Sunlight shines through the cracks in the blinds. Naked limbs tangle themselves with one another.

She awakes with a yawn. A turn within the arms that hold her have her longing for time to rewind.

Strong arms wrapped around her now hold her tighter. A face buries into her hair.

It's no fair. Arms wrap around a torso.

She isn't supposed to realize that she needed him on the same night that he announced his departure.

She isn't supposed to want to wake up like this every morning—especially with him.

She isn't supposed to become accustomed to his warmth, his smell, him as easily as she does—not again, at least.

She wasn't supposed to care.

She isn't supposed to be ready to cry her eyes out.

She knows that this would be the first and last time something like this was going to happen.

"What time's your flight?"

"Four."

A couple of fleeting moments in his embrace, at best.

She's well aware of the fact that she's torturing herself. She doesn't want to think of the future—distant or near.

Soon enough he'll be a memory locked away with all the others.

All she wants is him, in this moment, with no past, present, or future attached to it.

She decides to spend the rest of the day with him—in bed. Her stomach has other plans.

He let out a roar of laughter once he realized that it was her stomach and not his that cries out for attention.

She gets out of bed with a huff—but not before slugging him in the arm. She tries to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks.

The plaid shirt previously on the floor is now worn by her. She throws the pants at him soon after.

"I'm making breakfast. Feel free to join me."

And so, after slipping into his pants (boxers no where to be found), he heads down to the kitchen with her.

It's eerily quite in her house, her mother out on a trip for the weekend, or so she explained to him the night before, after she stopped him from leaving by placing her lips atop his.

They decide on waffles. Waffles and bacon.

He laughs at the irony of it all—a Jew cooking bacon—but doesn't say anything against it.

She manages to get the mix out.

He gets handsy shortly after causes them to forget about the bacon and create a breakfast alternative of their own on the counter.

He's panting when they're done (and so is she) and he's actually pretty glad that he never found those boxers.

For some reason she's got a bit of syrup on her neck (odd, since they never actually made the waffles).

He doesn't hesitate to make sure she's good and clean before actually letting her finish making their breakfast.

They eat in silence, yet they can't seem to tear their gazes away from one another.

Periodically, they look down to check out their waffles.

On occasion, she misses her mouth (he can't help but laugh at this—she's never seen him this happy).

Their forks battle soon. He's decided he's had enough of the waffles on his plate. Hers might be just a bit better.

It's close to an hour later when they're all done with breakfast and begin cleaning up the kitchen.

They leave it cleaner than what it was before.

It all seems to pass by in the blink of an eye.

Pretty soon he's announcing that he has to leave—last minute packing and all—and he's shrugging into his jacket (he doesn't dare ask for his shirt back).

She walks him to the door. Fingers are interlaced. Solemn expressions grace two faces.

It feels too much like a final goodbye.

"Good thing I parked in your drive way last night, huh?"

It's a pathetic excuse for a joke. He's well aware of it.

She laughs either way, either out of nerves or because she knows that if she doesn't, she'll end up crying.

"Guess I'll see you around, Fabray."

She nods, wiping the tear that seemed to have fallen out of her eye with the sleeve of his shirt.

He gives her a nod, his alternative form of a verbal good-bye.

He turns and takes a step out. She calls out to him.

A quick turn. Arms wrap around his neck.

"Be safe out there."

It's not an 'I love you.' Not a 'stay' either. But it's all she can give him right now. He takes it for all it's worth.

A nod. One more kiss upon her lips.

A final glance. He walks off into that truck.

He steps in. He turns the ignition on.

She shuts the door.

She falls to the ground.

She hides her head in her hands.

The tears take over.

It takes him a while to pull out of that driveway.

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