"Something like that," he says, and shows her the cover. "I still like the silhouette -- sexy, but still classy -- but in my head she's always you." He tosses the book onto the desk and folds his arms around her waist. With his nose tucked against her hair he can smell the last twenty-four hours on her: the smoke from an explosive device, the rubbery institutiuonalness of hospital corridors, the warm gray felt of his own sheets. And, somewhere in there, buried deep, the shampoo she routinely used; the shampoo that she scrubbed into her scalp yesterday morning, before half the world went off like a flash grenade. Castle holds on to that smell. That's the one he likes the best: the one where he knows she's safe.

"You sleep okay?"