"On down the road 
My troubles are sure to follow
Looking out the window
Hell if I know where I will go."
 —Chris Daughtry, Tennessee Line

Some distant clock stroke midnight as snowflakes floated gently down onto the silent streets, spreading a white, clean cloak over the city. One cold hard winter. Inside out. And the hardest was still to come. Maybe not the weather, compared to last year—2015 winter had been tough even by Boston standards. But for the heart.

Taylor came out of the bathroom to find Gillian standing before the window, wrapped in the bed sheet that fell around her like a robe, her pale shoulders showing beneath locks of dark hair. He pulled up his boxer trunks and crossed the room, his footsteps muffled by the carpet, his reflection on the glass her breath fogged.

She didn't blink when his arms circled her chest from behind, and tilted her head to rest her temple against his cheek.

"You shouldn't drive in this snow," she murmured.

"It ain't stopping till March, they say. So I'm taking my chances."

A bitter smirk pursed her lips. "You don't wanna stay the night."

"To sleep with your ghost? Thanks, but no thanks."

She turned her face to look at him with a questioning frown. He flashed a sad smile.

"I'm not blind, Reg. Something's been eating you up inside for the last couple of weeks. But I'm not entitled to ask. So I'd rather go home."

Gillian faced the window again without a word. Taylor's lips brushed her skin in a gentle whisper.

"You should try to let it out, Reg. Whatever's rotting inside of you, just let it out. 'Cause I hate to see you withering away like this."

Oh, well, looked like he'd had Shakespeare for dinner. And she was in no mood for Shakespeare. She let go of the sheet to rest her hands on his arms across her chest, and leaned back her head against his shoulder.

That was enough to distract Taylor from his Shakespearean concerns.

* * *

The hiss of his car on the fresh snow died away soon after he left.

Back to her room, she felt like crashing on her bed and just pass out. Mostly to shut down her mind for a while. But she didn't want to sleep on the messed bed. So she yanked the sheets off the mattress and took them downstairs, straight to the laundry. On her way, she made a pit stop to turn the coffeemaker on. So she set the washing machine to work, went back upstairs to lay clean sheets on her bed, and then back to the kitchen for some fresh, hot coffee.

Which kept her awake for a good while, sitting with her legs crossed on her bed.

She refused to turn on the TV. She didn't need it to ignore the thoughts roaming in her head. She'd become an expert at it since she came back from Savannah. She just fixed her eyes on the window and lingered there, steamy mug in hand, staring blankly into the night.

...I'm keeping it for Wednesday breakfast...

Shit! That one always skipped the blockade!

She sighed and gulped up her coffee. She knew what came next.

And there it was. The subtle twitch in her belly and the urge to press her lips together. Yeah, the same lips Brock had kissed. If she closed her eyes, she'd feel it all over again, and then the choking feeling would follow, and she'd end up in the shower. Crying. Like that warm afternoon in Savannah three weeks ago. Like every damn time she recalled the whole thing ever since.

She held her breath for a moment, while her mind searched at full steam for anything else to focus on.

Rotting up inside.

Yeah, nice way to put it.

Withering away. Too over the top.

She exhaled.

If Taylor expected a full-out confession he was oh so wrong, poor lad. She'd dodged all of Russell's suggestive comments, thoughtful looks and seemingly casual questions. She wasn't about to fall for Taylor's sweet tongue.

She closed her eyes and cursed under her breath. Wrong choice of words. She breathed deep, in and out, in and out, in and out, fighting the flashbacks. Taylor's cheap questioning techniques. That.

Now that she thought about it, she was getting tired of him. He'd try to have a serious conversation any given day now. And she wasn't interested in his wits. Yeah, she liked that he was smart, and they could have a talk whenever she wanted. But she didn't like his concern about her mood. That was none of his business as long as it didn't keep her away from his bed. And it didn't. So.