* * * * *


She was mindlessly rubbing the already-dry glass; watching him, her eyes were locked on his every move. He was sitting quietly in a corner booth, his attention isolated on the screen of his laptop. A crease was set in his brow as he typed, his entire mind seeming to concentrate on every single letter he touched.

A tired hand ran through her auburn hair as she watched him cautiously. She hadn't seen him this focused since Mr. Brooks had passed away, and she hoped that this was good for him and not some type of withdrawal. Part of her wanted to walk over there, slide into the booth, look him in the eye, and somehow cajole him, as she always did, into talking about whatever it was that was wrong with him.

She sensed that her normal charm and persistence just wouldn't work this time. Her lips twisted into a slight frown. Her normal reaction was to want to fix things. She felt out-of-place when she couldn't help; when she couldn't swoop in and clean things up or offer good, intelligent advice.

A cloud passed by the sun outside, and she could see his eyes more clearly. They were different, softer. They had life. And somehow, she felt hope. If he was happy, she could be happy too.

That was what worried her most of all.

With a tired sigh, she picked up a glass and filled it with ginger ale. Noticing the hostess was busy helping an old woman read the menu, Gretchen headed toward the corner to clean off a table to help the busy girl since there was no one to bother the bar. Gretchen's graceful strides didn't stop as she set the full glass down at Dawson's side.

He paused, smiling at the gesture, his eyes searching for her, finally finding her busy with her task. Reflectively, he put his laptop on stand-by and pushed it aside. His chin rested in his hand as he waited for her to finish.

After dropping off the dirty dishes in the kitchen, Gretchen approached him carefully, fearing she may have interrupted his writing. "Lose your inspiration?" she asked softly.

He bobbed his head, appearing to be deep in thought. "I guess I'm lucky that she keeps coming back."

She slid into the booth seating herself across from him. "She?" she questioned, her eyebrow raised. "Why are the muses always female anyway?"

He shrugged. "Who said they were?"

"I don't know," she said, her chin shifting to the side as she focused her eyes out the window. "Maybe women don't have muses as often as men do. We don't need them," she said, turning back to him and smirking.

He nodded slowly, pretending to mull something over in his mind. "That's because you are them," he said softly, his lips revealing a large smile.

She watched him skeptically. "Are you trying to tell me that I'm your muse?"

He raised his eyebrow, his voice coming out in a slight, pre-pubescent squeak when he said, "You don't believe me?"

She tried to hide her blush. "That, Dawson Leery, is a line if I've ever heard one."

"And I bet you've heard a lot of them," he said with a smirk.

"I have," she admitted, nodding her head tiredly. He didn't know just how many she had heard. But she didn't want to talk about that. "And you are the master of changing the subject."

"I was eight-years-old, and I was at your house to play with Pacey. We were in the backyard doing something, and Pacey saw you leave the house. He informed me that he knew you were grounded and couldn't leave the house, and he assured me that we needed to follow you. I told him that we were going to stay there like his dad told us to, because you know that I was just an obnoxious goody-too-shoes kind of kid."

Gretchen smiled, setting her chin in her palm as she listened.

"Pacey then told me," he continued, "that you were going off to meet your boyfriend. And this was, as far as I knew, your first boyfriend." He paused and laughed softly at himself. "So then we went to follow you. You met him somewhere in the woods. With all that walking and creeping it felt like it was so far away, but I'm not sure just how far it was. We got there and you talked to the guy. You were really nervous. Then you kissed him, and he ran away," he finished, somewhat comically.

"He had to go home!" she protested. Gretchen laughed sardonically as Dawson passed her a disbelieving look. "And you little rat. You eavesdropped on my first kiss!"

Dawson's lips twitched into a tiny smile. "Your first kiss, huh?" He mulled the idea over a moment before he spoke again. "Anyway, that night I went home and wrote my first script." He paused for a moment, mulling over the wording. "Story. Whatever."

"And what was it about?" she asked curiously. She twined her fingers together in front of her and watched him expectantly.

"A girl who goes to the woods and kisses a guy," he laughed. "I was eight, what were you expecting?"

"That's sweet, Dawson," she said, looking down as she smiled awkwardly.

"So, in a way you were my muse," he finished with a smile.

