“Sanders brought you here,” she whispered. He shook his head.

“You brought me here.”

She turned her back to him, trying to remember how to breathe. How come every time she felt like she was gaining a grip on life, Jameson fucking Kane had to pop back up!? She kept trying to let go. Why wouldn't he? Tate reached out, pressed the button for floor seven.

“Sorry,” she managed to choke out as the elevator started to lift. “Were you getting out at the lobby?”

“I was. I don't mind the ride.”

She nearly fell over.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. She felt his hand on her shoulder, forcing her to turn around to face him.

“We have unfinished business,” he informed her.

Tate would have done anything, at that moment, to get out of that elevator. So many thoughts were pinging around in her head. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to slap him across the face. She wanted to throw herself at him, so badly. She wanted Jameson to erase every single one of Nick's touches. She wanted to tell him that she had slept with Nick, see if it would scare him off for good. See if it wouldn't bother him at all. Luckily, she didn't have to say or do any of that – the elevator lurched to a stop and the doors slid open.

“I thought we said everything we had to say,” she told him, breezing out into the hallway. He followed her.

“I thought so, too. I was wrong,” he replied.

“Really? You seemed pretty satisfied, last time I saw you,” she reminded him.

“I was angry. You have a tendency to make me that way. I was hoping we could talk,” he said.

“When have we ever 'just talked'?” she laughed.

“We could start. Right now,” he suggested. She stopped in front of her door, her hands shaking so badly she couldn't get her key card in the slot. He took it from her, opened her door. She glared at him.

“Too late. I said everything I wanted to say, so I'm sorry if you -,”

“You said you loved me. That doesn't just go away,” he told her. She blinked at him in surprise.

“Yeah, and I also told you it was a lie.”

“That's a lie. You loved me. You love me right now. Why can't you just admit it?” he asked.

He was so calm, it was making her uncomfortable. Jameson was never calm. He was a walking ball of energy, full of spice and vinegar. Always scratching, always lashing. Never calm. Tate didn't know what to do with this Jameson.

“Because,” she breathed, then cleared her throat. “It doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“Well, not to me. Not anymore. You told me to figure shit out. I did. I don't want this,” she told him, feeling bold. He laughed.

“That baby isn't mine. It was wrong of you not to trust me, but I'm willing to forgive that,” he told her. She felt enraged.

“How magnanimous of you. I know the baby isn't yours, and that still doesn't change how I feel about you,” she snapped at him.

“Good, because you're in love with me.”

“Stop saying that!” she yelled at him.

“Why? Because it's true?”

“Stop it!” Tate was almost shrieking.

“Tate, Sanders and I drove here. Do you have any idea what that's like? I thought I was going to have to kill him and dump his body in Oklahoma,” Jameson told her. She was stunned.

“Why on earth would you drive here!?” she exclaimed.

“Because. I had to see you, but I needed time, to work some stuff out. And when we go home, I wanted more time with you, so we could work some stuff out,” he explained. Her rage level went to Defcon Four.

“I am not going anywhere with you, let alone driving across America. Fuck that. I'd dump my own body in Oklahoma,” she snorted. Jameson laughed.

“I missed you, Tatum,” he chuckled. She glared.

“Oh really? On a scale of one to ten, how much -,”

“Eleven.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Stop being cute. You're never cute. It's weird,” she told him. He laughed again.

“I'm flattered that you think I'm cute, Tate. What do you want from me? I asked you once, a long time ago. What can I do, to fix this? What do you need from me?” he asked, his voice simple. Sweet. Calm. Her eyes welled up with tears.

“What if I want babies, Jameson?” she whispered. He looked equal parts shocked and sick.

“Excuse me? You just had a fucking fit over the idea of Pet having my baby, and now you want to have it?” he demanded. She took a deep breath, shaking her head.

“No. I don't know if I ever want kids. But what if I did? What if I want to get married? What if I want a big wedding, a white fucking dress, and all my friends and family to sit in a church and watch me become Mrs. Kane?” Tate asked.

Sick. He definitely looks more sick than shocked.

“You have never mentioned any of this before,” he pointed out. She nodded.

“I know. Petrushka, and then Ellie .., it all made me think. I always thought you were too much for me. Turned out you weren't quite enough,” she managed a laugh.

“So. You want to get married. You want kids. Any sort of time frame for me to work with?” Jameson asked, clearing his throat nervously. Tate had never really seen him look nervous.

“Jameson, you won't ever want those things. And that's okay. It's just not okay with me,” she stressed. “I don't want to waste any more of my time.”