A/N: Just something floating in my poor, cold affected brain. Another overused plot, straight from a paperback romance novel :)

"I'm breaking up with you..." He is sitting on the bed, his back to her, buttoning up his shirt, and jerkily turns to her after her words.

"I'm sorry, what?" He is giving her an attentive look. She is dishevelled, mad orange curls sticking out, no wonder, they just spent four hours having sex. She is pressing a sheet to her chest. It always seems very funny to him. She is very passionate in bed, a real tigress, inventive, curious, brave, insatiable, but before some strange switch turns off her sensible side, and very quickly after they are done, she is shy and has endlessly low self-esteem, at least when it comes to her looks. Even she herself doesn't doubt her worth as a journalist.

"I think we should break up… No, the first one was better." There are feverish red spots burning on her cheekbones. "I'm breaking up with you."

"Why?" He honestly doesn't understand. They have amazing relationships. They have dinners, go to her favourite opera together, and have remarkable sex.

"Does it matter?" Her delicate nose twitches. "I have made the decision. It was great but now I'm done. I am hoping it will end without any emotional discomfort, and we can go back to our previous professional relationships." He is suddenly livid. He shouldn't be livid, he hasn't been that emotionally involved.

"And when did you arrive at this decision?" He doesn't know why he is asking, it doesn't matter.

"Last week," he tone is even, but she fidgets with a corner of the sheet.

"Wren, I will be direct with you. I don't want us to stop seeing each other, it was very..." He suddenly can't find an adequate word, and he is an editor after all.

"Convenient?" Her tone is sarcastic. "Comfortable? Satisfactory?" He is studying her, frowning.

"What changed, Wren?"

"Nothing." She's lying.

"Wren..." That's his intimidating tone, it always works on people. But with her it suddenly has a reverse effect. She squares her shoulders.

"I don't owe you any explanation. From the start it was a convenient arrangement, you wanted no strings attached sex from the start, and now I'm done." Something scrapes at his mind, and he is thinking it over. Something in her sentence makes him pause. And then he gets it.

"I wanted no strings attached sex… And what did you want, Wren?" She blushes harder. He seems to be getting to the core of it.

"I don't know… I didn't know then. I just couldn't say no… You are so..." She gestures all over him. For a second her eyes linger on his half open shirt, he knows she is fond of his chest, and he cocks a brow. She is a contradiction, smart and confident at work, rather timid in everyday life, she can't even return a dish to the kitchen in a restaurant, she is the best sex he's ever had but sometimes she behaves like a schoolgirl with a crush. He really doesn't do relationships.

"Wren, we both knew where this was going..."

"I'm not asking you to change it!" She suddenly almost yells, and his brows jump up. She starts clumsily trying to get out of the bed, tangled in sheets, it's a five star hotel, and the beds are rather large. But then again she is ickle. Tiny narrow feet dangle in the air, she is also trying to keep the sheet pressed to her small breasts, and altogether she looks like a bird that fell out of its nest. "We both knew… You are right, and we both knew it'd end. So here it is…" She managed to finally get to the edge of the bed. "It's ended, I'm ending it." He looks at her face, trying to understand if she is hiding tears. If she is, then his assumption is right. She is emotionally involved. He doesn't do relationships. She suddenly looks straight at his face, and he sees her eyes burning and her red lips pressed into a stern line. She definitely isn't hiding tears. "Can you please leave while I'm in a shower?" He nods automatically, and she disappears into the bathroom. He picks up his jacket from the floor and leaves.

XXX

A week later he realizes he is going mad. He has been an insomniac since he was thirteen, but now he is not getting even those three hours per night he is used to. He tosses and turns, eventually he just gets up and works. He refuses to link his agitated state with Miss Wren Elizabeth Leary. He is not a lovesick teenager, he is not a husband going through a divorce, he has no bloody reason to miss her at night. They have never even slept together, if one doesn't count that one night when they fell asleep by accident after six hours of energetic shagging. She is not affecting his bloody sleep.

He misses her obviously. It was fun, she was fun. It wasn't the sex exclusively, she was interesting to talk to, they had fun. Bloody hell, how many times can he say fun in his head? He understands the problem, the rest of his life is work. It's challenging, thrilling, he is an ambitious man, but the hours with her were light, and… bloody fun. She accepted him as he was, and he always thought it was because they both knew it was casual and would end eventually. And now it did. He wonders if he was wrong. Maybe, it was so good for quite the opposite reason. Maybe, she started falling in love with him, and that's why she was so accepting and warm and… He gently bangs his head to his desk. He doesn't do relationships, and his sleep problem has nothing to do with her.

