Coffee had a distinct smell. And despite how exhausted she’d been, Sophie was entirely incapable of sleeping when it was being brewed. No matter how much she wanted to. Which, if she was going to be perfectly honest, was not at all. She stretched, threw a sweatshirt on over the leggings and tee shirt she’d used as pajamas, and opened the door that separated the bedroom from the kitchen. “I smell coffee,” she said.

“Have it right here. Sleep all right?”

In the morning light, John still looked gorgeous, but she could recognize the exhausted cast to his features. For a moment, she luxuriated in the fact that she hadn’t woken up more tired than she’d been. She’d had a good night’s sleep. “Like a log.” And then because she couldn’t really explain why, she pushed a little further. “I haven’t slept that well in ages.” She paused, then looked up at him. “What the hell did you do to the bed?”

Instead of answering in the flippant way she expected after he nodded and smirked, he crossed his arms and stared at her. “When’s the last time you slept in one consistently?”

That was a question she didn’t expect from a guy who looked like he hadn’t slept at all, whether it was because he’d contorted his big body to sleep on the small couch or bunk or had been faced with nightmares when he shut his eyes.

All the same she tried to remember when her last strong night of sleep was. Was it on Sam’s couch or the five minutes she got when she’d started to close her DC apartment? She wasn’t sure; time had started to move so quickly she wasn’t sure which end was up. “I think…on a friend’s couch because he was out of town; maybe? Or possibly when…I was…” She shook her head. “I’m not sure, actually.”

There was that smirk again, and the hint of something glorious on his cheeks. “So not recently. I slept like a log without expecting it the first night I got here. I drove like a bat out of hell. I’d been so stressed, I left as soon as I could…”

Of course, he was stressed; death threats would do that to a person. She could only hope they had been electronic. “Why here? I mean it’s far, true, out of the way, but here?”

He shook his head. “M’dad’s brother, Steve. Nobody goes camping in the winter, he said, not even here, so you take it.”

The feeling of foreboding, the nerves that jittered around inside of her as she contemplated the potential. “I…”

“Parents are fine,” he replied a bit too quickly, half glancing over his shoulder as if he could see through the windows of the Georgetown. “Paul Nunzio is safe as far as I know. Trying not to contact any of them, you know? Don’t want to draw anybody’s attention.”

She nodded. She knew that feeling all too well; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d talked to her parents, aside from the five-minute progress report. They couldn’t wait to tape her show and tell everybody from the temple to watch, if they hadn’t already. “Yeah,” she began, “I…”

Cut off by a yawn.

His chuckle was soft, but not harsh. He was laughing with her; him with his crinkling eyes and devastating smile. “Caffeine first, then further conversation, ‘k?”

She nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“Sugar? Milk?”

“Black. Intravenously if possible.”

He looked as if she’d said something beyond the pale. “You’re…”

There was very little that separated her from the sometimes bitter, always perfect taste of coffee. Neither sugar nor milk wanted. Not at all. She did not joke about coffee. “Serious as a heart attack.”

He shrugged, those big shoulders moving like a gentle tide, pulling her under. “Bacon?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“French toast?”

“Yes please! And you keep feeding me. Why?”

He turned, the full force of his stare on her. “Because I need something to do with my hands. Because I’m nervous as fuck, and I’m hungry. I need to use what I bought, and it would be rude not to feed you, too.”

And just as she thought the conversation was over, he looked at her. She wasn’t sure what he was searching for, but there was something different in his eyes. “Kosher?”

For once she’d wanted her simple refusal of bacon to be enough. But he was a reporter, and a good one by Baum’s standards. Not to mention he had Baum as the contact on the other side of his emergency button. That, beyond anything else, meant he deserved an answer. “There are a lot of things I’ve had to compromise on,” she said. “I’ve had to…”

He reached out, and she felt the soft touch of his hand on her shoulder, and when she looked up into his eyes, she watched as he shook his head. “I just don’t want to do anything that would offend you food-wise, considering I’m going to be stress cooking for the next day or so.”

“What are you?” She wanted to pull the question back into her stupid mouth, the kind of stupid nonsense she hated when people asked her. But he laughed, those eyes twinkling on her.

“Half-Catholic, half-Protestant, entirely confused. Brought up to choose what I wanted. I chose the Palisades.”

All her worry, all her fear faded away in the face of his good humor. She had to laugh.

“Serious as a heart attack,” he replied.

He bit his lip and dear god if he wasn’t her source or whatever he was in this journalistic mess, she’d have licked it.

