When Grissom walked in, the first thing he noticed was the absolute quiet. He released a grateful Figaro and checked the living room. The playpen was empty. A little concerned, he looked in the kitchen and then moved down the hall to the bedroom, stopping at the doorway to catch his breath.

Sara and Wyatt lay asleep on the bed. Sara was curved protectively around Wyatt, one arm anchored across his little back as he lay sacked out, one little sock half-off. Grissom smiled down at them, and then gently picked the sleeping baby up. Carefully he carried him out to the playpen, settling him down on the afghan; Wyatt whimpered and rolled over, sinking back into deep slumber. Grissom waited a moment, then headed back to the bedroom, slipping his shoes off and climbing onto the mattress. Sara rolled towards him, hand reaching for him even in her sleep, and Grissom smiled, letting her arm rest heavily across his chest as she pressed to his side.

“Shhhh,” he murmured gently. “Wyatt’s in the playpen. Let’s sleep while we can.”

“Kid’s a Energizer bunny, Grissom—I am SO not ready . . .” Sara mumbled into his armpit.  He made a soft noise of agreement and they drifted off themselves.

The sound of giggles woke Grissom two hours later; blearily he checked his watch as he listened to Wyatt playing with the electronic disc toy in the other room. Little bleeps and squeals echoed down the hall. He rolled to his side and Sara obligingly snuggled up against his chest, her ass pressing against him. He savored the sensation for a moment since Sara was clad in her tee shirt and panties, and nuzzled her hair, getting a soft growl in return.

“I know what YOU want—“

“I have a semi-naked you rubbing against me—I think I’m justified in wanting it, Sara.” As he spoke, Grissom slipped his big warm hand up under her shirt to cup her breast; Sara moaned a little.

“We can’t, Grissom, we’ve got company in the other room—“ came her soft protest even as her nipple rose under his caressing fingertips. A soft rock of her hips, and Sara’s squirm became a concentrated caress against a part of Grissom that was very happy to receive it. He gave a pleased grunt, thrusting back against her with enthusiasm.

“Company is busy, so I vote that we entertain ourselves—“

“Oh is that way you vote? Who gave you majority in this bed anyway, Gil Grissom? I believe this is a co-operative venture—“

“So cooperate with me—“ he pleaded gently, but at that point Wyatt began to wail, and with sighs, both Sara and Grissom climbed out of bed.

“Hungry. I bet he’s hungry,” Sara guessed, tugging on a pair of jeans and stepping into sandals. Grissom gave a grunt of agreement and wearily followed her out to the living room. At the sight of them, Wyatt stopped for a moment, bewildered. Sara scooped him up and looked around.

“We don’t have a high chair, Grissom. One of us will have to hold him, and the other one feed him.”

“I’ll hold him—I prefer to be out of the line of fire—“ he predicted cheerily. Sara made a face and stepped into the kitchen with Wyatt, showing him jar after jar sitting on the counter.

“Peas, diced carrots, Vienna sausages, ugh! Um peach chunks, that sounds pretty good—“

“All of them,” came Grissom’s suggestion. “He’ll let us know what tastes best.”

Ten minutes later, Wyatt was happily settled on Grissom’s lap chewing on a Vienna sausage in one little fist. Under the table, Figaro settled in with the half-eaten one that had fallen there, daintily devouring it while Sara pushed a dish of peas towards the toddler.

“Peas, Wyatt. Little green squishy peeeeeeeas,” she purred in her most alluring voice. Grissom arched an eyebrow at her.

“Say it like that and I’m temped to eat the things myself—“ he warned. She grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear.

“You mean I might seduce you to the veggie side?” Sara mused, batting her eyes at him. Grissom looked from her to the dish of peas and paused a moment.

“Nah. My relatives in Chicago would never let me hear the end of it.”

“I don’t know—let’s invite them to sit out back of the lab and watch a pig go through decomp and maybe they might change THEIR minds,” Sara replied sweetly. Wyatt reached for the dish of peas, his little hand grabbing several, squeezing them into a paste. Grissom’s chuckle died away as Wyatt turned and mashed them onto his sleeve, leaving a green Rorschach there. Sara wisely hid her grin, handing Grissom a napkin.

“Peas are for eating, Wyatt, not wearing.”

“And if you must, wear them yourself—“ Grissom chided. For a moment, Wyatt looked up at him, catching the disapproval in Grissom’s tone. His lip quivered, and seeing it, Sara reached over to stroke the baby’s cheek.