He breaks three weeks later. It is three o'clock in the morning, he pushes his feet in random sand shoes and rushes out of his flat in the old tee and denim he was wearing pretending to work. He catches a cab and half an hour later, he is so sleep deprived he has no energy to doubt his actions, he is in front of her building. He is dizzy from the mad rush through the night city, with lights flashing in front of his eyes, making his head spin, and he buzzes her flat. His skin is burning, there is some disgusting pressure in his temples, and he just wants to sleep. There is no answer, and suddenly even his clouded mind realizes how moronic his behaviour is. His behaviour can be pretty much seen as sleep walking. He doesn't know what he is doing here, what he is going to say, he doesn't even understand what it is that he is trying to achieve. And there is a chance she is not even here. She might be somewhere else. And then his feverish brain readily pushes a lovely picture in front of his eyes. Her, sleeping curled in the arms of August Anderson, the travel photographer who's been circling her for the last five months like a bloody predator. John carefully bangs his head to the wall of her building and drills his finger into the button again. He is pressing his hot forehead to the stone of the wall, his index finger on the button, and clearly thinks that it is the first time in his life when he is behaving like a moronic, imbecilic, half-witted pillock with no dignity and seemingly any concern of what people are going to think of him.

"What the bloody fuck is wrong with you?" Her enraged voice through the buzzer shakes him out of his stupour, and he realizes he kept his finger on the button for at least fifteen seconds. "It is fucking four o'clock at night!" She is yelling. His mouth is so dry that he starts coughing instead of talking. "I'm calling the coppers!"

"Wren..." He croaks, "It's John. I need to talk to you." There is silence on the other end for a bit, and he clearly imagines how she anxiously twitches her nose. That makes him chuckle.

"Are you bladdered?" There is no judgement in her tone, she is just inquiring.

"No," he is still pressing his forehead to the wall, the cool stone feels nice to his burning skin. "But I'm heavily sleep deprived. Let me in, Wren." She is pondering it, and then he understands how it looks from her perspective. "I promise I'm not drunk, not on drugs or don't have any devious intentions. Let me in, Wren." The door clicks, and he rushes up the stairs. If he stops and thinks, he won't be able to say anything. She is standing in the parlour of her flat, her arms wrapped around her. She is wearing flannel PJs with Tardises all over them, and her mad curls are a halo around her head. He's never seen her without make-up, professional clothes and sexy lingerie. She is also very short, and in his unfocused, muddled mind she is gorgeous.

"If you broke up with me because you started falling for me, I want to get back together and start again," he blurts it out, and she tilts her head. He knows he is not saying it right. He pushes his hands in the pockets of his denim, and realizes he is in a power stance, it might look menacing, but he is just trying not to topple over on her floor. The carpet looks bloody comfortable. "I mean, I miss you. If you want more, we can do more... I can try." It's still all wrong but he doesn't have the right words. What is he to say? He is in love with her too? Is she? Is he? His head swims, and suddenly she laughs.

"John, you are hardly standing, are you sure, you are not arsed up?"

"Wren," his tone is pleading, "Let's talk, OK? And then I can go home and finally sleep. I'm not even sure it's because of you, but I need to try..." He rubs his face with his palms, "I'm not making any sense..."

"No, you aren't," she seems endlessly amused, and he growls. She is standing in front of him, warm, small, familiar, and he feels he is going to either cry or strangle her now. Or fall down and sleep on her very soft looking carpet. And then she steps forwards, picks up his hand and pulls.

"Let's go, duffus," she is leading him, and he follows her like a donkey. He's never been inside her flat. He would pick her up, sometimes go up to the flat, but never further than the parlour. She'd grab her clutch and a shawl or a coat, and they would leave. She brings him into her bedroom, a large cool room, it smells like her perfume, and her cool finger lie on the skin of his waist under his tee. He stares down at her in confusion, and then his belt clicks.

"Wren, I'm really not sure I can perform at the moment..." He is taking shallow breaths in, greedily catching her smell in the air. She giggles.

"Get in the bed, you plonker. You need to sleep." She opens the buttons on his trousers and pushes them down. He is still staring at her agast. She picks up his tee and pulls it up. "You have to bend, darling, you are too tall." He obediently does that, and she giggles again. And then she pushes him, and since his trousers are tangled around his ankles he plops on her bed. "Common, climb in." He suddenly comes back to life and pushes the trousers off, together with his shoes. She pulls his arm, and they crawl under the blankets. The sheets are cooling his skin, and he is in Heaven, she makes him spoon her, and he wraps around her. Her smell is amazing, fresh and floral, he pushes his nose in her neck under the ticklish soft curls and emits a long raspy sigh. She chuckles and settles in his arms comfortably.

"John, if you don't mind I'll take the bottoms off. You are like a furnace." He hums in agreement, the world already swimming away, and the last thing he does before everything goes black, is he places a small kiss on the cool skin at the back of her delicate, vulnerable neck. He slightly opens his lips, he needs a bit of taste, it is just a perfect addition to the fragrance of her hair and the feeling of her body in his arms.

