Nancy wakes at three a.m., abruptly, with no transition at all. Bess and George are asleep in the other bed in their hotel room, Bess snuffling gently into the pillow, George's arm flung out so her knuckles brush the bedside table.

Every single time she thinks it's all in her head, she's imagining it, this time it'll be the last.

Every single time she stays in the same place Ned does, she dreams about him.

Dreams.

She rakes her hair back from her face, gasping in a quiet breath, careful not to wake her friends, even though the rattle of the air conditioning unit in the corner is more than enough to mask any sound quieter than an air strike. From the balcony she could see the ocean, across the thin strip of highway, and even in the room the air is unpleasantly humid. And claustrophobic.

She's too close to him. Too close. He's on the other side of the hotel, two floors down, and he's still too close. She can still feel the warmth of his palms as his hands drift down her arms, his fingers tangling in the hem of her shirt as he helps her take it off, his teeth grazing her shoulder.

"Come to bed." He unfastens her jeans, sliding his hand along her hip, against the band of her panties. "Come to bed with me, Nan."

She presses her palms against her bare thighs and fights the urge to climb out of her own skin. Just a dream. Ned is a perfect gentleman and he would never challenge what they have, so...

And she'd never say yes. Even though in her dream all she had to do was give the barest nod of her head and he was on her, his mouth hot and demanding against hers, his hands all over her.

She shivers at the memory, stifling a bark of laughter as she imagines sharing this with him. He complains enough about mixed signals, but she feels just as wounded by it all. She hates talking to Ned about her feelings, hates talking about the future. They love each other and that's enough. This is enough. Sex would only complicate it.

And he would take it the wrong way. He'd take it as a sign that she was ready to make some deep commitment to him, to this. She's felt a deep empathy for every runaway bride she's ever heard of, every woman who ends a long-term relationship without looking back. She hates being tied to this. She hates that no matter what, his sheer proximity is somehow able to make her imagine him as she's never seen him before, demanding, possessive, damned assertive. She hates to wake up like this, wet, awareness of him buzzing in her veins.

It's spring break and the hotel rooms are full, so she dresses, awkwardly in the dark, uncomfortably aware of every stride she makes, and tries four soda machines before she finds one that hasn't been emptied for mixers and chasers. Diet orange soda.

At night, like she's some ridiculously sensitive antenna, the interference clears. No more background noise. She usually has the case to distract her, there's always a case, and it's a relief to have some sort of buffer between them, but not now. A drop of fluorescent orange soda trails down her chin and she licks it away, and...

And he's there, gazing at her, a little unsteady on his own feet, and she feels a swift blush rise and climb all the way to her hair. Tongue. Hands.

He's in a tight white undershirt and jeans, hair rumpled, and those eyes, there's no way they can be anything other than bedroom eyes.

She's going to lose her mind if she doesn't touch him, so she does, and he takes the drink out of her hand, lifting it to his lips for his own sip.

"Couldn't sleep?"

She shrugs. "It was this or a..." cold shower. "Very long run," she finishes lamely.

He smiles and touches her forehead. "Always working, huh," he teases, but his voice has that low gravelly quality to it, sending a shiver straight to her hips. Lose her mind or not, she'll do something incredibly stupid if she stays this close to him.

"Wish I could turn it off." God. She's wearing the most boring underwear ever. Not that it matters.

"I think I could help," he says, with one of those sexy little smiles, and wraps one arm around her, and his lips taste like orange soda, and his tongue burns against hers. She buries her hand in his hair and holds his head to hers long past the time he would normally pull away.

"Nan."

She nips at his earlobe, and she's trembling a little when she finally speaks. She blames the night for this, blames the slick tender awareness between her thighs, blames every soul-scalding kiss they've ever shared, and knows that if he hadn't wandered from his own bed for a late-night drink, this wouldn't have happened, might never have happened, and that decides it for her even when everything else can't. The apex of his attraction and the nadir of her self-control. She wants to walk away.

Just not as much as she wants this.

"Take me to bed," she whispers, every molecule of her body pricking, waiting for his answer. He pulls back to gaze at her and she keeps her expression steady somehow.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she nods, and giggles, actually giggles at the end of it. She's always hated when she can see so nakedly on his face what he's feeling, but for now she's thankful, grateful for it. He sweeps her up and she wraps her legs around him, laughing at the sheer delight on his face as he carries her to the elevator.

"You must've had the same dream I had," he tells her, their faces inches apart.

"Maybe," she smiles. "If you dreamt about abandoned caves and pirate gold."

"Definitely... not."

Her smile widens into a grin. "Good."