Archive of Our Own

The moment Frank crosses the bridge back into the city, he wonders if he's made a mistake.

Everything suddenly feels too close – the buildings, the view, the vague smell of garbage polluting the truck cabin. He rolls up the windows and cranks the AC instead. He reaches for the volume next, to drown out as much of the street sounds as he can.

He misses the fresh, clean air of the mountains, all that wide open space on the road with nothing else between him and the horizon.

There's not enough room here, for him and his thoughts. Not enough time for them, either; when he'd been driving with no destination in mind, his thoughts had been prone to wandering, too, and it was fine if they returned with no answer, because there was always more time to work them through.

He could feel the longing more acutely then, but at least he could also feel free to hope.

Here, the city feels too impatient for that: the stop-start of it all, the pressure to keep shifting gears that seems to close in on him from every side. As he maneuvers his way through the rest of the city, he thinks about all that sky still behind him, endless, and blue, and beckoning him to turn around.

And then he thinks about what brought him back, and drives on.

…

Frank does a double take when he sees Amy waiting for him on the steps of Curtis's trailer. She vaults up with an ear-to-ear grin as the truck rolls to a stop out front.

He closes the door and says, "How did you know?"

"I could just tell." She skips up to the truck, and flashes a couple of postcards from the inner part of her jacket at him. There's Mt. Rushmore on one of them, the St. Louis arch on the other. "You were starting to sound a little homesick."

Frank shakes his head. "Curt told you, didn't he."

"Yeah, maybe." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. And then she bursts out, sounding smug, "But also, the dates on these, look – you weren't heading west, you were going the opposite. Clearly you were making your way back to something."

Frank grabs up his bag from the cargo bed of the truck, slinging it over his shoulder. "Okay, detective. C'mere."

She jumps up at him with a crushing bear hug, and he can't help but smile before pulling away. "Yeah, I missed you too."

"You get some good thinking done out there?"

He pulls a noncommittal face. "Sure."

"Great. Can't wait to hear all about it." She's beaming at him, and that's not really something he knows how to say no to. "I was gonna meet up with some friends for dinner, but I was thinking I could help you unpack until then?"

"You have friends?" He grunts as she jams her fist in his shoulder.

"Got at least one right here," she says. "Sorry to be the one to break it to you."

…

"It's spring break, anyway, so it was a good excuse to make some of them drive up here with me." Amy's cross-legged on one of the chairs, munching on snacks she'd found in the cupboard that Curt must have left there for Frank.

"Spring break, huh? Shouldn't you be on a beach somewhere instead?"

Amy gives him a look. "Dive school, remember? That's all we do all day. Be on the beach." She holds out a bag of chips to him, and he sets his duffel aside.

"Let me guess – guns, guns, more guns. And a steady rotation of the same three black hoodies." She gives one of the side pockets a playful little nudge, and a corner of card stock pokes out of the zipper.

"What's this?" Amy asks, reaching in and pulling out a frayed stack of postcards. Before Frank has a chance to say anything, she's already plucking the rubber band off. It's cracked in the middle, and falls to the floor in one long broken strand. "Jeez. That thing is almost as ancient as you are."

"Hey. Quit that." He makes a move for the cards, but she's shooting onto her feet with a speed that would probably make him proud under any other circumstances. "Hand 'em over, all right?"

"Just a sec."

She starts thumbing through the cards like a kid who's just been trick-or-treating, taking stock of all her spoils.

"I'm serious. Hey."

But the amusement has already faded from her expression, and then she's clearing her throat and carefully realigning the cards, like they're something sacred that she knows she had no right to see.

She doesn't resist him when he takes the cards back, tucking them carefully into his bag.

"Frank…" She shakes her head, baffled, and when he glances back over she looks genuinely upset with him. "Why didn't you send those?"

"Wasn't the point of writing them."

"I'm sorry," she says. "But just to clarify. You wrote those freaking beautiful, heartfelt little notes, specifically to just…keep them all to yourself?" She throws her hands up in the air with abject confusion. Words seem to fail her momentarily, which suits Frank just fine.

He turns away, unpacking the rest of his things. He's checking the status of the fridge next when she starts in again.

"Wait, hang on."

Frank cracks open a cold beer, and sends a silent thank you to Curt for looking out. He sinks into one of the chairs by the table as Amy rounds on him accusingly.

"Are you telling me that that day in the hospital – was that seriously the last time you spoke to her?"

"Wasn't telling you anything."

"Nice," says Amy. "Okay. Sure. Do that thing where you push people away. That's obviously been working so well for you."

"Maybe I was just keeping a diary." He shrugs, ignoring the dig. "Pretty sure people are allowed to do shit like that when they travel."

Amy is unimpressed. "Is your diary also named Karen? Because that would really be some coincidence."

"Look, I didn't write them to be read – by her, or by anyone." His tone is harder than he meant for it to be, and he catches Amy wince a little in his periphery.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I shouldn't have pried."

"'S'okay," he tells her. "It's done."

She comes over to sit next to him. He chugs down some more of his beer, and they're both silent for a while.

"You kept them, though," Amy finally insists quietly to him. "That means something."

"Yeah," says Frank. No point in denying it.

"And for what it's worth," Amy tells him, "she looks at you the same way."

"That was a long time ago," says Frank, getting up to go scrounge for anything resembling real food. "Tell me about these 'friends' of yours. The one who drove you all the way up here – he been treating you right?"

"How did you even—" Amy protests, and Frank swats away the bag of cookies she lobs at his head.

…

After Amy's gone to meet up with her friends, Frank finds his phone and, for the tenth time that week, hovers over Karen's number before setting it back down.

Everything he's come here to tell her – she deserves to hear it from him in person. But calling her, if she even picks up, feels like cornering her into something she has every right to say no to, and at the very least think about before she says yes.

He picks up his phone again.

Hey, he types into the screen. It's me. I'm back in town. Would like to see you, if you would be okay with that.

He texts her the address, and reaches for another beer.

Karen's response comes a few hours later:

Didn't realize you had left again.

And then, after ten long and excruciating seconds:

I can come by around 3 tomorrow.

Okay, he texts back, and leaves it at that.

…

He hears her car pull up just before 3 the next afternoon.

He meets her outside, waiting for her to step out. She's shielding her eyes from the sun, so he doesn't get a good look at her face right away. She's dressed in dark denim, and a sweater made out of some soft-looking material.

The image stirs up a strange, almost painful sensation in his chest. He realizes he's never seen her not dressed up for work before. He's never seen her as this. Just Karen.

"Hey," he says, approaching as she does. They end up meeting somewhere in the middle, standing awkwardly together in that gravel lot. "Thanks for coming."

"Sure." Karen gives him a small smile. "You look good, Frank."

"Yeah?" he says. "You too."

He's about to invite her inside when she slips her hand into her bag, and then she's holding something out to him. "Here. I wanted to return these."

He looks down.

"Christ," he says, feeling like the wind's been knocked out of him.

She has a small handful of his postcards – whatever Amy must have thought she could get away with stealing out of his bag when he wasn't looking.

He recognizes the one on top. It was the last card he'd written to her – with a picture of some woods up in Oregon, where he'd been hiking when he realized he had it all wrong.

"Not sure you meant for them to get sent."

"No," says Frank, swallowing. They're dated, but he'd never bothered to stamp or address any of them, only starting them each with a single, scrawled Dear Karen. "No, but they're yours."

She turns the cards over in her hand. "Heard your song on the radio as I drove here," she reads aloud. She flips to another one. "This coffee could give that other place a run for its money."

He grimaces to hear his words out in the open like this. But she's gentle with them, and with each postcard too, grasping them delicately at the edges as if they might crumple with too much pressure.

"I've been thinking about what you said," she reads on the back of a card he'd grabbed from the souvenir shop at some grungy Seattle motel. "About how we're all just trying not to be lonely. To be honest, I think about it all the time."

There's a slight hitch in her voice at the end, and he finds himself swaying forward a little, remembering where he had been the night that he wrote it. How he'd almost picked up the phone and called her. How his throat had closed up at the thought, and everything he would've said ended up on a stack of cards at the bottom of his bag instead.

"Are there more of these?" Karen asks.

Frank nods. "They're not – I mean, some of them are just – like the one about the coffee. Pretty meaningless."

She's looking at him like they're anything but. "Could I see them?"

"You can have them." He doesn't know how to take his eyes off of her. "You can have all of them."