“Don’t get stern with him, okay? He’s a baby for God’s sake. They DO this sort of thing.”

“I know, I know—do you realize when he’s going to cry he looks exactly like Greg?”

“Gris-som!” Sara laughed, not wanting to admit he was right. Wyatt stuffed the remainder of his handful into his mouth, making his cheeks green, and with more encouragement, got through the rest of the meal with only minor spillage and mess.

By the time they were done, Sara looked with dismay at the table. Grissom hefted Wyatt up and studied him as if he was some bizarre little painted Pygmy.

“Peaches, peas, sausage and I think this stuff behind his ear is butter from the toast—“ he rattled off. Wyatt wriggled. Sara sighed.

“The kid needs a bath. Man, how does Greg do it? I mean, his mom’s probably doing a lot of it, but the wear and tear is incredible.”

“I guess we should be grateful he didn’t have twins,” Grissom acknowledged, hefting the toddler against his ribs. Once again, little hands reached for his beard, and a green streak colored it before Sara could intervene. She snickered, and Grissom closed his eyes.

“Go run the water, Sara.”

It took a bit of teamwork to divest Wyatt of his overalls and socks; he squirmed and wanted to taste the bath rug, but when he was finally naked he beamed at them both, proudly swaying on his little feet, hands high in the air as he luxuriated in his personal freedom.

“Boy if that’s not male ego personified—“ Sara chortled. Grissom shot her a sideways look as she continued, “In fact, I think I’ve seen you in the exact same pose, babe—“

“Yes, well I have more to be proud of,” he replied. Sara laughed out loud at that, reaching into the tub to test the water temperature.

“No argument there—hmmm, I think we have a problem. The water’s fine, but this tub is pretty deep,” she observed, leaning over. Grissom looked down into the water, noting the steep sides with new concern. He carefully began to peel off his shirt. Both Sara and Wyatt eyed him with surprise.

He shrugged.

“Logically then, the safest course of action would be to bathe WITH him, correct? That way I can hang onto him while you scrub all that encrusted vegetable matter off. No slippage, minimum risk.”

Sara sucked in her cheeks, trying hard not to laugh again. She nodded, and turned away as Grissom shucked the rest of his clothes, peeling them off and laying them neatly on the toilet seat.  He strode over and stepped into the tub.

“Nice heinie, Grissom,” she muttered as a wide-eyed Wyatt looked at him. He fought a blush and rolled his eyes.

“Just give me the boy—“ he growled. Sara did, gently lifting Wyatt and handing him to Grissom, who plonked him down on strong furry thighs. Wyatt grinned. He reached for the water and splashed, hard, chortling and babbling long strings of syllables, mostly Ms and Bs. Sara leaned over the edge of the tub and soaped up a washcloth.

“You know, I think I might have to dash out to the car—“ she began casually. Grissom shot her a dark and dangerous glance.

“No. No pictures, Sara. Not if you want to live.”

“Oh come on—you two make an adorable couple—“ she laughed, dodging a splash of water as Wyatt flailed his arms again, delightedly. Grissom’s grip on his tightened, and he continued to glare, his expression becoming slightly more serious.

“Not with someone else’s child, Sara. Talk about misleading evidence—no, let’s just get him bathed and out of here.”

They found that was easier said than done. Wyatt wriggled and fought and whimpered and splashed, wetting Sara so thoroughly that her teeshirt had gone nearly transparent in the process. She managed to scrub the green off of his face and hands, and made it a point to rinse even between his little toes, making him giggle the entire time.

“ . . . And this little piggy had Tofu, and this little piggy had none,” she sang out in a low laughing voice. Grissom shook his head.

“Tofu? What happened to roast beef?”

“Piggy went veggie. It’s the updated version. This Little Piggy two point oh.”

“Revisionist—“ he snorted.

“Sue me, the kid’s having a good time. Come on Doodlebug, time to get some clothes on—“ She picked Wyatt up and wrapped him in a towel, giving his scalp a quick rub to dry the fine blonde hair. Wyatt burbled, trying to look up and Sara toted him out the door, calling over her shoulder.

“Might want to take a moment to scrub too, Grissom—you still have a Martian beard—“

He finished his bath at his leisure, hearing Sara and Wyatt out in the living room. A faint sound made him look up and Grissom watched Figaro slink into the bathroom, glancing around carefully. He laughed.

