And Castle is there to pour her another, like a never-ending fountain of libation, the bottle in his hand and a radar in his brain that tunes him in to her particular needy frequency. His hand rests in the valley between her hip and his, the unfathomed land of couch and divide, 'bottle between them to support the difference.

"I think," he begins, then stamps his lips together in self-correction. Instead of finishing the thought he pours himself a refresher, the gold in his glass as fair as yellow glass. It's a few seconds before he gets back on track with out-loud vocalizations and, when he does, his voice is much lower. 'Soft, patient dove mutter that he used to use on his daughter when she woke up with nightmares.

"You know you did the right thing."