While he had been so busy trying to warn her away, he hadn't even noticed himself falling into her. Now Jameson couldn't tell where she began and he ended. The thought of Tate dying, it hurt his heart. Being away from her for two months, not allowing himself any contact with her …, it had been difficult. Jameson was forceful and impulsive by nature – not tracking her down and simply demanding that she forgive him, demand that they go back to the way they were; it had all been hard.

He hadn't seen her in two months, but the moment he had seen Tate walking towards him, it was like no time had passed. Suddenly, he was right where he needed to be, and any questions he'd had about what he was doing, any doubts he'd had, flew out the window. Good or bad, wrong or right, Jameson needed Tate. He wasn't exactly sure when it had happened, but it had happened, all the same. No point in denying it.

Now, all he had to do was convince her that she needed him, as well.

No one ever said hell was an easy place to live.

Around two in the morning, Tate couldn't take it anymore. She threw back the covers. Her room was nice, with a queen size bed, but even better – it was one of the furthest rooms from Jameson's. It was the first one she had looked in, when she'd huffed off to go to bed.

But she hadn't been able to fall asleep. Guilt was eating her alive. She couldn't believe she had hit Sanders. She felt like she had hit her own child. She climbed out of bed and didn't bother to put on any pants, just tip toed out into the hallway in her tank top and underwear. It wasn't like it was something Jameson or Sanders hadn't seen before; if anything, it was actually like getting back to normal.

Tate had figured the big door at the end of the hall, the one that would lead to a room directly under the bow, was Jameson's quarters. She tried the room next to hers, but it was empty. She tried the room across the hall next. Turned the knob as slowly as possible, then pushed the door open an inch. Tried to peer inside to see if there was a lump on the bed.

The sound hit her first. She couldn't tell what it was for a moment, then it hit her. Right across the face. Someone was crying. Tate slid into the room and quietly shut the door behind her. Didn't even think about it, just went to the foot of the bed and crawled up it till she was right next to him. Sanders was laying on his back, so she pressed herself against his side. Wrapped her arm around his chest, her leg around his leg.

“I'm sorry, Sanders,” she whispered. “I'm so, so, sorry.”

“No, no, you don't need to be sorry, ma'am, I shouldn't have ..., I didn't realize you'd .., tomorrow, I'll -,” he started in a jerky voice, but when he said 'ma'am', reverted back to calling her by a stranger's title, her heart ripped in half. She pressed her hand over his mouth.

“I do need to be sorry. I really, really do. I never should have hit you. I love you, Sanders. I love you so much. I was just mad, I shouldn't have done it. I'm so sorry,” Tate breathed, pressing her face into his shoulder. She felt his hand come to rest on her arm, patting at it tentatively.

“It's okay, Tatum. Everything will be okay. I promise.”

Sanders didn't handle any kind of contact well. She knew that; even handshakes were difficult for him. So a slap, she knew that must have been like a gun shot. A bullet, ripping right through his psyche. She knew his past, knew the kind of abuse he had been through, and still. Tate was the one who pulled the trigger.

I'm no better than Jameson.

“I don't want to be here, Sanders. But I'll do it. For you,” she whispered into his ear. She felt him nod and she let out a sigh. Kissed him on the cheek. Settled back into his side. He squirmed a bit. Now that he had stopped crying, it was clear that her closeness was making him uncomfortable.

So she held on tighter.

Finally, he gave in and wiggled his arm loose. Wrapped it around her shoulders. Held her even closer. She fell asleep against his chest, listening to his heart beat.

Jameson sat on his front deck the next morning, staring out over the ocean. He had a spot on the outside of the marina, so he didn't have to face any other boats. A must, for him. All that was between him and a view of the open ocean was a rock jetty.

He had gone to check on Sanders in the morning, and had been in for a little shock. Tate was in bed with the younger man, and they were spooning like it was something they did everyday, Sanders' arms locked tight around her waist. Even Jameson had never slept with her like that; had never even thought to try.

Now he felt left out.

The pair of them didn't emerge until after ten. By then, Jameson had showered and gotten dressed, even went to get a newspaper for himself. They didn't say anything to him, but it was obvious that whatever had transpired between them the night before, it had made up for the slap. Good. If the two of them didn't get along, then there was no hope for him.

“Hungry?” Jameson asked when Tate wandered up to where he was sitting. She shrugged and sat across from him, picking a piece of toast up off of his plate.

“How long do I have to be here?” she asked, looking out over the water while she nibbled at the bread.

“You're not a prisoner. You're free to go whenever you want. Sanders can drive you to the airport right now. I just thought you were tougher than that,” he told her. She snorted.

“You thought wrong.”

“Look,” he sighed, leaning forward and taking off his sunglasses. She kept hers on. “Whether or not you want to admit it, you and I do have unfinished business. I made a big mistake, yes. You made a mistake. It doesn't have to break us.”