Karen traces a finger over the Oregon woods before turning the postcard around. "Wish you were here." She seems to keep her gaze trained purposely down as she asks him, "Did you mean that, Frank?"

Something breaks inside him at the question. He ducks his head to catch her eye, lifting a knuckle to ghost over her chin. "I did," he says, hoarse but resolved. "Still do."

Karen's quiet for a moment as she regards him, like she's coming to a decision of her own. "Okay," she says finally. "So let's go."

He thinks he couldn't have heard her right.

But as he's standing there, feeling overcome, she's already halfway to her car. Frank watches, dumbfounded, as she pulls a bag out from behind one of the seats and closes the door behind her.

"You're serious," he says. "You don't have work?"

It's everything he hadn't even thought he could hope for, but he doesn't want this disrupting her life either, taking her away from all the things that matter to her.

"I think Matt and Foggy can agree that I'm long overdue for a vacation." She walks back up to him, but his expression seems to make her pause. "If that's all right with you."

"God, yes." Frank moves closer before stopping himself. Steady, he thinks. There's no need to rush anything. They have time. They have time. "That's what I came here to tell you I wanted."

She's the first to reach out and touch him, just a brush of her palm to his chest. It's brief, but gentle to go with her tone as she teases him ever so lightly, "Looks like you already did."

"Looks like," says Frank, and he could just stand here all day, with the soft way she's gazing at him right now. "So we're doing this."

"Looks like," says Karen, and he looks away, smiling.

"I'll get my things." But he's loath to move away from her, and after a split second's hesitation he leans in and lets his forehead rest against hers. Karen's hands come up to his shoulders, and everything else stands still for a moment. "Remind me to send Amy a postcard when we get there."

She makes a small humming sound. "And where is this 'there' going to be?"

"Anywhere," he says. "So long as you're there, doesn't matter."

"Mm. I like that." Karen pulls back and looks a little slyly at him. "Think that could go on a card somewhere too."

Frank shakes his head as she laughs and goes to toss her bag into his truck.

…

They drive for eight hours without a particular destination in mind.

The first time they stop, it's for gas. Frank had meant to fill up before they really got going. But after the rush of feeling he'd gotten from having Karen there next to him – Karen there smiling, just dropping her life to drive nowhere with him – he can't say he'd been thinking about much else.

They're still feeling their way around this, and it's light, and it's tentative, but she's here and that's all that matters.

They're just outside Hershey, Pennsylvania. They've been seeing the signs for miles – giant billboards of Hershey's kisses and M&M's, helpfully pointing the way to Hershey's Chocolate World.

Frank's paying for gas when Karen walks out of the station with a couple of waters in hand. She has a plastic bag hanging from her elbow, and as far as Frank can tell, there's nothing but candy inside.

"You always eat like a kid at Halloween?" he asks, smirking when she tosses a miniature Snickers at him.

"It's road trip food," she defends. "I got beef jerky, a bag of trail mix, and some protein bars, too. See if I'll be sharing with you now."

She waits outside the truck with him, leaning her back against the camper. A breeze combs through her hair, leaving strands of it in disarray. Frank's finger twitches, and he turns away, slotting the gas pump back into place.

"That's tempting," she remarks dryly, pointing, and he glances at the life-sized plastic red M&M standing on his other side. It has a crazed sort of happy expression, and a sign that says they're only twelve miles out.

Under no circumstances would he have ever considered it – except maybe this one, he thinks, and says to her as nonchalantly as possible, "If you want. Hate for you to miss out."

Karen tilts her head at him, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "I think I'll be okay." She jiggles her bag at him, walking around to the other side of the truck. "I've got everything I need right here."

"All right." Frank nods. He thinks he's said it neutrally enough.

Karen glances over her shoulder at him. "Try not to look so relieved," she says, laughing as she gets back in.

…

They leave the radio on at low volume as they drive.

He's starting to realize small things he doesn't know about her – what type of music she likes, whether she actually prefers the AC and is too polite to roll her window back up.

But now he knows other things, like what she looks like with the sun and the wind in her hair; what color Skittles she saves for last; how the only long drive she'd ever taken, she tells him, was that one-way trip from Vermont to New York.

There was another one – the trip out of New York that she hadn't ended up needing to take. When Frank had been gone the first time, and Fisk had turned her world to shit. He wouldn't hear about it until after the hospital, after he'd already sent her away. He would be lying if he said that hadn't been weighing heavily on his mind when he left a second time, carrying that guilt with him like another reminder of why he could never deserve her.

But Karen only mentions it offhandedly, and then hands him a protein bar she's just unwrapped for him.

It's another thing that Frank wants to know – wants to hear what she'd gone through, from her. What he does know, though, is how to read her, and now doesn't feel like the right time – she's already settling back into her seat, face turned into the breeze for a while.

He bites into the bar and then rests his hand on the console beside hers, almost close enough to touch.

They haven't really talked about them, what this means. She doesn't ask him about the postcards, and he doesn't bring them up. He supposes they'll have time for that later, too. Her proximity alone is more than enough for him right now, when he can still only half-believe this is happening.

At one point, Earth, Wind & Fire comes on the radio. And even though they both know he couldn't have planned it this time, Karen raises a teasing eyebrow at him, and he turns his smile back to the horizon ahead.

Schoonover isn't after her this time. Neither is Fisk. Nobody is.

Her hand moves a little closer to his, and then they both stay there, just quite not-touching.

Frank repositions his other hand over the steering wheel, relaxing into the old, familiar feel of being on the road. Everything else is so new and uncharted, it makes him ache just to think about it – but it's a good ache, like that first breath of air after staying so long underwater.

It feels so good he almost doesn't want this part to end.

…

That first night, he finds them a motel off the interstate. It seems clean enough from the outside, and there's a diner close by where they can grab breakfast on their way out.

He gets them a double room. There are only twin beds available – which is fine. The last thing Frank wants is to come off as presumptuous. He hasn't even managed to hold her hand yet.

Karen sets her things down on one of the beds, looking tired but happy. "Now where are those fries?"

"Have at 'em." Frank chuckles. "I'm gonna rinse off, all right?"

He scrubs himself clean in the shower, and then gives his reflection a good, hard stare in the mirror. He wonders if he should shave. His beard isn't long, and he's actually been putting some effort into keeping it trimmed.

He eventually opts to just leave it for now. He's certain that Karen couldn't care less about the status of his facial hair at the moment. He dons a pair of sweats and a tee before emerging from the bathroom.

Karen – isn't there.

Frank sweeps his gaze over the room. Once, twice, a third time. He says her name, as if that could make her materialize out of nowhere. The fast food bag's sitting open on the table between the two beds, untouched. There's no sign of a struggle. She could have gone out for ice. But she also could have—

He has a gun tucked into the waistband of his sweats and he's halfway to the door when it opens.

"Hey," says Karen, nudging it closed with her hip. "Went and grabbed a few things from the front." She has a handful of plastic utensils, some napkins, and a—

"Postcard," she says. "For Amy."

Pulse still racing, Frank examines the card. It's a mountainous view of some trees in mid-autumn, with a sky full of sunset in the background. MONONGAHELA NATIONAL FOREST, WEST VIRGINIA is printed in the bottom right corner.

"It's not far," he says finally. He'd seen some signs near the last exit they took.

"I was thinking that too." She pulls a folded map out of her back pocket and sets it down with everything else.

"Doing it old school." Frank nods, appreciative.

"It was nice not looking at my phone today." She glances over at him, and then she looks down. "Frank." There's something very different in her tone now, something like exasperation. "Is that a gun in your pants, or…?"

He remembers why he'd found it necessary at the time, and frowns. "'S'not funny."

Karen shrugs. "Does it look like I'm laughing?"

But she catches the look on his face before he turns away, and she comes over to him, gaze softening. "Hey. You need to know you don't have to do that. I can take care of myself." She pauses. "I've been taking care of myself, Frank."

He breathes through his nose, slow and careful. "I know you have, I just – when you disappear like that, after everything that happened with—"

She sighs, and looks a little pointedly at him. "I hope you didn't bring me here because you feel like you have to make up for something."

"No," he tells her. "That's not it. Karen."

"Then what?"

He reaches into his bag, grabbing the postcards and turning them over in his hands. He's struck by how deceptively light they are, knowing how much of himself he'd laid out on them. How gently she'd held the ones Amy had stolen, like they were something worth treasuring to her.

