She loved him like no one before
And it was good to be alive
But sometimes that can slip away as fast
As any fingers through your hands
So you let time forgive the past
And go and make some other plans

At the age of forty-one, Derek Shepherd finally masters the art of the text message. And he sends them to her. A lot. Not that she minds; she knows just how bored he is, now beginning his third month at home. Really, she's thankful for the messages because they must mean he feels better, or at least good enough to care about things enough to compress them into 160 characters or less.

He does a fair amount of flirting via text, which is partly just a stupid kind of cute, but mostly a huge relief in ways that she can't fully articulate to herself. Primarily, though, he uses his phone to ask her questions. A few days after their trip to their land, she came home from work to find him in bed, with blueprints spread across the covers and his laptop open on her pillow. Since then, the text messages have come every day, while she's at the hospital and he continues to recuperate.

She's finishing up rounds when her phone vibrates in her pocket. We liked the full-length windows for the living room, right? She thinks of the sunsets they'll see when she replies, Yes. Two pictures come through next, quickly, one right after the other, followed by, Which one?

Even though her idea of a perfect home has very little to do with what it looks like, she wants to be there with him, to lean against him in bed and look at house plans all day long. He is planning their future, dreaming about it, even if it's just in terms of the smaller things, like French doors leading from their living room to their back porch.

He's a little quieter today, and she wonders if he's all right, but then remembers that he is meeting with their architect this morning. Do you want a door from the garage to the mud room? he asks a few hours later. She has no idea what a mud room is, she writes in her reply, but she's fine with putting a door wherever. He texts back something about a little hallway to leave muddy shoes, or at least that's what his mother called it. Almost immediately, without giving it conscious thought, her mind drifts to picture Derek's fishing gear, peeled off and left there, with other boots, wet and caked with dirt, maybe big enough for a two- or three-year-old, lined up next to his.

She has got to stop thinking like this. It hurts a little less now, and has turned into more of a longing feeling than a hard knot of grief. But still, it freaks her out that she thinks about things like muddy boots now and she doesn't know quite what to do with herself when it happens.

They haven't talked about trying to have a baby since this all happened two months ago. In some ways, it's just easier not to. Even though it's been eight weeks and she is, by all accounts, healed, the intensity of what she felt—what she is still feeling—surprises her. It's easier to keep it to herself until she's sure that Derek's all right, until she's sure she knows what to say.

The next text comes during lunch, and conveniently, it's about Cristina. She can't tell if he's kidding or serious when he asks, Does the guest room need a double closet? He calls it the guest room because he needs to call it that in order to stay sane. She calls it Cristina's room because they both know that is technically what it is; she is the only guest they plan on having with any regularity.

She smiles, and puts her fork down in her plastic salad bowl. "Derek wants to know if you're moving in," she says. Cristina raises an eyebrow. "He wants to know if your room needs a double closet. I can't tell if he's kidding or if he's actually worried."

"You can tell him to stand down," Cristina assures her.

She calls him instead of typing a reply this time, just because she can. "Cristina wants to know if you're ok with giving her some of the closet space in our room. She doesn't think a double closet is going to be enough."

"Haha," he replies.

"How's house planning going?"

"It's good. I think I'll have made all the changes we want by the time you get home tonight. Do you want to look at the plans and then if you think they're all right, we'll send them to Artie in the morning?"

"Yeah, that sounds good."

"So we don't need the double closet in the guest room?"

"No, we don't," she says, laughing.

There will be two other bedrooms, but he doesn't ask about those. They both know what they will be used for, and they don't have to say it. She doesn't know when they will answer the question of 'when.' But then she thinks of closed doors and white, unpainted walls and dust piling up in the corners, and her heart twinges the same way she imagines that Derek's does, like she has a scar there too.

He has never felt more alive than he does right now. There is a fair amount of fumbling, and lots of questions and reassurances, from both of them, that it's ok, it feels good. He is not sure that this time the best he's ever had because, in all honesty, he and Meredith have a fairly impressive track record. But she can touch him without hurting him, without being afraid that she will break him, and because of that alone, this feels like absolute bliss.

She's all soft curves and warmth as her body rubs against his. With every second that passes, she looks less and less heartbroken, and he can feel his anger and his terror slipping away. He finally feels confident, or at least like a real person again. It hasn't been that long, really, but in a way, it feels like a lifetime has passed since he has gotten to touch her like this.

She closes her eyes when he puts his mouth on her. He doesn't bite, even though he knows she doesn't mind. Instead, he takes his time, kissing her lips and her neck and her breasts. She rises up to meet him and cries out when his fingers sink lower, and after a minute or two, he doesn't want to wait anymore.

