There's a picture that hangs on her refrigerator; there isn't a smile on her face but she is not sad and though there are tears in her eyes, she is happy. She is irony defined, frustration felt and beauty beheld.

The man who should understand her the most doesn't understand her at all and he doesn't understand why the picture is hanging there. He doesn't even bother to ask.

Cristina knows that it doesn't add up, that it shouldn't be this hard. She can't let go with him. She can't stop thinking with him, she can't breathe with him.

She can't be with him.

His arm wraps around her shoulder and it feels like a weight, pulling her down and dragging her under. Cristina forces herself to go through the movements, take hold of his hand and trace her finger over his banded finger.

Owen does not notice how her posture stiffens, how her muscles tense. He leans over and brushes his lips against her temple, his hand sliding slowly and suggestively down her arm, fingertips brushing her breast. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing," she lies, lets his hand continue further on and tries to play into it.

She tries to shut her mind off and when that doesn't work, she reminds herself that once upon a time she couldn't breathe without him. She tries to remember what it felt like to want to be with him.

No matter how hard she tries, no matter how much is constantly going through her mind, she can't find the reasons and she can't drag up those memories.

She's starting to believe it's because there wasn't anything worth remembering in the first place.

-x-

Cristina knows that it's wrong so she focuses on the little things instead; the whiskers lining the edge of the sink, the smell of his cologne against the sheets and the way that his hands feel like ice when he touches her but how it feels as if they're on fire when he touches her.

Their lips meet and he teases hers apart with his tongue, nips at her lower lip. His hands slide down her sides slowly, bunch her shirt in his hands and pull it away only a moment later. He kisses her again as if it has been years since he last tasted her lips, eases her back onto the bed.

The sheets are cold against her back but her skin is burning hot, his hands are wandering and his eyes are warm and the second he utters those words against her ear, all of the thinking stops and she allows herself to feel.

The frenetic pace that they had enjoyed suddenly fades and their movements become slower, more sensual. She isn't in a hurry to just get it over with; roll over and go to sleep, or at least try to.

Rough fingertips grasp her hips and he buries his thick length inside her. Their hips rock together and their lips never part. Even though she's breathless, for the first time in months she feels as if she can breathe again.

They move together perfectly and for once, everything feels right, no matter how wrong it is.

-x-

Long black tendrils stretch out over his shoulder and arms and her head is laid against his chest. Idly he runs his fingers through her hair.

"What are you thinking about?" Burke asks, a deep baritone timbre muffling the sound of his heart beating against her ear for only a moment.

She is not smiling but she isn't sad. There are tears in her eyes but she is happy, "I'm not."