"I was getting tired of staying away. Of being someone who couldn't even try to be there for you. And I—" He breaks off, shakes his head and says, "I got tired of just fucking missing you all the time, Karen."

She nods a little, understanding.

"But a part of that means I'm going to worry if you go off somewhere without letting me know, all right?"

"That has to go both ways," she tells him quietly.

Frank nods. "Okay."

"Okay." She bites her lip as he hands the cards over to her, fingers tracing around their worn edges. "Would you read these to me sometime?"

Frank swallows, and says a little hoarsely, "We got all the time in the world now, right?"

Karen's closer than he'd let himself realize. Her eyes are so blue when he looks into them, and it makes his chest tighten with something he can't find the words to describe.

She reaches up. The tips of her fingers hover over his jaw without touching. "Have you given that man bun some more thought?"

Frank shakes his head. "That's…"

But she's smiling softly at him. And then she's closing that last bit of space, and pressing her mouth to his.

He kisses her slowly, learning the soft contours of her lips against his, parting slightly on a sigh as he cups a hand over the back of her neck. It's gentle, unhurried, but still over too soon. Her cheeks are tinted pink when she settles back, and he's floored by how fucking pretty she looks, in this dingy motel after spending all day on the road.

Unable to help himself, he leans in again. He slants his head at an angle, parting her mouth with his tongue this time. He feels her spine arch at the touch of his fingers, pulling her in with a greater sense of urgency now.

They're both at a brief loss of words when they finally pull away. He rests their foreheads together, trying not to think about how their current bed situation is not exactly ideal.

There are ways of getting creative – and there are other things they could do, too – but these would all be firsts, for them, and call him old-fashioned but he's not going to let that happen here.

Karen appears to be on the same page, glancing around the room and then back at him with a rueful sort of smile. She puts a hand on his chest in a small, surrendering gesture. "We have time," she tells him.

"Okay," he says, breath shaking out. "Okay."

He kisses her on the cheek this time. It feels like the safest place to put his mouth right now – anywhere else, and there's no guarantee he could stop.

"We should eat," he says, stepping back.

He waits for her to get out of the shower, trying not to watch too closely when she comes back into the room in soft-looking shorts and a tank, her hair slightly damp and curling over her bare shoulders. He doesn't think she would mind, but it's more for the sake of maintaining restraint than anything else.

They eat their greasy burgers and fries, and it's disgustingly good. The silence between them is charged but comfortable, and Frank stops, at one point, trying to keep his eyes off of her.

When they're in their beds an hour later, neither of them seems willing to turn the light off. But Karen's lashes finally start looking heavy, and so Frank is the first to reach up, casting his gaze over her one more time before flipping the switch.

He's drifting off moments after his head has hit the pillow.

…

Waking up with Karen in the bed next to his is an experience.

He hadn't dreamt much, just brief flashes of his family in sunlight between the hazy nothingness of sleep. It's the first time, for as long as he can remember, that he doesn't wake up in the middle of it – and that's disorienting in another way, how rested he feels when he finally opens his eyes.

He glances over at Karen. She looks peaceful, her arms curled around the edge of her pillow as she shifts a little under the sheets. He's careful not to wake her as he gets out of bed, padding over to the bathroom and quietly shutting the door behind him.

He hears movement outside by the time he's rinsed the last of the toothpaste from his month. She's pulling some clothes from her bag when he walks over to her, unable to resist touching her any longer.

"Hey," he husks, leaning in.

"Oh," she says. "I haven't—"

He kisses her quiet, and then kisses her again, soft and slow, before releasing her.

She gives him a smile before disappearing into the bathroom, and he uses the time to tidy things up, tossing out their food containers and packing what little he'd removed from his duffel.

Karen's changed into leggings, a pair of running shoes and a thin, long-sleeved shirt that is just as soft as it looks when she comes up and kisses him more thoroughly this time, smelling faintly of flowers.

They're checked out of the motel and parked in front of the diner twenty minutes later.

"Seems familiar," Karen notes wryly to him before they step inside.

But then Frank puts his hand on the small of her back as they walk down to the farthest corner booth, and the way she leans into his touch just a little – that part is something completely new to them both.

He slides into the booth after her without even thinking about it. It had only felt natural, sitting on the same side. He doesn't have a chance to second-guess himself before Karen's lacing his fingers through his, and he kisses her knuckle, then settles their hands down into his lap.

"What are you thinking about?" Karen asks in between sips of coffee.

"Last time we were in a place like this." Frank remembers that night with no small amount of chagrin.

"Mm." Karen's eyebrow lifts over the rim of her coffee mug. "You had some things to say, didn't you."

"I did, yeah." Frank gives a nod. He shifts his other hand over to hers, freeing up the arm closer to her so he can drape it around her back, tug her closer. He strokes his thumb over her shoulder, her arm.

"I still mean what I said," he tells her. "Just not for the reasons I thought I did."

"I should hope not," says Karen drily. She tastes like coffee and roses when he kisses her again.

…

They stop at another gas station before making their way west another sixteen miles or so. The map gets them there, but they don't have much information on the forest itself. After a quick Google search on her phone, Karen directs them toward the nearest parking, at one of the ranger districts called Greenbrier.

It's slated to be a warmer spring day, but the morning wind is still brisk, and Frank frowns at Karen's attire once they've gotten out of the truck.

He grabs a plaid button-up from his duffel. "Here, put this on."

"A flannel man, huh." The sleeves are too long, and she's rolling them up to her forearms as she says to him, teasing, "I bet it looks good with the beard."

Frank scowls in her direction. "This your way of telling me to shave?"

"No." Karen straightens, and the sight of her dwarfed in his shirt is so arresting that he thinks he's probably never going to want it back anyway. She dons a small knapsack, and then runs her fingers tenderly through his beard. "I like it."

He takes her hand, slinging his backpack over his other shoulder. "All right. Lead the way."

She selects one of the longer hiking trails, about a twelve mile loop there and back. After grabbing a map from one of the guide booths, they're setting off, an easy rhythm already building between them.

He'd told her that it didn't matter where they went. All he'd wanted was to just – be, like this. The quiet enjoyment of her hand in his as they drove anywhere, nowhere, together.

But with the sun spackling light through the trees, touching upon Karen's hair at brief, golden intervals, Frank thinks there's no other place he'd rather be than right here, right now.

They stop for lunch in a clearing of beechwood, stepping just a little off the main path to set up against one of the thick, rope-like trunks.

Karen unpacks breakfast sandwiches they'd grabbed from the diner to-go, and Frank gets her a bottle of water. He eats with a hand on her knee, she brushes a crumb of scrambled egg from his beard more than once, and no – it could not get any more fucking perfect than this.

They follow the river upstream through a valley, maple and birch trees towering above them. Off in the distance are mountain peaks softened by clouds, draped further below in vast swaths of green, and green, and green.

The air is fresh out here. Clean. He breathes in deep lungfuls of it, and watches Karen do the same. She hasn't been out of the city since she moved there, she tells him, so they take their time, reaching the halfway point somewhere around mid-afternoon.

And somewhere, on the way back, the conversation takes a more serious turn.

They've been chatting idly, casually observing things here and there. Sometimes there's silence, but it's the kind that feels like solace, rather than something that's empty or awkward. They stop more than once to just take in the view, one of them turning to signal the other with a quick squeeze of their hand when they're ready to move on.

They talk about the easier things first.

Karen tells him about the knock on her door at eleven the evening before, and finding a small stack of postcards on her welcome mat. How she thought he'd done a ding-dong-dash, until he'd sent those texts and she realized he had no idea she had them.

"Goddamn kid," Frank says with a sigh.

And then it's his turn to tell her about Amy. He works his way backwards, from the bus station back to that fucked-up-his-ass preacher. The Senator. The hospital. Karen already knows some of what had gone down with Billy Russo; the rest of that story, he'll save for another night.

He gives Karen an abbreviated version of how Amy had first collided into his path. But not so abbreviated as to not mention Beth. Frank doesn't see any point in hiding what happened – and not bringing it up feels like lying to her.

Frank knows it was the right thing to do. What he doesn't know is how she's going to feel about it.

Karen goes quiet for long seconds, gazing off into the distance with a look on her face that he can't quite read. It's not hurt or disappointment, exactly. It's just…processing what he's just said, and deciding what this means to her.

Finally, she turns to him and says, "I think I have a better understanding now of why you said what you did at the hospital. I wish you had told me, instead of—" She swallows before continuing. "Instead of making me think you just didn't care. It might not have made things any easier, but at least it would've been honest."