She looks the same, and feels the same, but the past two months have taught him that she is not the same. She doesn't have a physical scar like he does, but he knows she has needed time to heal too. "Are you ok?" he asks again.

"I'm ok," she nods, breathless.

She sighs as he sinks into her, and he has to rethink things for a second. It's not just bliss. They're alive. They're together. It's ecstasy.

He drives himself to and from therapy now, and he no longer comes home withered and beaten down after a session with Dr. Wyatt. He is nearly three months post-op, so he is no longer in constant pain, though he is working hard to regain his old levels of stamina. The resumption of frequent sex has helped with that. Aside from not being back to work yet, he is now just about as independent as he ever was. Last week, they broke ground on their house. She's sure the therapy is helping Derek, but she thinks these other things are healing him from the outside in just as much as the therapy is.

She is not sure if she's feeling better because she has actually grieved and healed herself, or because she feels so much relief that Derek finally seems to be recovering. When she tries to dissect it, she realizes that it doesn't matter. Maybe it just feels better because it is better. There was a moment, about a week ago when her period returned, that she felt sad, almost grief-stricken again. She was kind of hoping that the world would just right itself on its own for once, that she wouldn't have to try harder than she already has to put everything back the way it was. The acuity of the feeling passes with time though, and she chalks it up to PMS. Overall, which she supposes is really what matters, she feels much better.

Derek calls her at lunchtime to tell her that he has gone grocery shopping and will be cooking dinner tonight. He wants to know what time he can expect her home, and for a second, she smiles and thinks to herself that she has a wife or something now. She misses him at work, but she wonders now that he's feeling more like his old self, if he misses the hospital just as much.

He calls again at seven o'clock, when she is fumbling for her keys in the rain outside the hospital, and by the time she finds the keys and her phone, she's missed his call. She puts her Jeep in reverse and backs out of her spot with her phone wedged between her shoulder and cheek as she calls him back.

"Hey, can you pick up some parmesan cheese on your way home?" he asks. "I forgot it this morning."

"Yeah. Do we need anything else?"

"No, just the cheese. Are you leaving soon?"

"Right now, actually," she says. She shifts the car into drive and leaves the parking lot. "Did you get laundry detergent?"

He pauses. "Make it the parmesan and the detergent."

She smiles, and tells him she will see him when she gets home.

For her, the feeling of domesticity is relatively new. Who knew she would actually like standing in the check-out line at the grocery store, with a jug of laundry detergent crooked in one arm and a tub of parmesan cheese in the other hand?

She loves coming home to him. She loves that they do their laundry together. She loves that, in every sense of the expression, they are building a home for themselves. She supposes that it's normal to feel these things. But she also knows that for her, feeling normal is extraordinary.

While she is waiting to pay, she pulls a Cosmo from the rack and flips through it absentmindedly. After a minute though, she finds herself much more interested in the customer in front of her. This woman is younger than she is, maybe by five years or so, but she has a wedding ring on her finger and a son on her hip. The baby can't be more than six or seven months old, and he's drooling on his mother's shirt while she loads her groceries onto the belt with one hand. She bends down to grab a gallon of milk from the cart and he fusses a little at having to move with her, but when she hoists him up a little and pats his back, he settles down.

While his mother handles her transaction with her free hand, the baby picks his head up over her shoulder and watches Meredith. She's not sure what to do; she didn't know someone so little could stare at her with such intensity. She smiles at him, just because she's not sure what else to do. He is a person, after all, and even though he's toothless and non-verbal, she still feels this weird tension and, like with anyone else, smiling (however awkwardly) seems like the best way to break it.

He smiles back at her—a wide, open-mouthed grin that's almost a coo—before bashfully burying his face in his mother's neck. Her expression goes slack, but when he peeks up at her again (she didn't know babies' eyes could twinkle), she realizes that he's playing with her.

When he laughs, his mother turns around and smiles at Meredith, but then they're gone. She pays for the cheese and the laundry detergent, and by the time she gets back to her car, she's got a lump in her throat. And then she's crying and driving, and wondering how it's possible to both understand herself so well and not at all at the same time.

He comes back to the hospital today, even though he doesn't have a meeting with Dr. Wyatt and he isn't officially back to work for another week and a half. Meredith doesn't know that he's here; he drove here separately, hours after she left for work, and he won't be staying long.

Richard is in his office, or he was in Richard's office—it's confusing, but Richard has been made interim chief of surgery in his absence. Derek had no part in the decision-making, but it's a choice he agrees with, especially during this time of turmoil and hospital-wide grief. In this moment, though, with Richard behind the desk and Derek standing in front of him, it feels normal. He recognizes all of his personal affects on the desk and around the room, and appreciates Richard's courtesy in not moving them, even though he doesn't feel like he belongs there anymore anyway.

