Brid and Takahiro made it back to the suite where they collapsed on the couch, dropping the bags on the floor. Brid was still in a daze from the whole shopping trip experience. If that's being a girl, its exhausting," Brid thought. "I really should probably go hang those dresses up," Brid said, not moving.

"May I ask something?" Takahiro was staring at her with a curious expression. At Brid's nod he continued, "Didn't you ever do stuff like this with your mom?"

Brid felt her heart jerk a little at his question, but it seemed a valid question. "My mom died when I was like 4 or 5," Brid said, fidgeting with the bags so she didn't have to meet his eyes. "I was raised by my dad, a Navy Seal." Brid started to grab the bags to carry them upstairs and unpack them, but Takahiro leaped in to help.

He carried them up and set them on the bed, while Brid unpacked them. She hung up the dresses in the closet, putting the two pairs of heals that she had also been talked into buy on the closet floor. As she reached into the swimsuit bag, Takahiro spoke.

"Why don't we go check out the pool," he said. "We hang out there until close to dinner time, relax for awhile. They will probably have some stressful fiasco planned to try and cash-in on us."

"I am sorry, I am not doing any interviews," Brid growled. "Reporters are scum."

"They can be annoying but I wouldn't necessarily go that far," Takahiro said his dark eyes watching her like a hawk. "Pain causes you to speak harshly about them."

Brid sank down on the bed, staring at Takahiro in shock. She stared down at the carpet but it faded from view. Images flashed through her mind, the man in uniform waiting for her at their base house when she returned from school, the flag covered casket, the blinding camera flashes and reporters badgering questions. It wasn't until she felt Takahiro's arm slip around her shoulders that she became aware of the tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

"When I was 13, I came home from school to find a stern man in uniform waiting. He told me that dad had been killed on a mission, something about a hostage rescue situation. He told me how dad was a hero and his actions had saved anyone else from dying. When the press found out, there was never a peaceful moment after that. They were everywhere even at the funeral constantly badgering with questions, only concerned with getting their bloody stories." Brid pulled away and got up, walking over to pull a small wooden box from the nightstand drawer.

She opened the box and stared down into it before handing it to Takahiro. Inside, nestled on a bed of blue velvet, was a medal and next to it a pair of dog-tags on a metal chain. "He was awarded the Medal of Honor and sent of with a hero's funeral."

"Where did you live after that?" Takahiro asked closing the box and handing it respectfully back to Brid.

"I spent the next three years bouncing from foster home to foster home. Each one promising me privacy and safety and then selling out my location to the press for their five minutes of fame," Brid spat slapping the railing. "The press would come mobbing and badgering. I would run until Child Protective Services found me again, then off to another foster home. As soon as I was sixteen I left, never stayed in one place for too long."

"Now I can see why you dislike the press," Takahiro said softly. "As far as I am concerned, you never have to speak to them unless you want to."