Frank sways forward, shaking his head. "Karen."

She raises a hand to his chest – not to hold him back, he thinks, but to anchor him there with her. Her other hand reaches down, twining with his.

It's more than he deserves. He'd already known how much he'd hurt her that day. He can admit that to himself; he'd be lying otherwise.

"I just have one question for you."

"Anything," he says.

"What makes this different?" There's nothing accusing in her tone – she just sounds like she genuinely wants to know what he's thinking.

"Because you're—" Shit. How can she not know? He cups the side of her neck in his hand, thumb resting over her collarbone. "I wasn't ready before, but I am now, Karen. Because I—"

He breaks off, rocking into her until their foreheads are touching.

"Don't you know what you mean to me?" he asks her quietly.

For a moment, there's only the soft sounds of life all around them – the rustling leaves up above, the distant call of some birds, and the hushed rise and fall of their own steady breathing.

Karen touches his cheek. Her eyes are warm on his, the color of sky in the sunlight.

They move into the kiss at the same time, mouths slanting together as he hauls her body up against his. There's something different in the way they're touching each other now, a new kind of burning that feels fierce and endless.

He has his hands in her hair, and her back against the nearest tree before he's partially returned to his senses. Her hands are just as insistent on his, sliding over his chest and around to the backs of his shoulders. She has a thigh nestled in between his, and Christ it's through sheer force of will that he's easing away ever so slightly, more than aware of how his body's reacting to her.

He nuzzles his way to the corner of her jaw. She shifts against him, making some sound that he'd very much like to coax out of her again later. He leaves one last kiss to the shell of her ear before taking her by the hand.

"C'mon," he says gruffly. "Let's go."

The hike back is considerably more challenging. Every glance that Karen gives him feels charged in some way, every soft bite of her lip carving out a deep ache in his chest. It's warmer out now, both of them covered in a light sheen of sweat by the time they stop again for water.

They peel off their outer layers, storing them into Frank's backpack.

And then Frank feels his thoughts go just a little bit blank as Karen reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls that clean off, too.

She's wearing another one of those tanks underneath, but it's fitted in a way that doesn't leave much to the imagination. She piles her hair up into a high ponytail, and then she's all long, slender lines and pale skin, moles dotted enticingly up the side of her neck.

Frank digs into one of the inner pockets of his backpack, retrieving a bottle of SPF.

She applies as they go, and he keeps his eyes on the trail up ahead.

He feels something cool touch his neck, and stops to let her rub some lotion on him too, working around the collar of his henley before wiping the excess down his bare forearms. When she's finished, she reaches around him, brushing up against the front of his body as she zips his backpack closed.

She gives him a blithe smile and walks on.

Jesus, he's done for.

…

He's dumping their gear in the camper as she thanks one of the park rangers and waves them goodbye.

"Their cabins don't open until mid-April," she informs Frank.

"It's all right," he says, slinging an arm around her shoulders and kissing her on the temple. "I'll find us a place."

They stop by a hole-in-the-wall kind of takeout place first. They have to go a little out of the way, but he thinks they're both grateful for the drive – the cool air on their faces, and resting their feet while the road moves and moves beneath them. The sun is starting to set, painting the way in thick golden swatches of color.

Karen's thrown his flannel back on over the tank she was wearing, one of the sleeves sliding down past her shoulder as she reads off the menu to him.

When he turns onto the interstate and heads back the way they'd come, the truck cabin smelling of cheap beer and calzones, Karen gives him a look and says, "Frank."

"Yeah?"

She sounds torn between amusement and exasperation. "Frank, we are not going to get Pete Castiglione arrested for trespassing on national park grounds after dark."

Frank smirks sideways at her. "We won't if we're not technically trespassing."

She looks skeptical as he pulls off toward one of the rest stops, parking well into the shadows of an overgrown spruce tree.

"There's still enough light out for us to make it there."

"And back?" Karen lifts an eyebrow at him, but climbs out of the truck all the same, grabbing their food on the way.

Frank takes his backpack, and pulls up the tarp on the camper, uncovering another bag that he hasn't had any use for since Oregon.

Karen's watching him with interest, tilting her head as she asks him, "Is that a tent?"

"Been spending a lot of time on the road." Frank hauls it over his shoulder, and Karen takes the backpack from him. "Sometimes literally." He pauses, then looks at her. "That all right?"

Before Karen had been a city girl, she'd been born and raised in Vermont, but Frank's not sure what that would have actually looked like, how much the wilderness had factored into that upbringing. She'd seemed content on the trail earlier, but that was then, in broad daylight, and this is walking into the woods right before it gets dark.

"I've got the beer," says Karen. She nods toward the tree line. "After you."

He leads them about a mile and a half northeast, following a rough memory of the topographical map she'd snagged from that info booth earlier on in the day.

The ground begins to rise at a soft incline, taking them through a dense knot of trees before gently depositing them into a clearing. There's a wide view of the darkening sky, already dotted with stars. And further out, past the clearing, the mountains stretch all the way back toward the horizon.

"They'll have police patrolling the perimeter." Frank sets his bag down, finding a soft patch of grass to unroll one of the blankets. "But we're still a good mile out, so they shouldn't be bothering us here."

He turns to find Karen already pulling out the legs of the tent. It's simply designed, and will probably be a squeeze for them both. But it's still warm out this late, and he suspects they might not need it – or at least can get by with not zipping it up all the way when they sleep.

If they sleep.

Karen keeps touching him in small, casual ways – a hand on his arm, a graze of her shoulder with his as they work. He's bending over one of the corner rings, pinning it into the soil when she runs her fingers lightly over the skin at his nape, threading up through his hair for a second.

It sends a shudder down his spine, and he forces himself to go still until it's passed.

"I'm starving," she says once they've finished, and then she's looking over at Frank, gaze warm and inviting.

"Shall we eat?" she asks him with a small laugh when he doesn't respond right away.

"Right." Frank clears his throat and hands her a calzone.

They eat on the blanket, draping it just outside the tent entrance. He hoists her legs up over his so that they're facing each other at a relative angle, but still close enough to reach. He allows himself other small points of contact, smoothing a palm up the side of her thigh to cup gently over her knee in between bites of his food.

She scoots in after she's done, brushing the crumbs from her lap. She goes for her bag next, and retrieves two cans of beer.

She's opening one and handing it to him when he sees the postcards. They're peeking out from a side pocket, and he reaches over her, pulling them out as he sips on his beer.

He settles both hands over her knees, thumbing carefully through the cards. The Tree of Five Seasons in Cedar Rapids. A grainy, sepia-toned image of the original Starbucks in Seattle. Another Seattle shot, this one of the underpass troll, with its one eye looking out in a vaguely menacing fashion.

"I can't picture you at a Starbucks," Karen tells him. "Especially not with this." She scratches her fingers through his beard, and he turns his head into her touch, brushing a kiss to the back of her knuckles.

"Didn't go for the coffee." He turns that one over. "Dear Karen." His voice goes hoarse, and he clears it again before continuing. "Thought I saw you today. I went to that market down the street, and as I was walking by this place, you were there in the window."

Frank can feel her eyes on him as he reads. She reaches down for his hand, and he takes it, their fingers interlocking.

"Not sure which was worse," he says. "Realizing it wasn't you, or realizing that it could've been."

He slides that card over, and the troll peers ominously up at them. "This one was—"

He breaks off as Karen abruptly takes her hand out of his. She's clearing their trash, moving their beer cans out of the way even though they've barely started to drink them.

He sets the postcards down to his side. "Karen—"

He doesn't get a chance to ask her what's wrong, because suddenly she's straddling him, long strands of blonde hair falling down into his vision until she's brushing them back and taking his face in both her hands.

"Sorry," she says, sounding breathless. "I couldn't really wait anymore."

She leans down and kisses him, rocking them forward a little with the movement. His hands slide up her back, tangling one of them into her hair as he shifts to get even closer.

Karen moves over him, settling down further onto her knees. Their lower bodies end up flush together, and all of his blood rushes south in response. He drags his mouth over hers, tasting her, savoring her, even as the rest of him aches and aches for more.

She grinds her hips down, lips parting from his with a hitched little sound in her throat. He runs a hand over her backside, feeling the soft, barely-thereness of whatever her leggings are made of. He thinks of her feeling him through that thin material, the friction of his jeans, the bulge of his growing erection.