“Anyway,” he said breathing hard. “You go…get more comfortable, because you’re sitting on the edge of your seat. I’ll make breakfast.”

And before she said anything else that betrayed how he affected her, she nodded, smiled and headed off to the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

John watched Sophie leave the room before turning to breakfast. It was so much easier to focus on the process of making French toast as opposed to what she did to him. How her soft smile and hard-edged focus undid him in a way that he’d never experienced before. She had him off balance.

He flattened his palms against the cold quartz of the countertop, shoving his brain away from where it couldn’t go, keeping him from thinking of the way she’d feel against him…

Dreaming, fantasizing was a bad idea. In an age where the Pals were playoff bound and Crosby was in jail, he could imagine her in his arms. He could imagine her in his life for as long as she’d want to be there, despite her Empires fandom.

Hell, he remembered that a player from the Pals: M.F. Smythe dated Emps beat reporter Emily Gould, before he left for the Emps in free agency and she became the Emps official blogger.

But Sophie, brilliant scoop sensing Sophie, she wasn’t a sports reporter. She was someone who covered breaking political news. She had her own TV show that would take her higher than a Game 7 and far away from him when it was all over.

It was so much easier to concentrate on dipping slices of bread into the batter before putting them into the heated pan than confronting his developing feelings for Sophie. He wasn’t thinking clearly, out of his gourd, starkers, for even thinking she’d reciproicate.

He took a breath, flipping a piece of toast over. Dammit.

Crash.

The sudden noise took him by surprise and made him glad he didn’t have anything in his hand. But he couldn’t leave the contents of the pan alone and burning on the stove. “You okay?” he yelled towards the bedroom.

The answer wasn’t immediate; the break of silence seemed so long that he didn’t think he was going to get an answer in the first place. Eventually there was a sound.

“Fine.”

Her voice was tight, the sound ripped from her mouth as if she hadn’t wanted to answer. That didn’t bode well, not at all. But what did it mean?

It could be that she’d broken something in the bedroom and was annoyed about it. But his instincts, the ones that told him the Pals were going to win the draft lottery in a year nobody expected them to? They screamed there was more to it than just a broken vase.

So what was it ? What had happened?

He hadn’t been paying attention to recent political news, but it would make sense that a story like Paul Nunzio’s files wouldn’t stay quiet for long. More specifically, any legal proceeding that had President Crosby at the center would be interested in the files, once they determined they existed. And if his memory served, there were at least two general categories of proceedings – the ones that would lead to President Crosby’s impeachment, and the custody fight over his youngest daughter Jessica. want to see them.

John held his breath, turned back to breakfast and waited for whatever shoe was about to drop.

The text message cut the day in half. Before the text, Sophie was excited for French toast, coffee, and conversation that would lead her to the rumored Rogue Files, and the story behind them once and for all.

Now, Sophie needed the documents and to get the hell out of dodge. This idyll was over, and she wanted to slam a fist through the door. Once again, she’d found herself in possession of documents that could make or break not only a federal case, but also a private case with federal implications. The cherry on this motherfucking sundae was the fact that personnel involved with both cases needed access to the documents immediately. Just her god dammed luck.

Did she get any help from her brand-new producer? Noooo. Of course not. Her poor producer told her to take care of it. And quickly.

Fuck.

First thing was getting dressed, because she couldn’t do shit in leggings and a sweatshirt. Jeans and a blazer. Professional. An outfit that would require makeup, probably spread onto her face somewhere between Virginia Beach and Manhattan. She’d have to drive like a fucking bat out of hell, all because…

She took a deep breath and left the room, one foot in front of the other, trying to find a source of strength. Of course, she turned to John, big, secure in his steps as he walked around the small kitchen as if it was his kingdom. Which it was. Blonde, gorgeous, and in any other circumstance, she’d climb him like a tree even though he not only reported on the Palisades, he LIKED them.

He smiled at her, up and down, then suddenly looked serious.

“Have breakfast. You’re not going to be able to stop all that much on the way back, hm?”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You look like you’re about to go on camera.”

Only another reporter would get that from her outfit. Reporters who sat behind desks on camera focused mostly on their tops; blazer, sweater, professional on top, and comfortable, but not too comfortable on the bottom.

“Okay. But what makes you think I’m leaving?”

“You’re dressed and ready to go, and you don’t look t comfortable . If you still had time to relax, you’d be sitting down, and we’d be having breakfast. Not that I’m judging you, just…trying to manage the situation on my end.”