She looked up at him for a moment, watching his smile as she drummed her fingers on the table. She pulled the dishtowel from her shoulder and began to twist it anxiously in her hands. "Am I still?" she asked softly.

"You may be," he replied quietly. "I'm not really sure."

"I'd like to be," she said, looking down insecurely. "I think it probably takes more than I've got to offer."

"I don't think so," he replied, watching her carefully. He noticed how the sunlight seemed caught in her hair. Her beautiful eyes were wide as she watched the hostess clean up after an incredibly messy two-year-old. Dawson knew that she was torn between staying in there locked in their conversation and going to help the girl with the mess on the floor. She turned her eyes back to him and smiled.

"What?" she asked inquisitively, her head straightening in line with her shoulders.

"You're beautiful," he whispered without hesitation. "The way that you smile, the way the sun makes your hair shine, the way you move your hands, or that little 'purr' when you speak . . . you remind me of a goddess. So a muse isn't a huge stretch." He paused to smile. "And no, I'm not trying to flatter you. Just perspective that you can do with what you wish."

She smirked, a slight twinkle in her eye. "Goddess-like? Is that your old eight-year-old perspective creeping into this conversation?"

"Maybe," he replied, his fingers playing on the rim of his glass. "But to tell you the truth, Gretch, you continue to amaze me every day. You offer wonderful advice. You spark all these great, new ideas. You certainly have beautiful down," he finished with a grin. "And while I know it's not a comparison that you may want, I really do believe that you'd be worthy of the title of goddess were it not for your mortality."

"Or morality," she said with a chuckle.

Dawson shrugged. "You find me a goddess who's moral, and I'll give you one of those foot rubs you're always begging for."

"That's a deal," she said, snapping her dishtowel at him playfully. She watched him for a moment, adoring the play of his sweet smile on his face. She was rather enjoying the repartee and was glad to have this time with him. He never ceased to surprise her with the way he easily went through conversation and managed to hold her attention every moment; he also managed to make her jealous of the spark in had in his eye, in his soul. Dawson Leery was by far the most alive and aware man she'd ever met; perhaps that's why she'd become so captivated by him.

"You are beautiful," he murmured, somewhat as an after-thought. "Glamorous, like-"

"The old movie actresses-Deborah Kerr, Audrey Hepburn, Sophia Loren?" she finished with a teasing lift in her voice.

He nodded with an impressed smile. "Gracious, captivating, elegant. You're poised to gain the attention of everyone in the room."

She turned to him, a slight blush on her face, a cocky air in her voice. "Is that why you're always watching me?"

His emotions were at war, causing him to blush and smirk at the same time. "Who says I watch you?"

"You have an artist's eye, Dawson. I have noticed the way that you snap pictures of me. You examine them. And I can be back behind the bar, shaking a margarita, and I'll look up and see you standing the doorway of the kitchen." She looked up at him and smiled meekly. "No one has ever studied me," she said with a whisper. "Everything about you, Dawson, it's just . . . you never fail to surprise me or impress me. You're . . ." She stopped, her lips curling into a frown.

He looked up at her cautiously. "I'm what?"

"You're amazing and unlike any man that I've ever known."

Dawson's eyes widened out of shock. This was not a reaction he'd ever expect from Gretchen. She was always quick to praise him, but at the same time, he knew she wasn't going to allow herself to make the jump to the superlative. He wondered if she realized what she said. "Wow, Gretch," he whispered. "No one has ever . . . said anything . . . wow." He paused and smiled. "You really think that? Because no one has ever come minutely close to complimenting me in that way."

"I've never complimented anyone in that way," she replied, the serious tone accompanied by a similar look on her face. The words meant something serious to her; now she knew that Dawson had become a larger part of her life than she was supposed to allow him to be.

He recognized the look in her eye; it was one he'd recognized in his own when he looked into the mirror. Somehow, they'd become so much more involved with each other than they were supposed to be. It worried him, but he knew it scared Gretchen. "It wasn't supposed to be this way, was it?" he asked, his eyes questioning as he looked at her, deep in serious thought.

She tilted her head to look at him from a different angle. She wondered if he could somehow read her mind. "I didn't think it would be this way, but maybe this is how it's supposed to be," she replied.