XXX

He wakes up in an empty bed, well-rested, he checks his watch, he slept for so long seemingly for the first time in years. He sits up leaning on the headboard of her vintage oak bed. He quickly evaluates her countryside cottage styled bedroom, all demure and innocent, and realizes that is absolutely not what he expected. On the other hand, he should have. That is the real her, sweet and smart. The events of the last night come back, and he tenses. He quickly estimates his option and decides to play it by ear. Now that his mind is clear, he is slightly embarrassed. And when he is embarrassed, he always gets the same reaction. He gets angry. He clenches his jaw and feels defensive. But before he manages to organize his thoughts, she steps out of the bathroom in a simple navy coloured robe, with a towel wrapped around her head. She is pale, but it's probably the lack of make up. She freezes and looks at him.

"It's Saturday," her voice is slightly teasing, "You have just committed the worst faux pas in non committed relationships. You stayed over. And it's Saturday." She is thoroughly enjoying his discomfort.

"Why did you break up with me, Wren?" She comes to the bed and sits on its edge. She smells unfamiliar, her shampoo and soap have always been hidden beneath her perfume, he would sometimes catch the traces of this new smell on the hair. He likes it more.

"I had a pregnancy scare last month. And I realized... I didn't want any of that. Sex comes with too much responsibility, and especially with you… Considering how much of it is going on," she chuckles joylessly, "And I obviously started thinking what I would have done… And whether I would have told you… And so on, and so on… Well, you can imagine. So I thought it's best just to stop it." She unwraps the towel, and her wet hair falls on her shoulders. It's darker when it's wet, he's never seen it this way. She is looking sadly at him. "It just wasn't working for me anymore, John."

So no feelings, he was wrong. No falling in love, no sudden desire to marry him or have his kids, no lazy breakfasts on Sundays, no "daddy, I don't want to go to school" or "I love you more than life itself," no kites in a park, no sex in the morning half asleep, and what the fuck is he even thinking about?

He needs to get up, put on his trousers and leave. He is pinned to his spot and can't move a muscle. She is drying her hair with her towel, and he doesn't understand why he is embarrassing himself even further.

"Did you hear anything of what I said yesterday, Wren?" He honestly has never done it before. He's always cared about his dignity too much. He venomously asks himself, whether he is planning to beg, if she rejects him now. She chuckles and lowers her towel.

"Sort of. You were slightly..." She wiggles her fingers near her temple.

"I asked you to get back together and try something different, something more." She puts a towel on her bed and folds her hands on her knees. He feels like he is going to choke her now. He doesn't do relationships, doesn't she understand?

"No, John, I'm sorry but I can't. I can't do something more." He literally hears his heart beat once, then pause, then beat again. He congratulates himself, he is a character in a love novel, his heart just broke, and he is going to leave her flat trembling but dignified.

"Fuck you, Wren," he jumps out of her bed and starts clumsily jumping around her bedroom trying to pull up his jeans. "If you want to be a coward, help yourself. But don't tell me you don't feel anything for me," one of his legs is finally in, and he sways, "The way you fuck me, I know you fell for me.. It's not just sex, and you know it… We both know what we feel..." He grabs the other trouser leg, but he is too livid to figure it out, and he swirls on one spot, "We could be good for each other, we could..." He jerks the waist up, cuts himself under his knee and plops on the floor.

"We could what, John?" Her tone is calm, and she is looking at him. "Date? You can't even pronounce this word, and do you honestly expect me to believe that you are capable of anything more that just casual shag?" She is losing her reserve, and he is staring at her from the floor. "You did sooooo well in this casual thing! You haven't made a single mistake!" She is raising her voice more and more, and her eyes are bright. "Never stayed over, never even entered my flat before last night, no oversharing personal details! You always remembered to remind me of the conditions and so very smartly ignored that time I slipped! Lovely, John, an absolutely perfect performance!" He feels his jaw slack, she is yelling at him. She jumped up, and now she is looming over him, flailing her hands, and she is yelling at him. No one ever yells at him.

"What time that you slipped?"

"God, I can't believe you! Are you going to pretend you didn't hear me say that I loved you two weeks ago? We fucked, I came and mumbled it like a moron!" Her voice is shrieky, and he gulps. She is terrifying. And the most beautiful woman he has ever seen in his life. And still a bit terrifying.

"I didn't hear you," his voice is small. She growls, it's rather unconvincing, and stomps into the bathroom. She slams the door behind her, and for a few moments there is dead silence in both rooms. And the he hears her laugh in the bathroom. He jerks his legs, but apparently today is not a trousers day. He shakes them off, clumsily gets up and walks to the bathroom door. He knocks, and she starts laughing louder. "Wren?" She pushes the door from inside, and it almost hits him to the face. She is sitting on the floor, and he kneels in front of her.