“Right. Ok. So. You know I need the files before I go, right?”

“And I’ll get them for you, along with my notes. But I’ve got a ton of hot toast, so eat something please. Then I’ll give you the files, and you look them over and then we go.”

Her eyes widened at his words. It was sweet, nice, but this was overkill. “We?”

He nodded, awkward. “You’re going to have to get there quickly,” he said, staring up at her with a sort of resignation in his eyes she wasn’t ready to confront. “That means you’re going to have to drive. I’ll drive with you.”

She shook her head. “I’ll take the breakfast to go, with the coffee, and the papers. I’ll look before we go, but we need to leave ASAP.”

There was something in his expression she couldn’t catch. Sadness? Disappointment? But he nodded. “Okay.”

That look in his eyes; open, honest, sweet. God, she felt like she’d just kicked a puppy. He'd made her breakfast and offered to drive with her. And he’d been stressing, probably been driven to Southern Virginia by death threats and yet here she was, mean, rude, horrible and snarling because god forbid she have to deal with the fallout of yet another exclusive. Like the people she worked with, the ones she admired the most? None of them, not even the people who worked on Watergate had ever gotten more than one of these life-changing stories. And she’d gotten two; the notebook, and now this.

She was such a scared, spoiled brat.

But instead of doing something helpful, like clearing the plates, or at the bare minimum going to get her stuff together, or even apologizing, she watched him. Watched as he cleared the table, packed up the meal that he’d almost lovingly made, poured the coffee into to-go cups, using expert hands, his body moving determinedly and well.

“I’ll get the file, but if you could wipe the table?”

Finally, something she could do without saying anything. Except a simple, single syllable of assent. “Sure.” She took the towel he’d given her, focusing on the table and the spaces where the dishes had been.

“It would be so much easier if…this wasn’t so…newsy,” she managed, staring at her toes

He barked out a laugh. “Yeah. I get it.”

Theoretically, he understood; she could see that much. And she trusted that somehow he understood how stressed she was. Because she realized he was leaving the space he’d run to, to help her get back to the city.

“I’ll get the file,” he said. “Wait here, okay?”

She nodded, watching him as he left the kitchen area, trying not to think about how much larger the room had gotten without him. All she could do was hold her breath as she waited for him to emerge from wherever he’d gone.

John’s stomach tightened a little more as he walked into the bedroom, the scent of her all over the comforter. He was a bloody fucking mess, is what he was. Stress, tension, hormones tied up in a box that was way too big for his britches.

He had to focus on what was important. Making life better, changing the world. More importantly, helping Paulie Nunzio do it. And that meant giving her the papers, driving her back to the city, and walking out of her life. His mind centered, he walked to the tiny closet and removed the box from the top shelf, and closed the door.

Two sets of documents, the originals and the copies, as well as his notes, filled the two overstuffed red folders that sat in the box. He took a breath, hoping his hands wouldn’t shake as he gave it to her.

He shook his head. He was handing over papers, not writing them. He was giving information, not making it.

He held the box in one arm, for the moment when he opened the door and crossed the threshold into the all-purpose room. “Here you are,” he said.

She stared at him as he placed the box down on the table in front of her. “What are you giving me?”

“Two very heavy red folders, two full sets of everything. Nunzio’s notes, things that he felt should be included with his notes, as well as my own notes, annotating some of the items for…use.”

She stared at him as if he’d worked a miracle. “You read everything? I mean you…”

He wondered why it was such a surprise. Then again, most conduits to information were probably not like him.

He nodded. “Baum would have kicked my ass if I hadn’t. So before I called him, I read them. All of them. Then I wrote up an annotation to put things in perspective, made a copy of it.”

“Why would that be necessary though?” she asked. “I mean…aren’t Nunzio’s notes complete in themselves?”

“They are, but…” He tapped a finger on the table. “Paul wrote his impressions of the conversations, what he saw, what he heard. It was originally meant to be the kind of record that would save his job, not save the world. But taking those notes out of that context might require something else. Like an understanding of…what game were they watching? What was going on at the time? All of this information could possibly be important, so whether I knew the information or had to research it, I pulled that context together. Separate notebook with cross-references and a table of contents, all created in a way that didn’t disturb Nunzio’s notes.”

Her jaw hit the table. “I just…wow…”

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? I mean thank you or…”

“Thank you is an understatement,” she managed, her voice whooshing through his brain, “I mean you did so much more legwork and anything that you needed to. Thank you is the minimum of what I can say to you. For this…and everything.”