And then he's not thinking anything at all beyond the sensation of her mouth back on his, all heat and tongue and those goddamn sounds Karen keeps making that Frank can't get enough of.

He mouths more kisses from her jaw to her neck, and she tilts her head back with a quiet gasp of his name.

Well. Fuck.

He takes that as an invitation to work his way lower, tongue darting out to taste every inch that's available to him. He disentangles his hand from her hair, palming down the side of her throat to her collarbone and then tugging at the sleeve of his flannel.

She frees up both arms, and his shirt falls away, pooling around her waist.

"Later," he tells her, "I want you back in that." He nudges the strap of her tank top away. "That, and only that."

Her blue eyes are molten, her chest heaving a little. Without looking away, he dips his mouth down, licking a path along the edge of her tank.

She bites carefully down on her lower lip as he curls a finger over the fabric and pulls, exposing the pale, round skin of her breast. Her nipple's a pert, dusky pink, and – as he's about to find out – so very sensitive, when he laves his tongue over the peak and feels a tremble course through her body.

"Sorry," she breathes, and he darts his gaze up, brow knit in confusion. He has no goddamn clue what she would have to be sorry for.

She's biting her lip for a different reason now. "It's, um." She readjusts her bra and tank straps, then puts her hand on his chest. He's a little terrified, wondering what he's done to fuck this all up when she exhales and tells him, "It's been a while. For me."

"Karen." He has a hand to her nape, head ducking down to follow her gaze when she tries to turn it away. "You need to hear something from me. Karen."

But she shakes her head, already looking like she regrets having said anything. She blows out a small laugh, and she's about to tell him to forget it, he knows, he knows and he's not going to let that happen. They're not going to not talk about things anymore.

"I didn't—" She sighs, and it's tinged with frustration as she runs a hand through her hair, shaking her head again. "I didn't mean it that way, Frank."

"Hey." His forehead creases at her, and she touches her fingertips to his brow, as if trying to smooth it back over. "It's all right if you did. If you did, we need to talk about it."

She moves her hands down to brush tenderly over the sides of his beard next. "It's okay, Frank."

"It's not." He takes her by the wrist, in case she's gotten ideas about this conversation being over between them. "It's not." He looks her hard in the eye, because he needs her to understand.

It's impossible to read her expression for a moment, her face backlit by the oncoming twilight. But she hasn't stopped touching him, flattening her palm over the side of his neck, trailing her fingertips down from the bob of his Adam's apple to the notch at the base of his throat. All these vulnerable areas, and fuck how it aches that she can be so tender with him.

He swallows. She could break him right now, and he would be glad for it. He would be grateful she'd ever given him the chance to mean something to her. "You have any idea how I feel about you?"

"I do," she answers, simply. Honestly. "And I love you, too."

Frank blinks up at her. Lets the words wash over him, sink through skin and blood and bone to soothe like a balm over all the dark, gaping parts of him. The parts that he'd never let heal.

He shakes his head. His voice catches on its way out, edges all roughened as he gives her a bleak sort of look and says, "Not even going to let me be the one who tells you first, are you."

A smile tugs up the corner of her mouth. It's soft, but it's there. And he's not letting it go anywhere.

Frank tugs her back close, wrapping his arms around her and lifting. He scoots her backwards, laying her down as he moves over her. "You want to know what the back of that troll postcard says?"

She goes willingly, her hair fanning out in dark golden waves on the blanket. "What?" she asks, in a voice that is very much humoring him.

"It says I love you."

She gives him a full smile this time. One that says he's being ridiculous. One that says she loves him. She loves him. "Frank. It does not."

"It does," he tells her, settling his body over his. He kisses her ear, her cheek, the side of her mouth as she smiles again. "They all do, Karen."

She pulls his mouth back to hers, and this kiss is different from all the other ones they've shared. There's no shyness left between them – only the raw kind of honesty that comes from baring all of yourself, and the slow-spreading flame of a dizzying certainty, of being loved, and loved, and loved.

He wants to put his mouth all over her, all at once, to learn all the sounds he can get her to make. He wants to sample that sweet, slender curve of her neck, to taste and taste his way back down to all those places that had briefly been denied to him earlier.

She parts her legs wider for him now, lets him settle himself more snugly between her thighs. The friction has him achingly stiff for her, grinding shamelessly into her center.

He abandons all pretense of restraint now, roughly palming her breast and squeezing. He thumbs over her nipple through the fabric, feeling it pebble and then taking it between his fingers and twisting.

A moan catches in her throat, and she's dragging her hands through his hair and arching her spine at him in a gesture of want. He leans all his weight onto his elbow, freeing up his other hand to slide up her belly under her tank. The fabric bunches up over her breast, and she helps him remove it, sitting up for a moment as she tosses it aside.

He moves forward, pressing a lazy, tongue-filled kiss to her abdomen. She wriggles a little, and he nuzzles into her again, beard scratching over bare skin as she laughs outright and pretends to squirm away from him.

His hand skirts up her spine, reaching the clasp of her bra and flicking it open. He can't help his smirk when she raises an eyebrow at him, shrugging the garment off one shoulder at a time.

It drops away and his thoughts short out a little. He feels the draw of her like a magnet, and with something like reverence he closes his mouth over a nipple and sucks a slow kiss there, cupping her other breast in his hand.

He feels her nails scratch lightly over his back, followed by the mild night air on his skin as she lifts the hem of his shirt up. He pulls reluctantly away for a second, ducking his head through the collar.

"Seems only fair," Karen tells him.

Frank grunts a response, and is moving in again when she pushes gently at his shoulders. He glances up, letting her turn him over onto his back. Dusk is opening the sky up into something that feels invitingly endless, and if he squints a certain way it looks like there are stars in her hair. Karen straddles him again, and his hands go to grasp at her waist, running up and down her sides as she finally resettles.

"Frank," she says softly. He closes his eyes for a moment, seeing what she must be seeing right now. Her fingers come up to that scar on his shoulder, then across to his rib cage, his stomach, down lower.

His body is covered in them, these scars. It's nothing she doesn't know about him – it's nothing she couldn't have guessed at – but the reality of showing them to her for the first time feels more intimate than he'd been anticipating. It's all he can do to lie there for her, for a while.

Her hair tickles his chest, and he opens his eyes again in time to see her bending down and kissing just over a thin scar on his sternum. He shudders a little, brushing the hair out of her face as she presses another one to the side of his rib cage.

Mesmerized, he watches her kiss down to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the button and tugging the zipper slowly down.

"Karen," he rasps. His breathing changes, chest heavy with desire as she hooks her fingers through the belt loops and pulls. He lifts his hips to help her along, and then his dick is springing free, standing to attention as she drops down between his legs.

She takes him in hand, and he's fucking throbbing, and fuck, fuck, fuck that feels good as she starts stroking him up and down, slow, and steady, and with just enough pressure to make him groan out loud.

A droplet of moisture beads at the tip of him, and Karen sweeps her thumb up – then bends over and laps it up with her tongue.

Pleasure curls up his spine, icy-hot and so unbearably good. His breath bottoms out as she takes the rest of him into her mouth, wet and warm and Jesus fucking Christ, that tongue of hers is going to end him.

She warmly cups his balls, massaging them gently as she bobs up and down, circling her other hand around his shaft and moving in tandem with her mouth. It's a goddamn sight, to look down at her pleasuring the fuck out of him, cheeks hollowed out each time she sucks her way up back up his dick.

It's too much, and it's not enough.

His balls are aching for release, but it's a small price to pay to hold off for now, because he wants – he needs – to be fucked deep inside of her when he finally comes.

He wraps his hand around the side of her head, stilling her movements. She looks up at him questioningly as he lifts himself onto an elbow.

"C'mere," he husks, pulling her back over his body.

She hesitates above him for a fraction of a second but he's already capturing her mouth in a kiss.

Their tongues slide briefly together as he bands his arm around her rear end, lifting her clean off the ground. With his other arm braced over her shoulders, he flips her onto her back. She gasps out a laugh as he tugs at her leggings, trying to kick out of his own pants in the process.

"Not gonna let you have all the fun," he tells her, shucking his jeans and his boots to the side and moving over her as she pulls her things off the rest of the way. He slides a palm down the inner part of her thigh, crouching forward to plant a kiss to her navel.

