Authors Note: Well, it has been so long since I hae even looked at this site let alone a Word Doc. This is just a little something to ease myself back into this world. I know, I know, I'm supposed to finish Beast, and then Say You Do; but those will have to be put off until a further date until, well I do not know when. I suppose when the inkling comes along to write them out. This was inspired by Shawn Mendes' Imagination while I was driving home the other day and I thought why the hell not share it. If it sucks, then it sucks. If it's loved, well then it's loved. I hope you guys enjoy, Read and Review if you get the chance.

Every day is the same, she walks through the elevator through his office hallway, a cup of black coffee with one sugar and no cream and a cup of hot tea with milk. Her perfume hits his nose when the glass door swings open and brushes her brown hair back. He takes that sight in for just a moment; she's perfect there. Her long silky hair down across her shoulders, her lips beaming with a gentle good morning. He wants to tell her how beautiful she is from where he sits behind his desk but he knows better. Every morning, he lets her set his coffee on the disheveled desk and warn him that he's going to burn his tongue on the bitter black liquid. Sometimes he does it just to hear her scold him. The short tongue-lashing makes him smile and starts his day with humor. A part of him thinks she knows this.

There's short conversation and he catches the snapped glimpse of disappointment when he tells her there is no case and she'll be stuck in her lab hovering over old bones that no one cares about. He takes care to observe her as she steps out of his office and briskly walks to the elevator; averting his eyes when she turns in the small box to stare at him. Possibly to wave goodbye to him one last time.

In his dreams, she's wrapped up in his arms on the couch complaining about the hockey game and how dangerous it is for the body to take such blows. He's making her dinner and she pours herself a glass of wine before opening a beer for him. Every time he wakes up, his skin tingling with sensitivity, a careful sheen of sweat covering his chest, he wonders if it'll be the day he slips. If the moment when she sets that coffee down he'll blurt out how beautiful she is in the morning and how much he enjoys seeing her at the start of his day. He wonders, every afternoon when he grabs her for lunch and pie, if it'll be the day that he takes her hand in his as they cross the street. And when he follows her home to make sure she gets up to her door safely, he contemplates if that's the moment he'll kiss her for the first time. Under her porch light, her keys in one hand, his lapel in the other. But each day goes on, and it's just a figment of his imagination. Letting himself down each and every moment of his day.

He longs for his dreams to become a reality, but that vow he took when Cam was in the hospital is one he fights to stay true to. He craves her without her knowledge; unable to say the words he wants to say. To watch her eyes light up when she's told she's loved. Everyday he thinks of what they could be, and everyday he reigns himself in, because this is typical. It's all typical of love. You want and desire the things that you cannot have. There was nothing more to it.

So for now, he'll lean back in his office chair and watch her come through those elevators doors, strut across the hallway and ignore the stares she gets. Her eyes focused on him through the glass, her hair brushing back as his door opens and the sweet, sweet smell that hits his nostrils as she speaks a gentle good morning. Another day of imagining everything that they could be.