until it sticks messily in every direction. She flexes her hand, trying to stop herself from reaching out and smoothing it back.

"I don't know, at lunch probably." He shrugs.

Caitlin raises her eyebrow. "You don't remember? I haven't seen you leave your office since you came in this morning."

"Hartley brought me some sandwiches," he says and Caitlin huffs in disdain. Wells's lips twitch upward.

"You need to eat and you need rest. We're leaving now."

"Caitlin – "

"Harry."

He stiffens at the use of his name. The name she only uses in the privacy of his house. (The name she screams when she comes.)

It's absentminded, natural; slips from her lips before she takes time to think about it. She's trying to make a point. "Doctor's orders," she adds, her voice not stern enough, annoyingly laced with worry. "The world is not going to end if you finish this list tomorrow. So come on."

She drags him home, like a petulant child, and sends him off to take a shower while she cooks pasta. His kitchen is more familiar to her than her own – how in the world did that happen? – and she's bought him her favorite spices and sauces, so they'd always be at hand. She finishes even before he emerges from the bathroom, with his hair damp and a white t-shirt plastered to his chest, a pair of gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He takes the cork opener from her and opens the wine, while she tries not to gape.

They eat in companionable silence – the wine is good, the pasta is... passable – and when they're done she confiscates his tablet and phone, and ignoring his stubborn protests ushers him to bed. She's biting up a laugh when he plays along and slips under the white silk sheets, a smirk crawling onto his lips.

"Aren't you going to tuck me in and kiss me goodnight, Doctor Snow?"

Caitlin laughs, feels the tension finally leave her body. Wells's eyes soften – although the playful edge is still there – and holds out his hand. She curls her fingers around his and leans down, gently pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth. She sighs, closes her eyes.

A moment later his arms are around her waist, pulling her onto the bed, her laughter turning into a shrill giggle. He attacks her mouth, his tongue tracing the inside of her mouth, pulling at her bottom lip and making her moan. Wells's hand slips down to caress her thigh. He brushes his fingers over the edge of her panties and oh, God, she's getting so hot she can barely breathe.

"You're tired," she gasps against his mouth, unconsciously pressing her hips into his. He groans.

"Not that tired."

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She rises to leave, and shivers in the chilly air of the room. Wells's hand curls around her wrist and pulls her gently back to bed.

"Stay," he says, his voice thick with sleep. It sounds vulnerable. Like a question.

He never asked that before.

Caitlin thinks about her rules, about everything she's done to stop this from happening. She shouldn't be feeling this – shouldn't want to stay so much, shouldn't miss his warm touch as soon as he lets go of her, shouldn't worry about him not getting his rest, or not eating, or stressing himself out.

But here she is – her resolve slipping from her like sand through her fingers. She lies down, presses her head to his chest, while his arms wrap around her tightly, locking her in the safety of his warmth.

"It's snowing," he says and buries his face in her hair. Caitlin shivers, and it's good, it feels good – and maybe, just maybe, she can forget about the rules.

Just this once.

(There are 384 days until the launch of the particle accelerator.)

(3 days until she meets Ronnie.)