Her stomach tightens – half in laughter, half in something else, her mouth parting on a low moan as he snakes his hand closer. He can't take his eyes off of her as he dances his fingers between her folds, the way her breathing stutters and her head arches back when he dips a forefinger inside.

He groans into her skin, feeling her wetness, and then adds a second finger, pumping them slowly into her.

"Frank—" his name tumbles out, all coated up in desire, and he watches, enthralled, as she brings her hands up to her breasts and starts touching herself.

"Christ," he utters, and fucks his fingers a little harder into her, adding a thumb to her clit as he goes. She's swollen for him, and fuck the way her entire body seems to keen in response when he applies just the slightest pressure – it's one of the sexiest things he thinks he's ever seen.

His dick is throbbing, and he resists the urge to rub himself out a little, just to relieve some of the pressure that's been building in him. But the way Karen's moving, and gasping his name as she slowly unravels, he wants – Christ, he wants to know what it's like to see her come fully apart.

He eases his fingers out, smirking a little at the small noise of protest she makes. He watches her watch him through half-lidded eyes as he licks his fingers clean.

She bites her lip as he bends all the way down this time. He breathes in the heady scent of her, heat churning low in his gut at the thought of tasting her more thoroughly. He leans in, grazing his beard over the inside of her thigh.

"Oh!" Karen jerks her knee in surprise, knocking him slightly sideways. She lets out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his hair in apology as he straightens. Frank arches a brow at her, and sucks another kiss to her skin in retaliation. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to – oh – mmm—"

He's parting her folds between two fingers, releasing his breath in a slow, torturous exhale that has her writhing a little and saying his name with some sternness this time. He smirks at her again before dipping in, licking up the center of her with one broad stroke of his tongue.

Her fingers give an involuntary twitch in his hair, and he can sense her restraint even now, not to lose herself too quickly to this, not to be rough or too demanding of him.

Which makes him all the more determined to see that it happens.

He fucks his tongue into her a few times, just to get started, savoring her before diving in deep. He imagines doing this with his dick, sliding in and feeling her clench all around him, coating him until he's glistening with her.

He presses his fingers back in, replacing his tongue as he brings his mouth up to her clit and sucks on it, hard.

Karen tightens her hold on him this time, shifting beneath him with small moans of pleasure. He moves a hand beneath her thigh and locks her knee over his shoulder, eating her out in earnest now.

He's learning quickly what she likes – what has her legs quaking, her stomach tensing under the hand he's just braced there – and what has her crying out, when he bites gently down, or flicks his tongue over her clit in short, tight circles.

Frank's practically dry-humping the blanket, desperate for any kind of friction against his lower body. Karen must sense it, or must be just as eager to have him, because she's openly rocking her hips, not holding back on the blissed out sounds she's making now.

He feels her orgasm come over her, slow but inevitable, like watching the tide come in from shore. Her whole body seizes up with it, and her moan goes tellingly silent, drawn out of her in slow, ragged intervals.

She goes tremblingly still, breasts heaving with little aftershocks of pleasure as Frank slows the movements of his tongue. When she starts to withdraw, he kisses up to her belly button, taking a moment to catch his own breath.

His hand finds a way to her breast, palming the side and kneading. Her fingers lace over his, tugging him upward until he's hovering above her, his dick achingly hard against the lower part of her belly.

He starts up a slow grind that she matches easily, tilting her chin up to kiss his mouth. It's messy – his beard is still damp, and she can probably taste herself on him. But she doesn't seem to mind, and it's even more of a turn-on when she reaches down between their bodies, slicking her fingers through her own wetness and wrapping back around his dick.

"Hey," he says. "We didn't talk about—"

She kisses him again. "I'm clean," she says. "And I trust you."

"I just don't have, um." Words fail him for a moment as she readjusts her hips, bringing the head of his dick toward her entrance.

"It's okay," she tells him. "I have this." She turns her arm outward. He can just see the faint outline of her implant along the inner part of her bicep.

Frank noses a kiss to her jaw, then presses their foreheads together. Karen hooks the back of her leg around his waist. And he sinks into her, just an inch before pulling out, and then sinking into her some more – in, and out, and in again, until she's taken him fully inside.

They're motionless for some long seconds like that, and all Frank can do is kiss her, slow drags of his tongue against hers as their hands are touching each other all over, hers down his sides

to his waist and back up, his cradling her head in one palm and squeezing down the length of her thigh with the other.

He starts moving inside her, and she's tight, and warm, and it's so goddamn good that it's almost enough to keep rocking his hips at this slow, steady rhythm, just to feel every inch of pleasure he can.

Their lips hover together, tongues briefly tangling in between moments where everything seems to stand still and breathing alone is a shallow, almost futile endeavor.

He hitches her knee up a little, deepening his thrusts, and it has her turning her head with a gasp, exposing the long, slender curve of her neck. He buries his face there, feeling his entire body slide over hers with each roll of their hips back together. Her arms are all wrapped around his shoulders, nails scraping his scalp in a way that sends little tingling sensations up and down his spine.

Fuck, he loves her – he knows this, but it's something else to experience it with every part of his being at once, all his senses attuned to the one simple act of them joining together, and he can't remember the last time he felt this wonderfully, devastatingly alive.

He brings his hand down between them, finding her clit again and coaxing another gasp out of her. Bracing himself with his other arm, he surges upward, quickening the pace of his thrusts. His dick rubs against his own hand each time he rocks back into her, and her breasts are pressed up to his chest and she's sighing his name and he's – fuck, he's—

"Come again for me, Karen," he groans in her ear. "Come for me – one more time—"

She's shifting around, hands on his shoulders, and he has to blink through the haze of his pleasure before realizing what she's saying to him.

"Get on your back, Frank."

He goes willingly as she turns them both over, the motion slipping his dick partway out of her. She takes him fully in again, with a single smooth curve of her hips that has his eyes rolling back, literally seeing stars for a moment.

His hands go to her waist as she starts canting her hips back and forth, but they can't seem to settle for long – there's so much of her that he's aching to touch, now that their bodies are no longer flush with each other's.

He misses the press of her warmth, her silky soft skin, but he finds that the view is more than making up for it. Everything about her is so fucking sexy like this, the downward cascade of her hair, the way these moans keep tumbling out from between her parted lips. He loves the feel of her breasts bouncing into his palms, and the undulating motions her body keeps making as she fucks him just a bit deeper each time.

His gaze is drawn down to where they are joined, watching the slick slide of his dick in and out of her. The sounds their bodies are making together have his balls tightening, and he's cupping her rear, supporting her movements with a few pounding thrusts of his own.

"Frank—" her voice goes tight, on the verge of coming apart at the edges.

"Fuck, that's it, Karen, that's it." He's rutting his hips into her one last time when he feels her walls clench, and then she's coming, and coming, her whole body tensed up as she throws her head back in blissful abandon.

She rides him out through that first wave of ecstasy as he chases his own release, the heat of it fast-uncoiling deep inside him and spreading. His fingers grasp at her ass, moving her down onto him as he lifts his hips up off the ground, and fuck – oh, fuck—

"Karen," he groans, and spills into her, the world around him fading to black for long, rapturous seconds, and all that there is is this toe-curling pleasure, shuddering up through his spine. Karen is gasping on top of him, and he bands his arms around her, tugging her down for a kiss that's half just learning how to find their breath again.

Their hips are still grinding together, a languid back-and-forth as those last few trembles of orgasm slowly begin to fade.

Karen eventually settles into his side, and he slips out of her, grunting from the loss of contact. He gropes around for a spare napkin before he can make too much of a mess, wiping her carefully down.

"Oh," she says, withdrawing a little before relaxing back into him. "Sorry – still sensitive."

He murmurs an apology, pulling her in for another kiss.

He doesn't know how long they stay there like that, limbs all intertwined as they trade soft, open-mouthed kisses, touching each other like it's something they still can't quite get used to – and Frank finds himself hoping that, in a way, they never do.

The sweat has cooled off their bodies by now, and when Karen starts to shiver a little, Frank reaches blindly for the edge of the blanket, throwing it over them both.

"This okay?" he asks, moving his elbow under her head and cradling her closer to him.

"Better than okay." She tugs the blanket more firmly across his chest, tucking it down by his side. His other hand finds her thigh, skimming absently up and back. A deep and satisfying exhaustion is spreading out through his limbs, and he could just sink and sink into this feeling forever, let it bury him here in the grass with her.

His fingertip comes across a raised little edge in her skin, just below her hip bone. "Tell me about this sometime?"