“The noisy beast is in the other room, Fig. The only thing you have to worry about in here is falling in the tub again.”

Mollified, Figaro leaped onto the closed toilet seat and settled down for a good paw washing as Grissom climbed out and toweled off. He dressed, tugging the clothes out from under the cat, and checked in the mirror to see that all the peas were gone.

Out in the living room, Sara and Wyatt were playing the no-no game wherein Wyatt would toddle over and pick something up then Sara would take it from him, saying ‘no, no’. Grissom watched her take the Kleenex box, the car keys, the Journal of Forensic Review and a pencil stub. In desperation, Sara looked up at Grissom, and he managed a smile. He tipped his head towards the backyard. Sara picked Wyatt up and all three of them headed out.

The warmth of the afternoon made the grass smell good, and the cottonwood provided plenty of shade. Wyatt gave a shriek of glee when Sara took his socks off, and he waddled towards the hammock as Grissom sat on the brick steps next to Sara and watched him. He handed her a glass of iced tea, and she sipped it gratefully, pushing her sunglasses up higher.

“The kid’s a terror—manic energy you know?” she murmured fondly after another sip. Grissom nodded, leaning forward and enjoying the peacefulness. A few feet in front of them, Wyatt reached the hammock and was grabbing the netting, bouncing with delight at his newest achievement.

“Always in explore mode, be it food, bath or yard, yes, I noticed. He’s also left-handed.”

“Really? How can you tell?” Sara turned her head to look at him, amused. Grissom pointed towards the toddler.

“Just watch him a while. The left hand is the one he uses to touch new things, or push old ones. It’s the one he ate most of his food with. Definitely a southpaw.”

“I wonder if Greg knows?”

At that moment the soft chime of the doorbell rang, and Grissom slowly rose up, looking at Sara, who shrugged back at him.

“No clue. Could be Brass again—“

Grissom made his way through the house cautiously. He reached the door and checked the peephole, feeling a bizarre sense of fatalism at the sight of the person standing on the porch.

Of course. It would be her.

Carefully he pulled the door open and held up his hands, managing a resigned smile.

//Hi Mom// he signed.

***   ***   ***

Greg blearily rubbed his eyes and checked his watch again against one of the clocks at McCarran. The terminal was busy, and he had staked out a bench near the right gate, but he’d gotten here an hour early. Uncle Peter wasn’t due in for another fifteen minutes, but Greg hadn’t known what else to do for the extra time; it wasn’t visiting hours at Desert Palm yet, and the house was dark and empty without her and Wyatt in it. He let his head drop into his hands to give in to a moment of despair, bitterly damning the day he’d ever met Sondra Matthews. As he sat there, head down, he noticed a pair of shoes heading in his direction. They were high tops, red, and somehow familiar. Looking up, he caught sight of Clem coming towards him, brown eyes wide, mouth slightly open as she held out her hands, her whiteboard up and a jagged scrawl reading:

Oh Greg!

He rose up, startled and grateful at the same time, wondering how she knew what had happened, but before he could think anything further she pulled him into a warm hug.

Greg could have wept for the glorious comfort of it. Clem was warm and curvy and smelled wonderful; she fit against him in all the right ways, and it took real effort on his part to peel out of it and look down into her face. But he did.

“Clem, what are you doing here?” he managed, not quite letting her go. She wiped the board clean and hastily wrote out a new message.

Brass has a suspect in custody and they need you to ID him.  I told Brass I'd be glad to take your uncle to your house if you wanted to get to the station right away.  I thought he phoned you.

Guiltily Greg fished for his cell phone, seeing the message light flashing on it. He winced, putting the receiver to his ear just as the Arrival board announced Flight 198 from Minnesota was deboarding. Clem wiped her board clean again.

What does your uncle look like?

“Ah, it’s been a few years, but you can’t miss the mustache. Even Harleys are jealous of his handlebars—“ Greg murmured, listening to the recording of Brass with one ear. She nodded, keeping a sharp watch on the escalators, and gradually the trickle of passengers coming down grew to a crowd. Greg put away his cell phone and joined the search, standing near enough to Clem to enjoy the sight of her.

She pointed. Greg followed the line of her arm to see his uncle, standing almost a foot taller than everyone else around him, looking a little confused. Peter Gunderson was tall, thin, bald and definitely in possession of a fine full grey mustache. Greg stepped forward and when his uncle caught sight of him he threw his arms around him.