He knocks on the door, and Richard looks up, surprised to see him. "Derek," he says. "Welcome back."

He wonders if Richard had to grow in to being chief-like. He looks so natural stepping out from behind the desk, whereas he didn't feel like he was starting to hit his stride until just before he was shot.

"How do you feel?" Richard asks.

"Still a work in progress, but much better."

"Very glad to hear it, Derek. It'll be great to have you back at work."

"Thanks."

"So what can I do for you?"

He sighs. His relationship with Richard has been strained for months, maybe for years if he's being honest with himself. But now that he's been on the other side of all this, he feels like he understands Richard a little better.

He doesn't mean for it to, but everything—or at least much more than he meant to say—comes pouring out. Nothing about this job is what he thought it would be, and he felt that way long before he was nearly killed. Sometimes, he did not even feel like a doctor anymore. He tells Richard how, after all these years of practicing medicine, he still felt excited about coming into work most days, until he took over as chief. He tells him that he sometimes feels jealous of Meredith because still feels the way he used to about medicine. He doesn't like the job, frankly, not nearly as much as he thought he would. The power was fun for awhile, but he misses surgery, practicing medicine, and being the doctor he used to be. He tells Richard that he's trying to put his life back together (Richard nods at this, and Derek is sure that he understands now), and this is how he wants to start.

"I want you to take the job back," he says. "If you don't want it, I understand, but either way, I'm stepping down. I talked to the board, and you're my choice to take the job."

When he stops talking, he thinks to himself that maybe it wasn't the best strategy—reminding Richard of all the things he hated about the job and then asking him to take it off his hands. But then Richard tells him that he's flattered, and, for what it's worth, he thinks Derek did a remarkable job as chief. But he would be happy to take the job back if that's what Derek wants. Derek thinks to himself that maybe a lot of it has to do with loving what you know. It's the only way he can explain how Richard seems to share his sense of relief right now.

The following week, Derek walks into the hospital without the latent sense of dread. He stops in to say hello to Richard, but then pulls on his white coat and consults on a case. He schedules a craniotomy for that afternoon.

They are still not talking about it, even though she thinks that maybe they have some sort of implicit understanding since they have been having sex without birth control for a month. Still, they don't talk about what that means, or how they made the non-decision to do it in the first place. Now that a few weeks have passed, she thinks that what probably happened was that they just missed each other a lot, and when one thing led to another, they just forgot about condoms and pills and everything else. She supposes that most people would say that's how accidents happen. Now that it's been going on for awhile, she can't really call it an accident anymore but she feels like if she brings it up, it will turn into a thing. She worries that there might be a misunderstanding, that one of them might not want what the other wants.

Derek is always tired after work now. Well, she shouldn't say always because it's only been five days and the schedule is grueling for anyone, let alone someone who has just recovered from a gunshot wound and major heart surgery. Anyway, he has been too tired for sex, so now that she has gone a few days without it, naturally, the thought crosses her mind.

After dinner, they lie together on the couch with the TV volume turned low. Alex is at the gym and Lexie is on call, so it's just the two of them at home. With her head on his shoulder, she can feel his heart beating under her hand, and for awhile, he's so quiet that she thinks he has fallen asleep. It would be hard to move without disturbing him, so she stays there, wedged between his warm body and the back of the couch, thinking about condoms and the risks she is taking.

"Do you want to go furniture shopping this week?" he asks. He inhales deeply, and curls an arm around her.

"I thought you were asleep," she says.

"No, just thinking."

"Me too."

"About furniture?" he asks. She can't see his face, but she can tell he's smiling.

"Not really."

"What are you thinking about?"

"Well, now I'm thinking about furniture," she says. "I didn't think it was time to do that yet."

"It's not, really. But we could always just start looking, even if it's going to be at least a few more months before the house is ready. Or we could start with paint colors if you want."

"Maybe paint colors first," she says. "We don't need to be out shopping the weekend after your first week back at work."

"I have a catalogue of lighting fixtures too. We could order Thai and look at sconces."

"What the hell is a sconce?" she asks, trying not to laugh, "And why do you have a catalogue dedicated to lighting fixtures?"

"I was bored."

"So you got yourself a catalogue of lighting fixtures?"

"I have hardwood floor and carpet samples too. Plus blinds, molding, windows, doors, railings, and cabinetry…maybe a few others. I can't remember right now. But there's a stack of them in my nightstand drawer."

"Really?" she says. "So how many paint chips do you have in your possession right now?"

He laughs, but she's not making fun of him and he's not embarrassed. "A few dozen at least."

"We should get you your own show on HGTV."

