It takes a lot to stop Castle's world from moving. 'Habit of the trade (and hers, too, he supposes) to always be running, chasing the next idea, trying to figure out the missing piece that'll tie all the little details together. His mind is a rat's maze of half-finished novels. He can't go anywhere without peering under rocks, looking for the things that ordinary people would take no notice of.

He'd been profiling Kate Beckett since the first time they met. Trying to learn her habits, to understand what made her put her life on the line seven days a week, at the cost of family, friends and anything remotely resembling a personal life.

When she took down Coonan, he stopped profiling.

He draws his hand over the nape of her neck and gently pulls her away from him, just enough to place a kiss to the crown of her head. Then he gathers her back into his arms, sheltering her against his chest, as if he truly believes he can protect her from the things that keep her up at night, inside and out.

"I'm right here," he tells her quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."