( he's perennially polite, well-behaved in that particular aspect. even back in his rougher years, frank had still liked those drowsy morning-afters, waking up with someone's limbs tangled in his, the warmth of someone's presence beside him. it was a nice counterpoint to all those cold nights on rough terrain overseas. more recently he'd even tried to slip out from beth's place, but instead wound up buying the woman and her son pancakes and having breakfast together, almost like a family. typical. absolutely typical. for being a stealthy vigilante, he was terrible at sneaking out. the ghosting, though... )

Fair point.

( he accepts the affectionate rebuke for what it is. the tease hits its mark, but it doesn't sting this time, even if it's true; a well-deserved little jab. )

Haven't changed my number yet, at least. So I'm glad you reached out tonight. Even if it was just to make sure I'm still alive. ( there's a ruefulness to his voice. an awareness that that question straddles an uneasy balance between being a joke and being too-close-to-home, too: it's highly possible that one day she'd text him and he really would be dead and gone.

he takes another sip of his coffee. tries not to look too closely at that stray wisp of hair where it falls across karen's face; resists the urge to reach out and tuck it back behind her ear. he's already in enough trouble. there's already that quiet chiding voice in the back of his head, a siren going off at the mere sensation of her hand in his, and it sounds like: what the fuck do you think you're doing, castle. this conversation, just being around karen at all, feels dangerous in a way that firefights aren't. )