"We don't talk about tomorrow, right?" he asked. He'd been hoping to have a discussion on their future for several weeks, but it was still a taboo topic of conversation. Everyday the idea that this relationship became more and more tentative, more interim, the more insecure he became. He was normally insecure enough for three men, but it increased exponentially when it came to Gretchen, who was this wonderful, beautiful woman who'd entered his life by chance and would hopefully stay there by choice.

Gretchen pursed her lips as she shook her head, her hair swaying slightly with the movement. "We don't talk about tomorrow, but let's talk about tonight."

"And what do you propose for tonight?" he asked, grinning slightly.

"I propose a date tonight, Dawson. I'll meet you here at ten, and we will head to my desired location. There will be one topic of conversation," she said softly, her voice husky as she extended her index finger for affect, a tiny smile playing on her face.

"We're limited to just one?" he asked with a smirk.

"Don't worry. It's vast and encompassing," she replied.

"So what is it?"

She shook her head exaggeratedly. "That's almost eight hours away. I'm not giving you time to over-think this, Dawson."

"Don't I get any advanced notice?"

Gretchen thought for a moment. "I'll leave you a note under the bar. You can pick it up at nine thirty."

He rolled his eyes. "So generous, Miss Witter."

"So skeptical, Mr. Leery," she said with a grin, leaning forward and kissing him lightly. "Ten," she said as she slid out of the booth and headed back to the bar.

* * * * *

He stood up straight, sighing slightly as he scratched his head tiredly and slammed a bouquet of daisies on the bar. "Where could it be?" he murmured to himself as he traveled back and forth behind the expanse of the mahogany wood. Looking down at his watch he noticed that it was ten minutes to ten. He wouldn't have much of a chance to think about this mystery topic, and that was just as Gretchen wanted it. He shook his head and laughed softly.

"Harper?" Dawson asked, turning to the bartender. "Did you see a note for me from Gretchen?"

The man frowned, furrowing his brow as he scratched behind his ear. "There was something," he mumbled, picking up some napkins and fumbling through piles of papers underneath the bar. Harper chuckled when he found the note under the list he and Gretchen kept of bad tippers. "Here you go, Dawson," he said to the younger man. "I don't know what she went off to do, but she seemed happy about doing it."

Dawson raised his eyebrow. "That's good to know. Thanks," Dawson said as he slumped down on a stool on the other side of the bar and looked at the note Gretchen had written him on the back of a coaster.

He'd almost forgotten what her handwriting had looked like. It was delicate and small, still with a distinctive stroke. He smiled as he read.

Dawson-
Subject of the evening is a serious one.
Love
And don't think so hard.
- G

He shook his head and laughed lightly as he looked down at the coaster. No wonder she didn't want him to think about it. There were just too many things he could say and too many things she could ask him. She could ask if he loved her. What if she did? What would he say? Was he in love with her? He wasn't sure. Considering his track record, he wasn't exactly ready to go hurling himself into "love" again. How would he explain that to her?

"Didn't I tell you not to think so hard?" she asked him softly in his ear from her place at his back.

He felt her warm breath on his skin as she laid a gentle kiss on his neck, and he couldn't say it was familiar. They weren't exactly the most physically affectionate couple, usually opting for soft kisses. He sometimes wondered why they weren't more outwardly affectionate, but those thoughts were often squashed when she would do so many of the other intangible things in their relationship like the way she could make him spill his guts or the way she challenged him to do what was normally not doable in Dawson's world.

"Dawson," she said, sliding around to face him to gain his attention, her hand still curled around his neck.

"Hey," he said, looking up and smiling as she kissed him. His face showed the slightest bit of stress.

She feigned a look of disappointment. "I told you not to over-think this, Dawson. It's not a final exam."

"No, not a final exam, I agree," he said, nodding his head once in agreement. "But the Freudian free association isn't exactly what I had in mind."

Gretchen rolled her eyes. "Please, Dawson. That's not what's going on." She wrapped her arms loosely around his neck. "Just a talk with no expectations. And if that's not what you want, we'll just spend the night impersonating Benedictine monks."

"I think I can handle it," he replied, tangling his fingers together as he looked down at them. "Just promise me something?"

"Anything," she replied with a tiny nod.

"No painful revelations?" he asked. He looked up at her, his eyes showing vulnerability and enthusiasm at the same time.

The corner of her mouth twisted into a tiny smile. "Promise. No painful revelations." She pushed some hair off his forehead. "I just want a glimpse of your soul."

