The Portland air smells different from New York - cleaner, with more pine and less concrete. I can hear the distant sounds of a city waking up, but it's quieter here, gentler. Not better, exactly, just different.

Parker's apartment building has the distinctive scent of Eliot's cooking lingering in the halls. She led me here last night after I found Foggy and Karen asleep on the couch, their breathing slow and even with alcohol and exhaustion.

"Guest room," she said, but we both knew this wasn't a guest room when we walked in. This room smells of her - of all three of them, really. Parker's unique scent layered with Hardison's cologne and Eliot's aftershave. It's a scent of family, something I've only ever really smelled in Foggy's presence.

And now I'm sitting on the edge of her bed, the silk sheets surprisingly cool against my hands. Parker sits across from me, cross-legged, Mr. Rabbit - ragged after all these years - between us like an old friend.

"You need this," she says suddenly, without preamble. "The break."

I smile faintly. "Is that why you sent the tickets? Or was it to show off your new city?"

"Both," she admits. "You work too hard, Matt. You don't sleep enough."

"And you're one to talk?"

She grins, that rare, genuine smile that always takes me by surprise. "I sleep great. Now that I have people."

The silence that falls between us isn't awkward. It never is. It's the kind of silence that exists only between people who've known each other too long to feel the need to fill the space with words.

"You staying long?" she asks, reaching out to touch the edge of my sleeve, a rare deliberate physical gesture from her.