This is a lot shorter than my stories usually are. It's also unbetaed, because it just came to me this afternoon. I hope it's not too bad... I think you'll be able to tell though how important Gianna is for my stories. Can't thank her enough. Here we go.

Dressed

For him there is nothing quite like this, these moments. She told him she thought it was creepy, but he doesn't agree. She's adorable.

Lying on her stomach, her head tilted to her side so he can see her face. Her left arm is stuck underneath her head, her hand pushed under the pillow. She doesn't need the pillow otherwise, only to stick her hand underneath and have her long, dark hair spread out all over it. She prefers her own arm to rest her head on. Or sometimes his chest when she falls asleep.

Her left leg is stretched out underneath the comforter, only the outline visible. Her right knee lurks out from underneath, bend so her cold toes touch his thigh. The contact is very welcome by him and makes him crave for more at the same time. The longing is painfully familiar and he knows it will get worse over the course of the day.

He can always tell when she wakes up. Her toes press more firmly to his skin, seeking warmth. Her mouth opens just a bit like she wants to talk while still being asleep. From time to time her tongue peeks out between her teeth and if he was honest he had to admit that he always expects her to drool a bit. It never happens though.

Then her right hand, the one that rested next to her face so far, slowly glides over the sheets until it comes into contact with his chest. Her fingers are warm from her own breath and still always make his skin tingle as if they were ice cold and the electric impulse running through his body because of it.

When her eyelids start to flutter he knows that it will be only a few more seconds.

He dares touching her then, placing his free hand on hers on his chest, while he needs his right to prop up his head on it so he can look at her while lying on his side.

He smiles when she opens her eyes and blinks against the small beams of light that fly through the blinds into the room. Then she sighs, or sometimes groans- depending on the time and how long she slept, before she scoots her whole body closer to his, straightens her bend leg and snuggles into him while closing her eyes again. He welcomes her body nestled into his and lets his fingers glides through her hair in an attempt to comb through her tangled thick strands. He is aware that she can hear him breathing her in by the way her lips curl in a smile against his shoulder.

When the small knots stop him he strokes her bangs off her forehead instead and places a kiss on it.

They never speak during those moments and he sees it as their silent ritual. If they get interrupted or woken up any other way, he knows that they'll both be grumpy afterwards, frustrated that even those three sacred minutes in the morning are interrupted by life.

For her the routine ends there, she is awake then and starts her day, unaware that he is still wrapped up in her and in watching her.

While musing about it one morning he decided that she has two personalities. The one when she wakes up and is still in her pajamas - or whatever she slept in- if she slept clothed. The other is the one who starts surfacing when she dresses herself.

He is still in bed when she gets out of the shower and comes into the bedroom in just her underwear and with a towel on her head. She smells different then, his own scent washed off her skin and replaced by the rose scent of her body lotion.

Now the transformation begins. She's getting dressed.

First always comes her skirt. One of the tight pencil skirts she wears to work. They all end slightly above her knees, leaving just her lower thighs exposed. It's sexy, tight, and leaves not much to the imagination, but still it covers her up. In the morning she presses her foot to his thigh, seeking the contact, but as soon as the skirt is on he knows she will lecture him if he tries to touch her legs, sometimes even swats his hands away when it's particularly improper.

Then comes the blouse, that hides even more of her soft skin from his eyes. She won't nestle her body against his again for the rest of the day. He won't feel her breasts pressed against his own chest while she is wearing that blouse. It would crumble and those creases would be a speck on her otherwise perfect looks and façade.

She makes her way over to her dressing table and picks up her makeup. It has the same color as her skin, but hides her freckles. He doubts that anyone has ever noticed them beside him, but still she insists on hiding them. Her eyes get surrounded by black kohl. It makes them bigger and more expressive, but he can't help but miss the sleepy look in them- the one only he gets to see. Her eyes are lighter then, warmer and the small gold specs will only show again the next morning.

With the mascara her lashes are made optically longer next while he is still watching her.

With the blush she adds color to her cheeks that wouldn't be needed if she wouldn't have applied the makeup and he quietly sighs, remembering the moments when he makes her face flush that way without any artificial color. -A joke that makes her laugh so hard she can barely breath; whispered promises in her ears that make her blush in anticipation and embarrassment at the same time; after they made love and they are still breathing hard, but can't stop kissing each other, simply because it's never enough.

He gets out of bed before she applies the lipstick, so he can steal one last kiss, before he isn't allowed to kiss her anymore for the next eight hours- at least. She kisses him back, wants this kiss as much as he does, before her mask is firmly back in place with the first stroke of color on her lips.

While she blow dries her hair he takes a quick shower, hurrying so her won't miss the moment when she wraps up her hair in the tight bun, sticking the pins into it to keep them all in place. He itches to tousle her perfectly curled bangs so she would resemble more to the woman he woke up with in the morning. She puts hairspray on it and his chance is gone, dissolves in the tiny drops of the hairspray fog.

He dresses himself and runs a brush through his curls as longs as his hair is still damp. He knows she will make coffee meanwhile and eat something. So when he steps into the kitchen she has a mug with coffee waiting for him, sugar and cream already added. He takes it with a small smile, still refusing to speak and burst the bubble of their morning ritual.

The end is near and he knows it. He puts the empty mug in the dishwasher, takes his car keys and bag and reaches the hallway just in time to see her put on her suit jacket. This morning it's black.

Just one more step... one more... She puts on her heels, black as the jacket and high enough so she is as tall as him. Her power outfit is complete.

There she stands, his friend, his colleague, his supervisor and boss.

"Jack, let's go," she says and he follows her outside to the car, the spell now broken.

He sighs, a last rearing up before he accepts reality and is ready to step back into everyday life. He is a scientist now, a professional, a doctor three times over.

For a few minutes every day he slips and dives back into the world that will be denied until he sets the first foot back into their home at night. He finds solace in the fact that her eyes tell him that her mask slips as well and for seconds at a time she is back in their bedroom, waking up next to him.

The next morning she will be back, for real. His friend, confidant, lover, wife- short: The woman he loves. Undressed, without make up, her hair down, all cuddly and sleepy with imprints on her face left by the sheets and maybe one more hickey on her body. One more spot he will stare at.

Mornings are now his favorite time of the day... until she gets dressed.

The end.

This was written with Cadgins in mind, although Cam isn't mentioned with name. I hope one can tell ;)