"You think that talking about love will let you see in my soul?"

She nodded, shifting down slightly to catch his eyes, where she kissed him lightly. "I think that occasionally you let me get a tiny look inside you. And I think lovea33; love is a big part of who we are. Maybe it's time for us to see where we're going."

Dawson's head straightened in surprise. "Really?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

"Brought these for you," Dawson offered, holding out the bunch of daisies tied in a large white ribbon. "From Gram's garden. It's so warm, they're confused, and they'd die with the next frost anyway."

Gretchen smiled, holding the flowers to her nose and inhaling. "I'd pegged you as more of a roses kind of guy."

"Rather than the steal-the-daises-from-the-old-lady-next-door kind of guy," he said with a smirk. "Face it, Gretchen. You bring out the best in me."

She rolled her eyes. "A task to be oh-so proud of," she commented sardonically. "They're beautiful nonetheless." She paused, kissing him lightly on the chin. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," he replied, picking up the picnic basket that sat at her feet. "Ready?"

"Ready," she answered, keeping her flowers in one hand as she threw a large blanket over her other arm. She shifted the daisies to the other hand and threaded her arm through his.

* * * * *

Dawson frowned as he watched Gretchen spread the large blanket she'd brought across a large expanse of sand. "Gretchen, you do know that it's March, right?" he asked, his tone somewhat condescending.

She straightened and put her hands on her hips. "Actually, I had no idea, Dawson," she said sarcastically. She rolled her eyes before taking a step toward him. "Think outside the box for once. It's March, but it's not freezing, and it's beautiful," she said, her hand motioning toward the moon.

He lifted his eyes to the sky and noticed the blanket of stars that were clear in the darkness. "We're going to catch pneumonia."

She sighed, flopping down on the blanket and digging through her basket. "You know, for someone as creative as you are, it's hard to believe you're not more adventurous."

"I'm adventurous," he protested.

She cut her eyes at him and laughed sardonically. "You wanted eight hours advanced notice on our topic of conversation, Dawson."

He slumped down beside the basket; it was the only thing separating the two of them. "That's because that eight-year-old side of me seems to come out way too often, and then I end up making a utter and complete ass of myself because I just can't get what I really want to say to come out right."

Her brow furrowed as she looked over at him. "What?" she asked softly.

"Gretchen, you know you heard me," he replied, reluctantly looking up at her.

"Is that why this is so hard, Dawson?" she asked softly.

"Why is what so hard?"

She looked up into his eyes, her right hand rubbing her upper left arm anxiously. "Us," she whispered before looking down again. "You're distant, Dawson."

"Is that what you think?" he asked, his expression saddening as all of his muscles tensed.

"Are you afraid of getting close to me? Is this supposed to be casual?"

"Nothing I do is casual," he said with a sigh. "And I thought you didn't want me getting too close to you."

Gretchen was quiet, pulling a bottle of wine out of the basket and pouring it into two glasses she'd snagged from the restaurant. She held the glass near its rim, purposefully trying not to touch him as he took the object. "That's not what I want, Dawson."

He nodded. "We're both just guarded," he replied softly. "We've been hurt, Gretch."

She nodded, looking up at him with a sympathetic smile. "That's true. Why don't we try to start thinking about this more consciously? We can make an effort to be more . . . intimate," she finished, a drop in the inflection of her tone of voice.

Dawson reflected on the word, repeating it softly to himself. "How intimate do you want to get?" he asked softly.

"As far as the both of us want to go," she replied, her eyes sparkling slightly from the moon's glow.

Good answer, Dawson told himself as he took a sip of the red wine. "You do know I'm underage?" he said with a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. "Or are you planning to ply me with alcohol and take advantage of me?"

"Well," she began, finishing her glass of wine with one final swig. She pushed her picnic basket aside and moved closer to him. She knelt at his side and smiled. Her brow twisted. "I'm not old enough to be Mrs. Robinson."

He smirked, leaning in toward her, his breath tickling her ear as he spoke. "So you wouldn't be trying to seduce me?"

Gretchen chuckled, leaning in, placing her finger under his chin and kissing him lightly. She swung her leg over his lap to straddle him. Her left hand curled around his neck, her right touching his cheek as she leaned in to kiss him. The kiss was filled with an electricity that their previous ones had not; Dawson could feel his body tingling from his hair down to his toes.