"There's…more where that came from." Karen shifts, fingers touching one of the scars on his chest. Even in relative darkness, with the blanket covering most of his skin, she has no trouble finding it. It shames him that he can't do the same for her. "Nothing like yours, but—"

"Hey. Come on." He takes her chin in his hand, thumb stroking over her jawline. "Don't do that. We're not gonna do that with each other, all right?"

He wishes he could see more of her then – more than the moonlit blue-greys of her face half in shadow. He'd wanted to take her apart, earlier. Now he wants nothing more than her whole, whatever that looks like, and to cherish her that way, scars and all.

"Whatever it is that you've done or you've gone through – you've seen all my bullshit, yeah? Accepted me for it? You know these scars like they're your own."

One corner of Karen's mouth lifts up. She moves her hand down to rest over his backside, fingers lingering on the small, circular scar there. "You still have to explain this one to me."

Frank laughs in spite of himself. "I will."

"And I will, too." She takes his hand, moving it just under her breast. Her fingers guide his to another thin scar. He traces carefully over it before wrapping his palm around her ribcage. "When I say that I trust you, Frank – I mean it. With my life, yes. But with other things, too."

She gives him a soft smile. He leans over her a little, dropping a kiss on her shoulder. That she trusts him to do things like make her safe, make her happy – make her feel like her scars are not something to hide – that he can do any of this by being with her is frankly incredible to him.

"Look," he says, giving her side a gentle squeeze, "these are part of you." He presses his forehead to hers. "So they're part of me, too. That's how this is going to work, okay?"

Karen brushes her fingers over his mouth, trails along the lines of his beard. "Okay," she says, and he kisses her fingertips as another smile slow-spreads across her soft, starlit features. She's looking at him like she's a little bit struck by how freely she's able to touch him. It's a feeling that Frank can relate to.

He's moving into her at the same time that she's winding her arms around his neck, his body settling back over hers. Their mouths come together, warm and open and unhurried – and no, they definitely won't be getting much sleep tonight.

…

Frank wakes up with a crick in his neck, and the general full-body achiness of having slept on solid ground. He's sore in other places, too.

Not that he's complaining.

He stretches his limbs before sinking back into a partial doze, Karen stirring beside him and doing the same. He nuzzles her hair, eyes still closed to the just-rising sun. She smells like fresh air and flowers, and he thinks he could stay here, unmoving, forever.

His bladder eventually gets other ideas. Frank withstands the growing pressure, until it's become too uncomfortable to ignore any longer.

He slides out of their makeshift bed, murmuring to Karen when she makes a questioning noise without opening her eyes. He'd grabbed an extra blanket sometime in the night, and he tucks the corners around her before slipping back into his clothes. He grabs a water bottle, and a miniature soap bar from his bag, before making his way toward the bushes where he can quietly relieve himself and wash up.

The blankets are folded upon his return. Karen's put her leggings back on, and she's in his shirt as he'd requested, with nothing else on underneath. Frank knows this because he sneaks up behind her as she's taking in the morning view, cupping her breasts through the fabric and finding them soft and pliant, unconfined.

She'd left the top several buttons unbuttoned, granting him a view of his own when he kisses his way down her neck, notching his chin over the slope of her shoulder.

"Morning," he says, his voice still a little rusted over from sleep, as he dips a hand down the vee of her collar, searching out one of her breasts and squeezing.

Karen makes an amused sound in her throat. "Are you talking to me, or the girls?"

"Mm. All the above." He kisses her behind the ear.

"Don't even get started." She nudges him playfully off of her, pressing her lips to his cheek before going to gather some more of their things. "Otherwise we'll never get out of here."

"Not sure I see the problem."

She bites her lip over her shoulder at him, and he knows that a part of her can't help but agree.

They dismantle the tent they'd never got around to using, and Karen unearths some granola bars from her knapsack for them as they head back to the parking lot.

She picks her way through the trees at a relatively brisk pace. Bemused, Frank finally asks her, "You in a hurry to get somewhere, Page?"

"Try to keep up," she calls after him, teasing.

They're almost back to the truck when he gets service again, his phone buzzing several times in a row. Frowning, he retrieves it from his pocket, tapping through his notifications – all of them sent from, simply, The Kid.

Get it, old man, Amy had written. Frank's not even sure when; the time stamp's all off. His reception's been spotty since they got to the forest, which was admittedly half the appeal.

He scrolls through and snorts. There's a ludicrous string of winky faces, concluding with another message that says, Curtis is proud of you too.

Frank shakes his head and puts his phone away. Maybe he'll check it again in another couple days or so.

They grab coffee and breakfast burritos on the way – on the way to where, Frank has no clue, but he's content to follow Karen's directions, westbound on I-79, until they're hitting Charleston about three hours later for a quick, early lunch.

They stop for gas again, switching places this time with Karen manning the pump and Frank making the snack run. When he's back, she heads to the bathroom with a small bag of toiletries, and by the time she's finished he's selected out most of the citrusy flavors, dropping them into an empty thermos for now.

He hands her what's left of the Skittles. Karen looks at him with shining eyes, then takes his face in her hands and kisses him sweetly before offering him one of the red ones.

She directs him southwest down I-64. "We'll be here for a while," she tells him. "Want to switch off at the next exit? I should've offered to drive earlier, I'm sorry."

"Nah, I'm good." Frank rolls his shoulders back, settling in. "But you can get me another one of those Skittles."

He captures her hand when she reaches over to pop a candy into his mouth, kissing her knuckle and setting their joined hands down on the console. The radio starts spitting out the staticky, opening refrains of a Bruce Springsteen song. The road is stretched and stretched out ahead, not expecting anything from them, and it's this kind of moment that he wants to live for. The kind of moment where he knows that he is never going back. Not from this.

"You want to tell me what happened with Fisk?" There's no accusation in his tone when he says it, and he swipes his thumb gently over her hand to show that he's only here to support her.

"While you're driving?" Karen raises an eyebrow at him.

"I promise to behave." Frank shrugs, then adds darkly, "Not much I can do to him in prison."

"True," says Karen. "And I need you both to stay right where you are."

She tells him what he suspects is an abbreviated version of everything that had happened the first time he'd skipped town. He doesn't have much of a right to question how she – and how Murdock, even – had handled things, when Frank was the one who'd been off on his bullshit, focused only on fighting his own wars.

Even after, when he could've been there for her—

So he mostly stays silent, save for muttering a quiet "Jesus, Karen" when she mentions how Foggy had stepped in right in time at Fisk's penthouse.

"What'd you even say to that asshole, to get him all bent up like that?"

Karen pauses then, and he notes that she's gazing carefully out at the road when she tells him. About Fisk's right hand man, about how she would've kept going past seven.

Frank unclenches his fist from the wheel after a moment. "That's my girl," is all he can say. "That's my girl."

"It's not something I regret." She lets out a breath. "But it is…something. And I wish it didn't have to be, if that makes sense."

He lifts her hand back up to his mouth. "It does."

He wishes he could do more – he wishes he could bash all their skulls in, quite frankly – but then she squeezes his hand, and it feels like a lifeline, a reminder of what's here and now.

"So," says Karen after a while. "What's this job offer all about?"

He levels a smile at her. "You read the troll card."

She shrugs. "I might have taken a peek."

He laughs, and tells her about Madani's phone calls. How she'd slipped in the mention of Fisk that had made Frank's blood run cold. How he'd packed a bag the next day, made it all the way across the country before realizing that was the last place he'd find any answers.

"I told her no," he says. "But I have a feeling she's not done asking me yet."

Karen looks curiously at him. "What are you going to say if she isn't?"

It's something else he'd been thinking about, on those long solo hikes back out west. "Gonna tell her it's not just up to me." He takes his eyes off the road long enough to give Karen a meaningful look, and make sure that she understands him. "If that's okay with you."

He's struck by how good it feels, just to see her smiling at him. "We can talk through it together," she says, and she moves their joined hands onto her lap, rearranging her fingers to lock over his so he can cup his palm around her thigh.

Frank turns his gaze back onto the road for a while. It doesn't seem so endless anymore – there's a destination out there, somewhere – but the possibilities of that alone are their own kind of infinite.

He's not ready to be back in the city yet, but he knows that he will be, when it's time.

For now, he lets the rest of his thoughts take a backseat, focusing only on that sun-blurred horizon, and the sound of Karen's voice as she pulls one of his books from the glovebox and starts reading aloud from the last spot he'd marked.