“Greg,” he murmured, hugging him quickly, then letting go. Greg cleared his throat, his face red but his eyes shining.

“Hey. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Family is family,” his uncle answered, the Norwegian inflection of his words low. He sighed. “How is Missy?”

“The doctors say she’s doing good. She woke up a little bit early this morning, so that’s a good sign. Listen, I hate to do this, but I have to go in—they have a suspect, Uncle Peter, and I have to identify him. My friend Clem here will take you to the house so you can unpack and stuff. After that we’ll go check on Mom and Wyatt.”

“Clem?” Uncle Peter intoned curiously. He looked at her and something in his pale blue eyes lit up a bit. Greg nodded, placing a hand on her back.

“Clementine St. Croix. She works with me and she’s . . . a friend.”

Clem held her dark hand out and it was engulfed by the older man’s heavily callused grip.

“Very pleased to meet you,” he nodded. Clem scribbled out on her board.

Likewise, sir. Do you have suitcases to collect?

Peter stared at the board, nodding slowly. Greg spoke up quickly, “Oh yeah--She can’t talk, long story but it’s not a problem. Look, I have to get going; I’ll meet you at the house as soon as I can—Thanks for being here. Clem—“

He moved to peck her cheek; she turned and Greg’s little kiss of thanks landed on the corner of Clem’s mouth, startling them both. To hide his confusion, Greg backed away, waving, then turned and strode off quickly, leaving both Peter and Clem to gape after him.

***   ***  ***

//Gil?// came Olivia’s very pointed signing. Grissom followed her gaze through the living room to the playpen, still filled with the afghan and toys. His fingers flew in clumsy fashion as his mother stared at him meaningfully. He spoke as well.

“We’re babysitting at the moment. One of our younger colleagues was stalked by his ex-girlfriend and it’s not a good situation, mom. So Sara and I have his son, Wyatt for a while.”

Olivia nodded, her eyes widening in sympathy, then she glanced around again, her own hands moving with graceful economy.

//I see. Well, it’s only a flying visit this time—I have a six-hour layover before I can join Alex in New Orleans for the Rose Symposium, so I thought I’d take a chance and drop in. Oh you two have done wonders with Doreen’s place, you really have! I’m so glad. Where’s the baby?//

Grissom bit back a sigh and led his mother out to the back yard; Sara looked up over the rims of her sunglasses, eyes going wide at the sight of Olivia moving towards her, arms outstretched.

“Oh hey!” she smiled, accepting the warm hug. Olivia pulled back and tweaked Sara’s nose lightly.

“Tuprise! On-ee for de apternoon doh.”

Sara shot a look at Grissom, who had picked up Wyatt and was bringing him over. The toddler looked at Olivia and broke into a wide smile, arms outstretched. Olivia smiled herself and took him from Grissom, bouncing the baby lightly in her arms. Wyatt patted her nose experimentally, then settled for yanking on the scarf around her neck. Sara moved over to Grissom, arms crossed over her chest.

“Did you call her?”

“Nope. The Rose Symposium is this weekend. Alex is very big on growing roses, so he and Mom go to a few of the bigger shows. He’s already in New Orleans and she’s got a layover, so she stopped by. If we play this right, we might be able to get a nap in.”

“Grissom!”

“Look at her,” he scoffed, “We won’t be able to get Wyatt out of her arms without a crowbar.”

Sara snickered at the obvious truth of Grissom’s words; Olivia and the little one in her hold were busy making faces at each other, both of them burbling happily. Grissom waved a hand in front of his mother’s face.

“Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

Olivia shook her head; stepping out of her high heels and carrying Wyatt back out onto the lawn. “No tank you. I’m goot.”

Sara picked up her empty tea glass and carried it into the kitchen, rinsing it out and watching Grissom, his mother and Wyatt through the kitchen window. Olivia was a natural, playing easily with the baby, kissing his feet and tickling him. Grissom hung back, not completely comfortable, but still close by, signing occasionally to his mother. Reluctantly she set the toddler down to make some reply to her son, and from the speed of her signs Sara wondered if it was another grandchild lecture.

Out on the lawn though, the discussion centered on something much more on Grissom’s mind.

