Sometimes it was easier for him to whisper the words against her hair at night, while she lay wrapped in his arms--after they had made love, after the lights were off, and after the sounds of the street traffic began to hum ever so softly outside his window. It was during those twilight hours in which he'd marvel about her-his CJ: the undeniable love of his life. She would come to him, he'd remark to himself sometimes rather randomly, and she would stay with him for as long as she could. CJ never left first, by choice, and she always arrived without being asked. She knew he couldn't do it. Not yet, at least. There were dinners at his hotel room, and stolen moments in their offices, but he kept telling himself that they weren't ready to go public. Their guy won the election with an unanticipated margin, and yet they weren't ready to rock the boat. Things were harder this time, someone had told him, and all Leo could do was agree. Things were harder. Last time he didn't have to worry about public perception of his private life. He was married, and everyone had just assumed happily so. When his marriage fell apart, nobody thought it was a story worth a second glance-at least not until the MS had reared its ugly head. Through it all, though, she stood by him. CJ watched him shrink into himself and fight for his best friend. Then she watched him walk away, beaten but not broken, from another near disaster. That was when she realized she couldn't live without him. They were a unit, as undeniable as Abbey and Jed. They just weren't there yet. Surely, he would tell himself, he could bring himself to say the words to express how he was feeling. But he never could quite wrap his lips around them. The words seemed to hide at the back of his throat, leaving no sound to escape his lips when they moved. And then she would show up, and he would be lost in her again. They would laugh together and realize it was easier to laugh when they were together or every so often CJ would hint that she didn't sleep quite as well when she was in her own bed. They would cuddle on his couch, watching movies and ordering room service until they went to bed together. Later, he would watch her fall asleep, amazed that she could be with him and love him, despite how little of himself he was offering her. She would give him her heart, and would say the words he longed to one day say to her. And when he began to speak, she would stop his attempts-the stammering, the backtracking, and the inability to form a coherent sentence. "I don't need you to say the words to me right now. I just need you to be here," she would tell him every time. "I." "Shush," she would say before pulling him into a passionate kiss and another round of lovemaking. She always ended it this way, without fail. He did love her. There was never any doubt in his mind that he loved her. She was the most amazing woman he had ever met, and she loved him. He marveled at how a witty, brilliant woman like her could ever be with an old grouch like him. He was too ornery and too old for someone like her. But she liked him that way, or so she told him whenever he would bring up the topic with her. "You're my grouch, and you can never be too horny," she would smile, secretly wishing he'd stop putting himself down. She loved him; couldn't he see that? He'd grin wickedly and laugh at the way she held his heart so easily in her hand. "Ornery, but yeah, that too," he'd concede. And then he'd start to back-peddle again, wanting something more for them. It was at night, when he dreamed of where their lives would go, that he often tried to figure out ways to tell her that he never wanted her to leave his side, that they were meant to stay together forever-that he loved her.