Her body pressed against his out of reflex, while her hands remained comfortably on his face. Part of her still saw Dawson to be a little boy, while another part wanted to go further than the pecks on the cheek and innocent caresses. She had been scared to become physically attached to him, because her emotional attachment was already very important. If she decided to leap into Dawson's life anymore than she already was, she wasn't sure what would happen. At the same time, she didn't want to resist the feelings and the need she had for him.

Her hand trailed down his chest slowly before her hand met his skin, her fingers slowly trailing up his tight chest, the nail on her thumb lightly passing over his nipple before it repeated the same motion.

She exhaled a contented sigh as he began to kiss her neck. "Intimate," she whispered breathlessly into his ear.

The word caught him off-guard, causing him to fall backward, causing the glass to topple and roll over.

They both began to laugh, their lips still lightly pressed together. "Shit," Dawson muttered, feeling cold liquid covering his back.

Gretchen bit her lip. "What? Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?" she asked anxiously.

Dawson laughed. "I didn't drink my wine."

"Oh," Gretchen replied, rolling off of him. She covered her mouth to try to hide her laughter, as Dawson sat up and his back was covered with a large maroon stain.

"Next time white wine," he said slowly, cutting his eyes at her.

"Just take your shirt off, Dawson. I'll have it dry cleaned tomorrow," she said. She tried to cover her chuckle unsuccessfully.

"Now you want my shirt off?" Dawson said playfully. "I have a feeling that your intentions are not the most honorable." He laid back down, rolling on his side and resting his head in his hand.

"We haven't exactly clarified my intentions yet, have we?" she thought out loud.

"No."

She smiled. "Rest assured, Dawson. I'm not going to seduce you and make wild, passionate love to you while we're here on the beach."

"But I might have enjoyed that," he said with a grin.

"You would have," she said, her finger sneaking toward him to trace the contours of his chest, circling the nipple occasionally. Her fingers gently trailed down to his still-shaping abs. This body definitely was not that of the boy who'd been her brother's best friend, but of a man who'd stolen her heart. "Do you know what the most important thing to have in a relationship is?" She lifted her eyes to meet his.

"Communication," he replied without hesitation. He'd learned plenty of lessons over the past year, watching things between his parents, between Joey and Pacey, and just about anyone else he knew.

Gretchen smiled softly. "Perfect answer, Dawson. And I think that we communicate really well. Since we were talking about sex before . . . well, I was thinking that perhaps we missed something in between."

Dawson swallowed, taking a deep breath as he looked into her eyes. "Love," Dawson said softly with a nod.

"Love and emotion," she corrected quietly, her eyes downcast. "Let's face it, Dawson, there's lots of sex without love going on, but there is this emotional component we can't forget. And . . . you're a really special guy, and I just wanted . . . I want to make sure we have everything in line emotionally-no matter how long it takes-if we both want to take that next step to making love with each other. Like you said, we've both been hurt a lot, and I know sorting these things out won't be easy. But I know that if you're going to eventually care enough about me as much as I care about you, I want to keep being honest with you throughout this whole relationship. I want you to know that you can talk to me about anything."

Dawson smiled. "That's how it's been ever since you came back, and that's how I'd like it to be. If you let me be the same to you, that is."

She nodded, a relieved smile crossing her lips. "I'm really glad to hear that," she replied, leaning in, their lips touching lightly; the kiss didn't grow more passionate, however, they stayed locked together, close to each other. As she pulled away, Gretchen ran her tongue slowly across his chapped bottom lip.

"So. Love," Dawson said, opening his eyes. He smiled as his thoughts drifted back to her beauty. "What aspects of love are we talking about?"

"Anything," she replied, pulling herself up and pouring two fresh glasses of wine. "Don't drop this one," she said. He pulled a tiny plastic dish from the basket and placed the tiny chicken and tuna salad sandwiches she'd made at his side as he sat up. "What it is, how it feels, your first love, what you want your last love to be, love at first sight. Anything," she explained. She picked up one of the tiny sandwiches and took a bite. "You start."