“ . . . And a deed to a mine and a letter in Chinese. It’s very odd, mom, and I just wondered if you knew anything about it,” Grissom asked. Olivia frowned, her attention torn between the little one tugging on her stockinged toes and her serious son. She shook her head slowly, her face drawn with pain.

//Gil, I don’t like talking about your father.//

She paused and signed again.

//The only part of Howard’s business dealings I ever knew about was the fifty thousand dollars of debt he left behind when he divorced me, dear. He never let me in on anything he was doing, all the way up to that day, so I have no idea why he’d have the deed to a mine! What sort of mine?//

//Silver. I’m going to do some research and see if it’s legitimate or not. And the letter?//

//He knew a lot Asian businessmen, Gil—most of them unsavory as I recall. Maybe if you get it translated you’ll know more.//

Grissom paused. He thought back over the packet of photos, and the guilty secret of Truman’s existence flashed through his mind. He’d weighed the pros and cons of mentioning him, but as he watched his mother play peek-a-boo with Wyatt he bit his lips and said nothing. Better to talk to a more objective intermediary before dropping a bombshell like that—

//Will you and Alex be coming back through this way?//

//We could.// Olivia agreed absently, watching Wyatt pick up a roly poly from the grass. She took the bug from him and handed it to Grissom, who briefly examined it before dropping it back into the grass. He caught his mother’s attention again and nodded.

“I’d appreciate it if you would, yes,” he told her.

They stayed outside until Wyatt began to get cranky, rubbing his eyes and fussing; when Olivia carried him inside, Sara had already re-arranged the afghan in the playpen. Sulkily Wyatt accepted a bottle and settled down, kicking fretfully now and then to remind everyone he wasn’t going easily into naptime. As he began to drop off, Grissom gave his mother the tour of the house and Sara smiled to herself as she settled in on the sofa and watched Wyatt drowse off.

He wasn’t a bad kid, but he was a handful, and guiltily she admitted she was glad he was only a visitor for the time being. Dimly she could hear Grissom trying to explain to his mother about the ant farm, and wondered if he’d hastily smoothed the spread in the bedroom . . . an odd feeling of tenderness washed through her stomach as she looked around the house.

Her house. This home she was making with Grissom.

Sara caught a glimpse of the mail truck moving past the house and stood, walking out the door and down to the box, smiling to herself as she fished out the mail.

Bills. A coupon page for some new Cajun restaurant. And a few pieces of rerouted mail for her. One of them had a return address she recognized; a sudden pang of doubt hit her as she held out the envelope from her apartment manager’s office. The lease, she remembered—was she going to renew or terminate it?

Turning, she began to walk back up the gravel drive to the house, tucking the notice at the bottom of the handful of mail. She plastered a smile on her face as she walked in to find Grissom on the phone and Olivia looking up at the Yin Yang over the fireplace. Sara set the mail down, shot a glance at the softly snoring Wyatt and turned to Grissom, who nodded to her.

“Fine. No, he’s been no trouble. Yes. Fine. You take the Fifteen . . .”

Hanging up a few minutes later he sighed. Sara grinned at his relieved expression.

“Greg’s coming?”

“Yeah, straight from Booking. They found the accomplice,” Grissom told her with a pleased smile. Sara stepped closer to him.

“And his mom?”

“He didn’t say. I had the impression she was doing better, but Greg was more concerned about picking up his son.”

Olivia came over, cocking her head and Grissom swiftly signed the conversation to her; she gave a little sigh of regret as she glanced towards the playpen.

//Of course. Tease your old mother this way. One little taste of grandmotherhood and it’s gone--// her fingers fluttered, but she smiled and reached up to pat his beard when she finished. Grissom slipped an arm around Sara and batted his eyes at Olivia.

“Fine, Mom. If you’re going to sulk, then I’m not even going to let you look at my engagement ring—“

Olivia’s eyes widened and she glanced at Sara’s hand.

“Whea?” came her demand. Grissom rolled his eyes and held out his left hand; his mother seized it and stared down at the ring, her jaw twitching. Just as suddenly, she dropped it and her fingers flew in a rapid series of signs practically up in Grissom’s face. Sara snorted since it was obvious she was chewing him out for something albeit by gesture rather than by voice. Startled at her ire, Grissom backed up a step then neatly caught his mother’s thin wrists him his big hands.

“Mom . . . . Mom . . . stop! No I’m not taking advantage of Sara, yes I love her, yes I have a ring for her too—“ he countered with annoyance, “--Of COURSE I’m going to propose!”

