Author's Note: I've been a little obsessed with country music lately, and it gave me the urge to put Calleigh and Eric on a porch swing. In trying to figure out how to make that happen, I ended up with the story you're about to read.

This marks the beginning of the new multi-chap, the end of my ADD "several WIPs at once" syndrome, and most likely the end of the daily update schedule that was adopted for the end of "Sofitel." For a number of reasons, "Tuck" is being put on hold until further notice, but I'm hoping this piece will tide y'all over enough that you forget (teehee). So without further ado… "A Tour of the Heart."

"All I'm saying-"

"Oh, I know what you're saying, Eric!" she bit, slamming the pan she'd just washed into the dish drainer with a clatter.

"No, you know what – I'm not sure you do. So why don't you quit interrupting me every five seconds and let me say it!"

She spun, brandishing the wooden spoon she'd just picked up with the intention to wash, jabbing it in his direction. "Because I don't want to hear it, Eric! You're wrong. Okay? You're wrong."

"All I'm saying," he began again slowly, deliberately, closing his eyes to rein in his patience, "is that a vacation might be a good idea, considering you've worked six doubles in the past four weeks. You need some time off and you know H will-"

"What I need is a supportive boyfriend," she shot back, turning back to the sink and reaching for the sponge again. As a result, she missed the way his frustration ratcheted, lips tight, nostrils flaring, eyes sharp.

"I have been nothing but supportive the past few weeks, Calleigh! And you have been moody and bitchy and-"

"Oh, I'm bitchy now," she scoffed, giving the spoon a final rinse and tossing it into the drainer as well. "You sure know how to-"

"Will you shut up and let me finish!" he shouted, finally losing his temper with her.

She whirled on him again, her own ire up and boiling. "Don't you ever yell at me!"

"THIS!" he spat at her. "This is why I think you need a vacation! Because you have been working your ass off for the last month, and when you aren't exhausted you're combative as hell! Everything I say you bite my fucking head off, and I'm sick of it, Calleigh! This isn't you. You need a break."

"Maybe what I need a break from is you!" she hollered, so angry now that her fingers were shaking, her breath heaving. How dare he. How dare he.

She'd hit the mark, though, because he shut his eyes again, hands fisted at his sides, jaw clenching. When he opened his eyes a moment later, she could see the hurt swirling around the edge of his fury, and it almost, almost made her feel bad. "Okay," he said carefully, quietly. "I'm going to go now. I'm going to go now, before you say anything else you don't mean, and before I get pissed off enough to do the same."

"Oh, I meant it," she insisted darkly.

"No, I don't think you did, so I'm going to go. And we're going to talk about this later, when you can be logical about it."

She sneered and resisted the urge to grab the spoon again and pitch it at his head. "Oh, get out."

"Gone," he assured, lifting his hands in surrender and stalking out of the kitchen.

Calleigh didn't move until she heard the door slam a few minutes later, then she turned back to the sink, trembling fingers nearly dropping the next dirty dish she snatched up. Needed a fucking vacation. Like she wasn't perfectly capable of deciding when she needed a break. Idiot man. Miami had been a powder keg for half of June and most of July, repeated bouts of gang violence, a triple homicide in the Gables, a postal worker who went postal. She wasn't sure if it was the relentless heat wave, the holiday, or if everyone had just been possessed by raging, homicidal demons, but it had made work long, and hellish, and she was tired. But not so tired that she needed a fucking vacation, and who was he to insist that she did? Just because they were lovers, just because they spent more nights together than apart, he thought he knew every damned thing she needed. Ridiculous.

When her phone rang, "Danger Zone" blaring from the kitchen table, she growled and slapped the faucet off. She dried her hands as she crossed the kitchen, muttering, "Yeah, you're on the highway to the fucking danger zone, you stubborn-" She flipped it open without looking and lifted it to her ear. "What part of 'get out' did you think meant 'call me?'"

There was a moment of silence before a wholly unexpected voice came over the line. "Lambchop."

"Oh. Dad." Crap. Refocus. "I'm sorry, I thought you were… Daddy, now isn't really a good time. Can I call you later?"

"No, lambchop, this can't wait." He sounded tired, and sad, and Calleigh felt anxious nerves wiggle their way into her belly to tangle with the seething temper.

"What's wrong?"

"Your Granny Clara is dying, sweetheart, and she's asking for you."

Calleigh felt her stomach drop, all the nerves and anger slamming to the floor like a slipped bowling ball. "How much time do I have?"

"Leave now. Come tonight."

"I'll be on the next flight out," she promised, flipping the phone shut without so much as a goodbye and closing her eyes. Suddenly her idiot boyfriend was the furthest worry from her mind.

"I know you can hear me
But I'm not sure you're listening.
I hear what you're saying,
But still there's something missing.
Whether I go, whether I stay
Right now depends on
Whatever you say."

--"Whatever You Say"
Martina McBride