"How do you know about HGTV?" he asks incredulously.

"You're not the only one who was on bed rest this year."

She wonders when it slipped in, this relative peace that just a few weeks ago seemed impossible. During quiet evenings like this, when they lie together and talk about their house and their future, sometimes a few minutes go by when she forgets that this happened to them at all. She still feels like the same person she always was. When she remembers, and then reflects, she thinks that maybe she can separate the two now because that's what healing is.

"So paint colors?" he asks.

"Yeah."

He kisses the top of her head. "What are you thinking?"

She makes a conscious choice not to bring up what she was thinking about before. She's happy now, and she doesn't want to complicate things by bringing up how they're playing with fire. So she talks to him about other things that she never thought she would care about, things like paint colors.

They spend the rest of the evening like this, discussing how weird it is that most paint colors are named after food and how they feel a little silly saying that their living room will be the color of Chianti. They talk until they're both sleepy, about pumpkin and chilé and crème and eggshell and malted milk and honey. When she lets herself close her eyes, resigned to the fact that she will be sleeping on the couch tonight, at least until she gets uncomfortable enough to move upstairs, she thinks about their kitchen and bathrooms and even the foyer and the mud room. The colors warm her up and sink her into contentment.

It doesn't matter about the other stuff right now. It's just nice to be happy, and even though it's complicated in her head, if it's not complicated between the two of them, then that's something to celebrate. She can put off this discussion for a few more weeks, and they can keep going the way they are because she's pretty sure she's fine with it and if he's not, he'll realize it soon enough and bring it up on his own.

She's sure he's about to fall asleep too, but then he asks in a thick voice, so sleepy that she's not sure he's fully aware of what he's saying, "What color do you want the baby's room to be?"

Exactly six months after the shooting, Derek smashes a bottle of champagne against one of the outside corners of their house. The builders haven't finished it yet, but enough of the frame and walls are up so that it looks like an actual dwelling rather than a bunch of popsicle sticks.

There's no special reason as to why he picked today to do this, although he supposes that the six month anniversary of still being alive should be occasion enough. So far, the house is exactly what he always imagined it would be. They can't go inside yet because the contractor told him that the stairs aren't finished, but they can come here on chilly autumn evenings and celebrate where they are.

The trailer is gone and the house's electrical work hasn't been started yet, so they're in the dark except for a few of the dozens of leftover white pillar candles that Meredith brought with them. She sits on the porch, her flushed cheeks glowing in the candlelight, and he's sure she has never looked more beautiful, or more at home, than she does right now.

"How are we going to pick up all the pieces?" she asks.

For a second, he's not sure what she's talking about. He almost tells her that they did pick up the pieces, but then he realizes that she's talking about the bottle and not the other things. He's at a loss with the bottle dilemma too. He thought this thing through enough to bring a second bottle of champagne for them to drink, but he didn't consider the difficulty of picking up shards of glass in the dark.

"We'll hold the candlelight over it later," he says. "Let's worry about it when we're ready to leave."

He joins her on the porch, and she passes the second bottle of champagne to him. The cork is somewhere in the grass, next to the dumpster of construction rubbish. He takes a long drink and when he finishes, she puts her hand on his knee and her head on his shoulder.

"I can't believe we're almost ready," she says quietly. Silently, he agrees. There were many moments over the past few years that he was sure that this day, the day that he could have the floorboards of his real home under him, would never come.

"Did Alex and Lexie get some new roommates?" he asks. She doesn't say so, but he knows she worries about them, and how much harder it will be to make sure they're all right when she's somewhere else.

"They're still looking. I think they're being too picky."

"Nothing wrong with being picky," he says. "I have to say, I think how quiet it will be here might freak me out at first. I've kind of gotten used to the frat house."

"Well, maybe it won't be quiet here that much longer," she says.

"I hope so."

They've been trying, both unofficially and officially for three months. Nothing's happened yet, but when the painters come (in three weeks, if everything stays on schedule), the room next to the master bedroom will be colored a light butter yellow. They don't discuss this hypothetical baby very often, but every time they do, and every other time he thinks about it, he is filled with so much faith and so much joy that he wonders what it will feel like in the moment when he actually gets to hold this child in his arms.

They talk and sip champagne from the bottle until it's too cold to stay any longer, and if they did, he would be too tipsy to drive back to Meredith's house. Before they leave, they stand in front of the house, both of them with glass shards in one hand and candles in the other, and take one last look at their house. He allows himself to imagine the days they'll spend here, with these candles on their mantle and on their kitchen counter and in their bedroom. He imagines a life lived in this house. Even though he doesn't have a key in his hand yet, he can look at the building's frame and he knows that the future is taking shape.