"Did I just profess my love to you using the words 'fuck' and 'moron' in the same sentence?" He is smiling widely.

"Yes, it was glorious," he cups her face, and her long black lashes flutter. He likes them more without makeup. "Can we go to bed now?"

She was smiling to him too, but now she frowns. "No, John."

"Wren?"

"I don't want 'something more with you', I'm sorry it just doesn't cover it, I get it, this whole conversation..."

"I want kids," he interrupts her, and she chokes on her words. "Not now, but I mean we are not teenagers either, so pretty soon I guess," he quickly counts their age in his head. He always wanted a lot of kids. And then he thinks that he actually never wanted any, but in the last few nights, in his bladdered brain there were always four of them, three boys and a girl. "That's me answering to your pregnancy scare. If you get knocked up we are going to be exuberant and will immediately start arguing about colours for the nursery room. But right now I want something more," she is staring at him, "To be precise I want everything. All of it, with you. We are going to date, shag, see each other, be in relationships, whatever other terms there are in there... All of it, and will probably eventually get married and will try for a baby. OK? And now just shut up and get in the bed, OK?" Her eyes are brilliant, and she smiles widely.

"OK."

"Great," he pulls her in and kisses her. Her palms lie on his chest, and she moans into his mouth. He shortly thinks he was lucky he was not wearing his shirt when they were having this conversation, really worked at his advantage, and then he pushes her on the floor and opens her robe. Here she is, her radiant pale skin, small perky breast that he immediately sucks on, and she arches, and the bed is honestly too far, and then he is kissing her stomach and then lower, she raspily cries out, and he covers her sex with his mouth. His tongue swirls over the soft pink lips, and she is murmuring something.

"I want you, please… John.. I want you inside..." He hums and continues caressing her with his tongue. He missed her so much. He knows she normally would also need one finger inside her, but he only just slides his hand on her thigh, when she comes, her whole body violently shaking, and he adores this moment! Her small hands thrash on the floor, and she is making soft mewling noises. And then her fingers fly to his hair, and she pulls. "Please, please, common..."

He slides up her body, shakes off his pants, looms over her, and she catches his mouth. Her legs wrap around his hips, and she insistently rubs her wet curls to his cock. He groans, and then presses his tip to her. He almost starts pushing in, when he realizes that for the first time in his life he forgot about protection.

"Durex, Wren..."

"I'm on a pill, please… Common…" She lifts her pelvis from the floor, spurring him, and he will question in later. He thrusts into her, and she makes a low satisfied noise. "God, finally..."

He is moving in her, into her, with her, and suddenly her remarkable eyes open, they lock their stares, and she smiles to him, he slides into her again, and again, and she is hot and tight, just as he remembered, or better, or better than anything, and he picks up her leg and hikes it up higher. He catches her mouth, her tongue darts to meet his, and it is her, her taste, her smell, the warmth, and he is home. He comes with the loud growl, the last few seconds before it his mind is completely blank, just the sensations, and the drive, and the pleasure.

He is lying on her, she seems completely fine with it.

"Am I squishing you?"

"A bit," her voice is lazy.

"Why are you on a pill?" She is quiet, they have always used condoms. "Wren?"

"It's less risky." He raises above her and gives her a stern look.

"You broke up with me, Wren. Whom was it for then?"

"Seriously?" She tries to look indignated. "Your cock is literally still in me, and we are already having a tiff?"

"My cock is very comfortable, thank you very much, that's my first shag without a condom, I'm overwhelmed with awe and gratitude, and we just professed our feelings to each other, and it's the happiest day in my life. And we will go back to celebrating it, after you tell me why you are on a pill." She blinks several times, obviously processing his machine gun speech, and he sees red. "Did you shag August Anderson?"

"No!" She barks back and then pouts. He's never seen her pout. They had different sort of relationships. He likes the pout, it's adorable. And she didn't shag August Anderson. "I was going to," she says with a challenge in her voice. "I got the pills, and we went out, but I couldn't..." He is keeping his face under control not allowing the stupid happy grin spread. "He walked me home, and I chickened out. Happy?" She hisses at him, and he grins and nods.

"Very." She is studying him but then gives up and smiles too.

"Me too. And now get out of me. I need another shower. Apparently it's very sticky without a Durex. Who knew." He laughs and carefully moves off her.

"How about a shared shower?"

"Oh my, today is the day of firsts, isn't it?" She gives him a cheeky grin, and he gets up and scoops her in his arms.

"Oh you just wait, little one," he picks her up under her arms and places her in the bath. She giggles, and he closes the curtain behind himself.