He moves his hand to the back of her headrest, periodically reaching around and gripping her nape, or massaging her shoulder when she tilts her head to the side, just to keep touching some part of her.

Karen can't seem to stop touching him either, in small ways of her own. She runs her fingers almost absentmindedly through his hair every once in a while, stroking his neck, massaging his earlobe. Other times, she has her hand resting over his knee, moving away from him only to turn another page in the book.

On second thought – if this is it, and they never do get to wherever they're meaning to go – Frank would be just fine with that, too.

…

They wind up down I-65 toward Nashville. They're about forty miles out from some place called Bowling Green, Kentucky when Frank sees a flash of a brown-orange blob up the side of the highway. As they drive closer, it starts to take the discernible shape of a T. rex, with its giant head looming out from the trees.

"Jesus," Frank says out loud, and Karen stops reading, glancing over at him. "Look at that thing."

"Oh." Karen removes her feet from the dashboard, peering out of the window with surprised satisfaction. "Good. We're almost there."

"We are?" He can't keep the amusement out of his voice.

"Take the next exit? This one, coming up right here."

He does as she says, and a moment later a large billboard crops up with another sharp-toothed T. rex, inclining its head toward Dinosaur World.

Karen stows the book away, sitting up a little straighter as Frank makes the turn into the lot. The cars are sparse and relatively spread out, so they're able to pull into a spot close to the entrance. There's a large, fake stone archway with DINOSAUR WORLD across the top in prehistoric-type lettering. Some life-sized brontosaurus models have their long, slender necks craned over the sign.

Frank gets out of the truck, a twinge in his chest that he's not quite willing to give a name to just yet. There's a child-like kind of quality to the dinosaurs that he hadn't noticed from afar, painted in shades of bright greens and blues, with their features softened to make them look friendly rather than frightening.

Lisa would've loved this place.

Karen has walked over to him, checking her watch as she stretches her back out. "We only have a couple more hours before they close," she says ruefully. "That must be why there are so few cars here." She looks over at him then, and she must see something in his expression because she's touching his arm and asking in a quiet voice, "Frank, is this okay?"

He tears his gaze away from the dinosaurs, unable to form the words. It's almost impossible to take in how beautiful she is to him in that moment.

"It's no Jurassic Park," says Karen. "And it's not – I know it will never be the same without them, but I thought it might be nice to—"

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her. She stumbles back a little before finding her footing, resting her palms on his chest as he kisses her with all the intensity of everything he cannot say right now. And this is what loving Karen, and being loved by her, is always going to feel like – a sweet, slow ache that will never stop building, and building, and building.

He breaks the kiss to draw in a deep breath, nudging his forehead into her temple. "It's perfect," he tells her. "Thank you. For remembering."

He takes her hand. Kisses the back of it, and thinks about how he's never letting this woman go.

They pay for their tickets and enter the park. There's an indoor museum on one side, attached to a gift shop, and some colorful arrows pointing toward the more kid-friendly activities – a fossil dig, a bone yard, and something called a dino gem excavation. On the right, there's a trail leading to a wilderness exhibit, boasting over 150 life-sized dinosaur sculptures in their "natural habitat."

They veer that way, drawn by the relative quiet, and the welcome green of the towering cypresses. Frank's almost reminded of the park in West Virginia – the treetops, the sunlight – minus the part where they're surrounded by a family of Stegosauruses as they walk.

"You hungry?" Karen rifles through her knapsack, pulling out his bag of purchases from the last gas station they'd been to.

"Yeah, I could eat something." He runs his hand over the horn of a Triceratops, its head bowed down in a grazing position.

Karen hands him a granola bar, then reaches back in and unearths a small snack pack. "Frank," she says. What's this?" She stops walking, and Frank looks back to find her staring down at the label.

"I, uh." He scratches the back of his head, feeling a little bit sheepish. "Remembered you telling me about them."

She bites her lip, nodding. Her smile is a mixture of wonder and disbelief. "You did." She traces a hand over the wrapping, gently, as if handling the memory more than the thing itself. "You know, my brother, he – he used to steal these, from me. Before I started hiding them in the closet."

"That right?" Frank chuckles. "He wasn't the one you were trying to escape from?"

"No." Karen shakes her head. "No. I wish – I wish I could've taken him with me."

There's a weathered kind of wistfulness to her tone that feels old and terribly familiar to Frank, even though this is the first time he's heard it from her. The first time she'd ever mentioned a brother, or anything about her own family, to him.

He steps in close, the cookie bag crinkling a little between them. "Hey," he murmurs, cradling the back of her head in his hand.

Her eyes are bright when she looks up at him, fingers touching his beard before resting over the side of his neck. "I'll tell you more about him too, sometime."

Frank holds her gaze. "Okay," he says, cupping his other hand to her cheek. She presses a kiss to his palm as he strokes his thumb over and over her skin. And then she's letting out a watery little laugh before leaning in the rest of the way and kissing him tenderly on the mouth.

There's a crunch of gravel behind them, and Karen gasps in surprise as Frank lifts her without warning and pivots them both off the trail. He tugs her further into the trees, stumbling them blindly over the grass as he kisses and kisses and kisses her.

They end up behind a pair of raptors, making out in earnest. He's kissing his way down her throat when she lets out a full laugh this time, threading her hands in his hair and coaxing his gaze back over to hers.

"Can't take us anywhere right now," she says.

He makes a small noise of agreement. "I'm okay with that." He drapes his arm around her shoulder, kissing her temple as they wander slowly back toward the trail. "Means I get you to myself a while longer."

"I know the feeling."

"Karen—" He looks at her a little gravely. "When I told you it didn't matter where we were – that isn't just on the road. Nothing's going to change when we get back. I need you to know that."

She gives him a look of wry amusement. "I was thinking more when you end up accepting that job from the CIA."

"Yeah?" Frank side-eyes her, lifting a brow. "That's what's going to happen, huh?"

"Hm." Karen tilts her head, pretending to think it over. "Well, if that doesn't work out, I'm sure there's a coffee shop somewhere, looking to hire at least one more—"

"Don't you say it." Frank kisses her quiet, feeling her smile against his mouth.

They wind their way leisurely back, Karen nibbling on gingersnaps as they go. The indoor museum is still fairly busy when they get there eventually, most families lingering around the interactive zones and making stops in the gift shop before heading out.

Frank walks hand-in-hand with Karen. He can tell she's not overly invested either, so they do a more perfunctory sweep of the exhibits, not really straying from the main hall.

They find one of those photo booths near the exit of the gift shop, after Karen's selected a few souvenirs. it's corny, and from the look on Karen's face she doesn't think he'll actually do it, so Frank tugs her inside without another word.

It's a squeeze – the booth probably wasn't intended for anyone older than eight or so – but Karen twists herself sideways until she's balanced with one hip on the edge of the seat, and Frank wraps his arm around her thigh to hold her steady against him.

The camera goes off before either of them are prepared for it, and Frank's fairly certain he's blinking in the next one, half-grimacing his way through the third. But the fourth time around, they're looking only at each other, and smiling. As the photo paper prints Frank takes her chin in his hand and kisses her again, relishing the privacy of this moment before they're turning the booth over to a couple of kids who've gotten in line behind them.

Karen slides one copy into her wallet, and Frank takes the other, tucking it into one of his books after they're back at the lot. The postcard that Karen had gotten for Amy slips out. He picks it up, rubbing his thumb over the trees and thinking about that day in the forest, the night they'd just spent under the stars.

He places it carefully back in the book, as if he could press the memory right into the pages, preserve it there forever.

"Think we're going to have to get her a different card," he says.

"Mm." Karen leans over, kisses his cheek. She flashes a photo of pterodactyls at him before setting her bag down. "Already got it covered."

Frank ducks his head with a laugh. "Course you did." He turns the ignition, rolling the windows back down. The radio picks up a station nearby, the twangy notes of some country song. "All right. Where next?"

She's been perusing her phone for nearby dinner options. "A lot of these places seem to be in Nashville," she says, with a sly kind of lightness that makes him feel like he might never stop smiling at her.

"That so?" Frank asks, shifting gears. He eases the truck out of the lot. "Couldn't hurt to look into."

"I didn't think so either," says Karen.

They merge back onto the interstate, headed south down more open road, toward another outstretched horizon. A breeze lifts up strands of her hair, and he can feel the sunlight on him when he reaches for her hand.