"Do you think it's going to work?" Jaimie asked, sheet tucked under her arms, staring at the ceiling. "This whole FBI thing?"

They weren't cuddling, exactly. They didn't cuddle. It went with the whole just sex thing.

They were just stretched out, naked except for the sheet, in a bed that was a little too small for the two of them to keep their distance.

Dean shrugged, shifting to look at her. "She seems cool. I thought you liked her."

"I do," she said.

There marks on the ceiling, indentations, and she stared at them, studied them, memorized them until she could see them behind her eyelids when she closed her eyes.

"So what's the problem?" he muttered.

She sucked on her lip, contemplated the answer to a question she was pretty sure he didn't actually care about.

"What happens if she finds out who I really am. I mean…everybody can't be Carter, everybody's not just going to be cool with what I did."

"Maybe she won't find out."

She sighed. "That's your solution? Don't worry about it until it happens?"

"Yeah," he said. "I'm not real big on worrying about stuff that might never happen, and it's the middle of the damn night, Jaimie."

"Right," she said, slipping out of the bed, reaching for her clothes, scattered across the floor. "You're right. I should go."

He shrugged again, already moving into the middle of the bed. "You could stay."

She smirked. "Are you gonna cook me breakfast in the morning?"

"Sure," he answered, half asleep. "If you want."

"You aren't a little afraid that'll ruin the mystique?"

"Not one of my major concerns, no."

She laughed softly. "Some other time."