He rolled his eyes as he took a sip of the wine. "I knew you'd do that." He paused, mulling over what she'd mentioned. "I want to believe in love at first sight, but I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because that's the stuff that makes great movies, great stories, great fairytales . . . that's part of their charm; it's what they're made of. I know that the scientists think they can attribute it to pheromones or something, but I don't think that makes sense." He stopped to rub his head. "I mean, love at first sight is nothing more than visual sexual attraction. People act like there's Cupid, shooting his arrow, and instantly letting you know that you've fallen in love."

"You really don't think it's like that?" she asked, bringing her knees to her chest as she listened intently.

"When you realize that you're in love . . . it's like being hit in the gut. It surprises you. It overwhelms you. That's really the moment that counts. It's not some guy with wings pulling our strings. Love is . . . getting up and doing something you hate and being happy about it because that person's there. It's thinking about that person's smile to keep yourself from becoming angry or frustrated. It's the swell of joy you feel when they hold the door for you or pour more coffee in your cup without asking. It's . . . loving someone in spite of the things they do that drive you the most crazy. And you . . . You can't know these things at first sight. It's the little things about that person that makes you fall in love with them."

Gretchen smiled a tiny smile. "How'd you get so smart at only eighteen?"

Dawson looked at her and shrugged. "Wish I could say it was experience, but I have very little of that."

"It's the quality of the experience, not quantity," she replied softly. "I know you were hurt by Joey, but people have been much more mangled to become so insightful."

He nodded thoughtfully as he poured himself another glass of wine. "Your turn. Tell me about your first love."

She thought for a moment, throwing the empty wine bottle back into the basket and pulling out another. As she handed it to Dawson, she tensed and bit her lip. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out of her mouth. There was nothing for her to say.

"You're afraid to tell me?" he asked softly. "Because we just said-"

"No, no. Not at all." She paused, the confusion evident on her face. "I'm not really sure I've had my first love yet."

Dawson smirked as he chuckled. "You have got to be kidding me."

Her face fell despite her attempt to mask her hurt. "I'm not kidding, Dawson," she said, her voice dropping. She looked down, her fingers raking through the sand anxiously.

"Hey," he said softly, a hand reassuringly touching her arm. "You don't have to talk about it. It's okay. I shouldn't have pushed you."

She shook her head. "You don't understand," she admitted, looking back at him. "I don't think I've been in love."

"What?" he asked softly.

"Do you remember that day you told me about your mom and dad's wedding?" she asked with a fond smile. "You told me that the hardest thing you'd ever done was telling Joey she should follow her heart and go after Pacey. And the way you care about her is just unparalleled. I haven't had that."

He shrugged slightly, moving closer to try to comfort her. "That's because I've always loved Joey. She's always been my best friend."

Gretchen squirmed slightly, uncomfortable for some reason that she herself recognized as silly. "I've never . . . I've had three serious boyfriends, all of whom turned out to be complete assholes. I never had those feelings you described, Dawson. Sure I cared about them and thought the relationship was love . . . but I've never met the person who could make me forget being miserable or the person who can make a bad thing bearable." She paused. "Strike that. I may have met him, but I'm not sure yet."

Dawson smiled. "You never cease to amaze me, Gretchen Witter."

She rolled her eyes. "That's what I do." She sat her wine glass at her side and took his free hand, her fingers carelessly playing with his, as her head found a comfortable spot in his shoulder. "Your turn. Marriage."

"Hm," he began, mulling the topic over in his head, not having thought about it for a while, considering that those thoughts had been painful. "You know, I used to walk in on my parents going at it all the time before mom had the affair. I used to be repulsed by it until I realized that I would be pretty lucky to have that someday; that wasn't until recently."

"Is that what you want?" she asked softly. "To have sex a lot."

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "To still be attracted to that person forever; for the lust to be there after however many years. I want to be able to wake up in the morning with the woman I love in my arms, and I want to wonder how much my life would suck without her, and not how great it might've been had I stayed single."

"What's wrong with you, Dawson?" she asked, tugging herself away from him, her neck craned slightly.

His brow creased as he looked back at her, that question being the last one he was expecting. "What?"

"Gay?" she asked herself aloud, shaking her head as the words came out. "No, not gay. Can't be." Her eyes looked down at the wine bottle. "Closet alcoholic?"

"What are you talking about, Gretchen?" he asked, confused by her sudden babbling.

