Castle follows, scanning the floor for his scarf. Ice cream and whiskey don't exactly go great together, but it gave Beckett a reason to go into the kitchen -- and gave him a chance to collect his thoughts. This isn't like Beckett at all. Not that he's complaining -- not that he ever would complain if she decided to hang off his neck in a happy, smiling loop -- but slipping too comfortably into her invitation to stay isn't sitting right in his gut.

He trails her to the kitchen and stops at the butcher's block, resting his palms on the smooth wooden surface. He raises his eyebrows in approval at her choice of late night snack. "Dulce de leche," he says, turning one of the frosty containers around to see the label, "I kinda' figured you for a Rocky Road girl, actually."