So, I found myself inspired yet again by the wonderful Lady Antebellum… their song Last Night Last is not only a beautiful song, but the lyrics fit so perfectly to how I could imagine things happening for Cal and Gillian. If you listen to the song (which you should, it's awesome) you'll see how fitting it could be, and how much of it I've stolen for my fic lol. Their songs just tell such stories, and this one I've made about Cal and Gillian. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Lie to Me, or Lady Antebellum, unfortunately.

Last Night Last

Can last night last? She glances at his sleeping form, watching his chest slowly rise and fall, and swallows a lump in her throat. Seeing a figure in the side of the bed that's been empty for so long is unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. She's wanted to be with someone for a long time, but never imagined that the person to come and fill that particular void in her life would be her best friend.

What was last night? It could have been a number of things. Too much red wine, too many lonely nights pressing in on them, the fear of how many more lonely nights there were to come. And somehow, somehow, they had gone from sharing a meal to sharing a bed. She couldn't even really remember how it had started, when she'd felt the shift in mood, what it was that made it clear that they were sliding towards something, something that there may very well be no going back from. Who had made the first move? She can't even recall that. Perhaps because it had been such a mutual thing; they'd both realised at the same moment where the evening's wine and talk and loneliness was taking them, and neither had prevented the inevitable. Plates were left in the sink unrinsed, glasses were abandoned on the table, his shirt was on the sofa, her dress on the stairs. They'd fallen into bed, drunk on wine, drunk on each other, giddy with the exhilaration of what they were finally allowing themselves to do. But she'd woken up sober.

Where do we go from here? They've been friends for so long; she knows the rules of the game, knows where they draw the line and how to stay on her side of it, knows where they stand, what roles they fit into. It's familiar, safe, comfortable, easy. Now things have changed. Caught between being lovers and friends, she doesn't know how they are going to move forwards, or even where they would be moving forwards to.

Is this the end, or is it the beginning? She isn't even sure what she wants. She knows, in this moment, she wants to reach out and touch him, wants to push the hair out of his eyes, wants to rest her head on his chest and listen to the thump of his heart. She can't stop images from invading her mind; a drawer of his clothes in the oak unit on the other side of the room, waking up to the smell of coffee because he'd risen before her and already made it, the pillows smelling as much of his aftershave as they did her perfume. And him, in her bed; she could get used to that. Not just the sex, but the presence of a body lying next to hers as she slept, a reminder that she wasn't so alone in the world, that she had someone to share her life with.

But what if things didn't work out? There were too many factors to consider, too many questions that remained unanswered, too many things that could go wrong. I don't even know how he feels. Taking a deep breath, she slowly pushes herself off the bed and walks towards the bathroom. She steps into the shower, turns the dial up higher, until the water is almost scalding her. She scrubs her face, runs her hands through the tangles of her hair, thoroughly soaks her skin and asks herself the same question she's been asking since the moment she woke up. Can last night last?

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Can last night last? he wonders as he wakes to find her gone. Panicking at first, he relaxes slightly when his ears adjust to the sound of the shower. But it's her house, where is she going to run to? Perhaps she left the bed because she wants to keep her distance. Perhaps she regrets last night, perhaps she wants to forget it ever happened. Perhaps she just isn't sure what to think. He's not sure he knows, either.

What does it mean? He wishes he had the answers; wishes he could see her face now, so he could try and read her, even though he's sworn a thousand time he won't. But he has; he's broken that rule before, however quickly she's stepped in to remind him not to, he has. And now that they've done this, the line seems a million miles away. He desperately wants to know what she's thinking, hoping that knowing her thoughts might help him make sense of his own, might make them less muddled. He's not used to this confusion. There might have been conflict before – jealousy of her marriage to Alec, anger that she was with someone who didn't deserve her, a flutter of excitement whenever their flirting became a little more playful… but he hadn't been expecting this. In one night, everything had changed. He was waking up in her bed, and he didn't have a clue where they were going to go from here, or what the hell he was supposed to do.

If I tell her I want to stay… Is that what he wanted? To stay in her bed, to stay in her life, as this - a lover, not just a friend? Could he even let himself entertain that thought? It seemed too dangerous, somehow, to start believing it could happen, to start to wish for it. Because there was every chance she would tell him that last night was a mistake, that it shouldn't have happened, that they needed to forget it ever had. She might say that because she really felt it was true, or perhaps just because she was scared; either way, if she was going to push him away, he sure as hell didn't have the strength to try and cling on, not if it was going to prove hopeless in the end.

All these years, we've been nothing but friends. Were there times he'd wanted more from her? Yes. Were there times he'd looked at her and seen not just his best friend and business partner, but a beautiful, attractive, sexy woman? Yes. Did he ever think things would progress and they would end up here, waking up in bed together? No. Technically, though, he reminds himself, you didn't wake up in bed together. He'd woken up and she'd already left the room. What had she thought when she'd opened her eyes, and saw him still sleeping? How long had she lingered before going into the bathroom? Had she watched him sleep, watched the rise and fall of his chest, drank in the sight of another body lying in her bed? Had his presence been a comfort to her? Or had she felt horrified when she realised she'd let him into her bed? Had she leapt up in shock, desperate to get away, run to the shower to wash away evidence of their coupling, feeling only shame and regret?

If he'd been the first one to wake, what would he have done? Watched her sleep? Traced his finger over her jaw and the curve of her throat? Settled his hand on her arm, felt the warmth of her skin? Now that he's thinking about it, he can't get the image out of his head, nor can he stop his mind from travelling to a place where that image would greet him every day. What would it be like to wake up next to her every day? Her scent on his skin, her breath in his ear, her body pressed against his, keeping him warm? What would it be like to open his eyes and see hers looking back at him, to be greeted every morning by her warm and easy smile? He also can't help wondering what it would be like to climb into bed with her every night, not because they'd been driven by alcohol or loneliness, but because they'd realised it was what they both wanted to do. Could they sustain a life of being business partners, best friends, and lovers? Was that just asking for too much? The question is still on his lips when he hears the bathroom door click open; too absorbed in his thoughts, he hadn't even noticed that the shower had been turned off.

Can last night last? They're about to find out.