Olivia’s fingers flickered, even in his grip; Grissom shot Sara a helpless look and she lightly touched his mother’s shoulder.

“Grissom can’t propose until May. My father made him promise—some sort of yearlong courtship thing,” she mouthed to the older woman. Olivia looked from her to Grissom again, who ruefully nodded. He let go of her wrists, and Olivia drew in a breath, carefully drawing herself up in a dignified way. She shot her son a lofty look, then motioned to Sara and stepped in the kitchen. Once there, Olivia seized the memo pad from the fridge and hastily scribbled something on it, holding it out to Sara.

All right, I'm sorry for overreacting there, but you must tell me, is that really an engagement ring?  

Sara grinned shyly, nodding.  Olivia sighed and beamed back.  She wrote again.  

THANK GOD.  Good, okay--so Gil's proposing in May--when are you getting married?

Sara blinked, slightly stunned at this question.  

Oh yeah.  That would be the next step--

“Uh--” she stammered.  Out in the living room, Grissom was trying to watch them and not get caught doing it.  If she wasn't so stalled in Olivia's question, Sara would have laughed at his nonchalant pacing.  

Never mind, never mind. Just—congratulations! I’m a very lucky, very grateful woman today—  came the next note, and Sara found herself hugged fiercely. She hugged back, feeling her confusion washed away in the joyous warmth of Olivia’s embrace. As they pulled apart, the doorbell rang.

Greg stood on the porch, looking awkward, tired and shy; Grissom opened the door wider and Sara waved from the kitchen. He stepped in, his eyes widening.

“Ohhhh.” he spluttered, looking around at the décor, “This is your house—I mean, like YOUR house!”

Grissom said nothing, his face slightly pink. Greg took a step towards the portrait of Sara on the far wall, gazing up at it. Olivia moved out of the kitchen and Sara followed her, startling Greg, who looked at them in surprise.

“Oh hey! Hi Mrs. G, Sara. Wow. I mean, just—wow. I had no idea you guys were like, nesting. This place is so totally—you.”

“Thank you,” Grissom replied dryly. Greg shot him a quick blushing look then sighed when he spotted the playpen. He moved towards it, leaning over the rim to touch Wyatt, his hand sliding over the toddler’s cheek.

“Yo killer, daddy’s back. You been a good little monster?” he whispered in a low affectionate voice.

***   ***   ***

A few hours later, after Greg and Wyatt had packed up and left, Grissom and Sara took Olivia to McCarran with hugs and promises from her to return in a week. They waited until she had boarded, then headed back to the car, each savoring the quiet between them. As they pulled out of the short-term parking lot, Sara glanced over at Grissom, wrestling for a moment with what she wanted to say.

“Did you see the mail?” she began softly. Grissom shot her a quick sidelong glance and nodded. Sara persisted. “The note from my landlord?”

“Yes.”

“It’s my lease agreement. I have to either renew or give notice.”

He nodded, not looking at her, but she saw his jaw tighten ever so slightly, and the sight of that warmed the pit of her stomach. She squirmed a little, flexing her toes inside her shoes, feeling capricious for the moment.

“I was considering renewing it, you know.”

“I . . . suspected,” Grissom admitted softly, turning to merge onto the highway. Slightly deflated, Sara stared at him. He shrugged. “It hasn’t been easy, giving up a big part of your autonomy these past five months. I know that.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t realized Grissom had a clue. Chagrined, Sara stared at the dashboard instead.

“It’s okay, Sara. I know it’s not easy living with me. And sometimes I’m sure it’s a relief to know you have . . . a choice,” he continued. Something in his voice hit her hard, and as she watched his profile it dawned on her that he was struggling with it.

Sara looked at Grissom and understood in one bright moment that he was terrified of losing her and yet would let her go if she asked.

In the ten months they’d been together, he’d never talked about her apartment because it was her door to walk through.

Her option.

Her freedom.

Something cold inside her, some tiny little sliver of ice melted right then, and Sara sighed. Reaching over, she laid a hand on his thigh.

“Grissom,” she murmured softly. “I want you to take me to my apartment right now. I want you to make love to me there, naked and deep and wild—“

He looked over at her, his blue eyes slightly desperate at her drawled words. She smiled.

“—And when we’re done, I want you to take me home.”

(Author’s note--I did my part in updating—I know you’ll do yours in reviewing, right?)