He worked past what he wanted to say. He was a journalist, not the stressed out lunk he seemed like, all tongue-tied and twisted. “It was necessary. Whoever’s going to read Nunzio’s notes needs to understand where he was coming from and what context influenced his words and his moods. They’re accurate from his perspective…”

“You really didn’t have to do that,” she said, smiling in a way that lit up the room. “But I’m glad you did.”

For a second, he took a breath and luxuriated in that smile, in the possibilities of what could be, what could have been. “I’m glad you get it,” he replied. “I…” he swallowed, held his breath and smiled at her. “So, when do you want to leave?”

There was something in her expression that dissipated when the words left his mouth. He wanted to take them back, but it was too late.

“As soon as possible, if that’s okay.”

He nodded; the moment was over. “Give me a few minutes to pull my stuff together and I’ll be ready to go.” And then, despite how much he wanted to stay, he left the room to pack.

She felt like shit. There was pretty much no other way to describe the emotions that ran through her. He’d taken the time to write an annotated guide to the files, so that she could understand what the hell they were about.

Whatever string that had been pulling tight between them was suddenly loose. He’d closed himself off, and she felt like she’d lost a limb. No. She wasn’t that dramatic, she decided as she packed her bag, waiting for him to organize whatever he’d pulled together.

She knew he’d returned; she heard the footsteps, smelled him and looked up. “Look.” She said. “You should be careful. You’re being threatened. The last thing you need to do is drive up with me.”

He shook his head. “I need to get back to my life. I need to help get this story out.”

“Right. I’ll figure out something. I might be able to get the name of the clearing house the paper used to distribute the documents.”

He was watching her in a way that made her want to strip him naked. She wanted to touch him, under his coat, under the T-shirt he wore. It was as if a day and a half of images suddenly crawled into her brain and wanted her to react immediately. She’d let him take care of her, let herself focus on the story, and then what?

He blinked, and he leaned down, a finger brushing a crumb away from her mouth. His touch burned her skin and she couldn’t breathe. She reached up, following his cheekbones with the tips of her fingers. He leaned down further, and she leaned into him, her mouth fusing with his as if of its own volition. His hands felt soft and his hair brushed the backs of her fingers, soft and…

They pulled back at the same time, staring at each other. Her pounding heart echoed through the silent RV, and she didn’t know what to do. “Later.”

He nodded. “Later.” He paused in the quiet of the RV, as if he was trying to catch his own breath. “Okay. I’ll meet you outside.”

“Okay.”

It was not okay. But it had to be for now. She went into the bedroom, grabbed her coat and her bag before leaving the RV, and this idyll, behind. There was important work to be done, and none of it involved kissing him again.

I-95 was a mess. She’d driven to the first rest stop, just beyond the Virginia border and then insisted he take over. He did. He avoided the Maryland drivers, listened to the radio. A cover of a popular song hit him in the wrong place but there he was.

He barely spared her a glance, but she was there, adorable and sleeping in the passenger seat. He wasn’t sure how she slept, but she did. Through Maryland, Delaware, and Pennsylvania, even when he’d pulled into a gas station to fill up her tank.

Which was why he was somewhat surprised when she lifted her head near the New Jersey border. “Did you wait for gas?”

He shook his head. “I waited for as long as I could,” he said. And then he looked down. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“I’ll pay you back,” she replied, sidestepping the issue.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Through the corner of her eye, he could see her wipe her eyes, trying to pull herself back together in the dark of the car. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“Well I gathered my place wasn’t an option, though the exit off the turnpike isn’t that far from here. I’m guessing you want to go to see Baum?”

“No, actually. I want to go to your place. We have some things to hash out. And then?”

“Then what?”

“Then we go talk to Nunzio.”

There was a silence that followed her request, and long after she’d started wondering whether she’d asked the wrong question, he nodded. “Okay.”

Then they were driving again, back on the highway, turning onto the Turnpike and toward an uncertain destination.

“You sure about this?”

She nodded. “You wouldn’t have mentioned your place if you thought it would be a problem,” she replied, smiling. “I trust you.”

“And you trust that we’re adults?”

She burst out laughing. “I trust that we have ethics.”

“And,” he managed, “we haven’t gotten to later yet.”

The possibility of what later was going to mean made her smile. “Yes. We haven’t gotten to later yet.” And once she figured out how to crack the story behind the files, and how to tell it before she handed them over? Later couldn’t come soon enough.