She dug through the basket, pulling out a Tupperware container that had Bodie's chocolate cake in it. She wasted no time finding a fork and taking a huge bite from it. "These things you're saying are all perfect. And perfect men are either too good to be true or nothing but trouble. So name faults. Quick, Dawson. Before I turn into Michael Johnson and run out of this relationship as fast as I can, tell me that there's something wrong with you. But not something huge that will scare me."

Dawson smiled and laughed. "Self-centered and self-absorbed," he said, taking the fork from her hand and taking his own bite of cake. "I'm working on that," he added, smiling as he lifted the fork to Gretchen's mouth.

"Okay, I can accept that," she nodded, wiping the corner of her mouth with the heel of her hand. "Anything else?"

"Recently I seem to be teetering on the fine line between idealism and cynicism. I don't seem to know what I want to do with my life. I'm neurotic, and sometimes downright obsessive. I tend to be extremely over-protective of the women in my life. I'm so spoiled that sometimes my behavior is reminiscent of a two-year-old. Enough?"

Gretchen snickered as she nodded. "Plenty," she whispered, kissing him lightly.

"Good," he replied with a wide smile. "I was beginning to think I'd have to confess that I was an alcoholic."

She laughed. "Well, Dawson, for what it's worth, I don't think you're all those things you mentioned."

"Yeah, well, you see your own flaws the best, right?" he commented, lifting the fork to her lips again.

"We're all screwed up some way," she said with a shrug.

"Your turn. What are your flaws?" Dawson asked with a tiny grin.

She thought quietly for a moment as she chewed. "I want to fix everyone's problems, probably so I don't have to think about my own. When I feel bad, I hide it from everyone. I can't seem to escape this "Witter curse." I have a horrible track record with relationships, and I have a hard time letting people get close to me. I also have lot of growing up to do." She finished in a monotone, her gaze fixed on the ocean, tears threatening to fall from her eyes.

Dawson pulled her to him, comfortingly kissing the crown of her head. "Those things are all very fixable, Gretch," he whispered. "I want to be what you need." He used his thumb to wipe tears from her cheeks. "I want to be everything that will make you happy and secure."

She pulled away, her hands cupping his cheeks as she looked into his eyes. "How did this happen?"

He smiled crookedly, noticing she'd relaxed. "How did what happen?"

"Us," she said, her voice lifting as she smiled.

"Luck of the broken-hearted?" he asked, raising a teasing eyebrow.

"And your eight-year-old perspective," she said softly, kissing him. Her hands came around to rest on his neck, the intensity of the kiss deepening and heating up the two.

Dawson's hands tangled in Gretchen's auburn hair as his body gently encouraged her down, her back now on the sand as he came to rest atop of her. He began to trail open-mouthed kisses along her chin until he began to suck softly on her neck.

Her hands snaked up his torso, her fingers trailing along the taut skin. She paused her hand on his chest, and she could feel the frantic beating of his heart. She shifted her body to rest more comfortably underneath of him. Her body appreciated the attention that it hadn't gotten in a long time, and she felt herself drifting into this comfortable place where she was relaxed and excited all at the same time. It was a place she loved to be at but rarely reached.

As Dawson's mouth began to move past the low-dipping v of her shirt, a particularly large wave crashed, the water rushing up the sand and around them both. Gretchen shook from the sensation; it overwhelmed her for a moment due to its unexpected nature. She opened her eyes to find Dawson peering down at her, his face both annoyed and concerned.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She giggled as she nodded. "Damn, Dawson, this movie thing of yours just follows you everywhere," she said with a smirk.

He shook his head as he pulled himself to his feet and helped her do the same. Gretchen looked up at him as smile spread across her face. She stood on her toes and kissed him once more. When she pulled away, he was again enchanted by that twinkle that was always in her eyes.

"I'm freezing," she murmured, crossing her arms as she fidgeted. "You were right: it's too cold for the beach."

Dawson chuckled, picking up the now wet picnic supplies and handing Gretchen the soaked blanket before he turned back to her. "It was perfect, Gretchen," he said with a wide smile. He held his hand out to her. "Let's get you home."

She smiled, pausing for a few moments just to watch him. Perhaps things were looking up for the both of them. Maybe she needed to take a step back to understand just where this was going, because she wasn't supposed to get attached.

With a tiny flinch of her lip that didn't even remove the smile from her face, she took Dawson's hand, and he led her toward the car.

* * * * *