Benedict had tried to hide how miserable he'd been, but he's fairly certain he failed. Miserably. Thankfully, outside of a few stilted attempts, Kira hadn't mentioned the obvious reason for Benedict's sudden bout of listless melancholy, which had made it easier to pretend.

He's been disappointed before. Enough times that he'd learned that the easiest way to keep from being disappointed is to not get your hopes up in the first place, a lesson he'd forgotten the first time Kate had looked up at him and smiled wide enough to make dimples pop into her cheeks, to make her eyes sparkle with suppressed laughter. He'd tried not to remember those moments too much, because it hurt to dredge up memories of what he'd lost.

The trick to get over disappointments is to ruthlessly squash them down and pretend they aren't there until they stop hurting.

But Kate is in his lap once more, warm and solid against the tops of his thighs while the cold of the tile beneath them seeps through the fabric of his scrubs, worn thin and smooth in places, close to breaking if he's not careful. It's easy to forget everything else with her weight in his lap again, with her body pressed against his, her hands on his chest and her breath against his neck.

She turns her head to kiss him and he can't help the noise he makes deep in his chest, a low, rattling groan that sounds far too loud to his own ears.