Author's note: I have no idea where these stories come from. I'm just sitting there doing my Statistics homework, and then I'm typing out this randomness. If it sucks, then I guess let me know, but only if you're going to be nice about it. If you like it, I'd love to hear that too. Once again, typed up and posted in one fell swoop, because otherwise it'll just sit half-done on my hard drive forever and ever.

Disclaimer: Has a fanfic writer ever actually been sued? Fine, I'll play by the rules: NOT MINE.

Sara's years of experience have taught her a thing or two about guys. That makes her sound like a slut, but it's not like that at all. She's just gone through her fair share of boyfriends, and none of them tend to stick around for very extended periods of time. A few months here and there. Anyway, her middling number of sexual partners has taught her this: why do you want the light on? That's just weird.

Greg falls onto the bed, pulling her with him. They are both sans shirts, his zipper is down and hands are everywhere. Once they conquered her stubborn bra hook, the rest of the clothes were discarded with great dispatch.

"The light?" she mentions quietly.

"Leave it on. I want to see you."

They've taught her this, too: guy's like to be on top. Sure, they'll let you drive now and then, but they don't like it if you insist on it too much.

"Could it really be that Sara Sidle, who strikes fear into the hearts of men with a single look and never lets me drive to scenes, doesn't like to be on top?"

She hasn't thought about it in a long time; for so long, bottom had been default for her. She had assumed… But she is once again reminded of what happens when you assume.

And this: once you've gotten what you came for, the bed is either for sleeping in or sneaking out of and it certainly isn't the place to get chatty – sweet nothings are urban legends.

After a few minutes, their breathing slows and their heart rates crawl back towards normal. Greg begins disentangling his limbs from hers and sits up on the edge of the bed, but then leans back down, kisses her and whispers "Be right back." He slips off to the bathroom for a moment, then dives back under the covers.

"I have got to get carpeting in here! That floor is cold." She giggles, then yelps as he presses his cold toes against her leg. They wrestle for a moment, then settle back into the bed. Greg rolls onto his side and props his head up on his hand, studying her. She can't stop the blush that begins creeping over her under his scrutiny.

"What?"

He traces a line down her nose and over her lips, between her breasts and down to her bellybutton. "Never in all my dreams…" She quirks an eyebrow at him. "…appropriate or otherwise, did my imagination ever do you justice." Sara's stomach tightens and warmth washes over her. "…Plus, I never would have guessed about the freckles." She snaps out of her cliché and glares at him.

"I hate my freckles."

"I like them. They're cute."

She scootches a few inches away so that he can get the full effect of her glare. "Greg, no woman wants to be told that she's cute, especially not when she's naked."

"I didn't say you were cute, I said your freckles are cute. You, Sara, are smokin' hot."

She wants to wipe that smirk off his face, but she's smiling too, so it's hard to be intimidating. Greg decides to wait until later to tell her that sometimes she is cute, like when she bites her lip while puzzling over evidence or when she squeals when he tickles her. Right now, he's got other things on his mind… like an encore.

This, too: Cuddling really only happens in the movies, or is used as a tactic to get something.

Three times in one night is more than Sara's ever had and all she can handle. She collapses onto Greg's chest, catching her breath and listening to his heartbeat. A glimpse of the clock tells her that it's going to be a four-cup-of-coffee shift. He knows it, too, and is beginning to feel the late hour. He can't bring himself to close his eyes just yet though, because Sara is moving away from him.

"Hey," he whines. "What's that side of the bed got that I don't?"

"A pillow?"

"I'm soft! Look at this," he pokes his chest, "I'm practically made of down."

"If you're fishing for compliments on your manly physique, I refuse to indulge you."

He pouts. "Meanie."

"How old are you?"

"You'd better hope I'm at least 18, otherwise you've been a very bad girl."

She smacks him over the head with the aforementioned pillow, then throws it back to the other side of the bed and curls into his side, nestling her head on his chest and finding his heartbeat again.

And of course, this: "I love you" is for relatives and old married couples. We just had good sex, don't ruin it by getting all serious.

Greg switches off the light, then finds her hair again and resumes toying with it. He tugs gently on it. "Hey, Sara. You asleep?"

She snorts. "What kind of question is that?"

He smiles. "A perfectly legitimate one, thank you very much." She sighs but can't keep from grinning as she waits for him to continue. "So, are you?" Sara is torn between laughing and slapping him, so she does both. He laughs too.

"What do you want, Greg?"

The laughter stops, but she can still hear the smile in his voice when he says, "To tell you that I love you."

"I love you, too, you dork."