Author's Note: This is the shortest thing I've ever written but I just enjoyed the idea. Inspiration comes from Drake's "Hate Sleeping Alone." I haven't written in forever, it's this block in my head it's weighing me down. I have so many great things I've started and need the muse to pick back up. Almost there though. So expect more soon. Enjoy?

She's laughing. She's laughing so hard that her eyes are pricking with tears and her stomach's nearly caved. She's laughing and it's never felt more amazing.

He's standing stark naked in her bedroom—with the exception of his cornflower blue boxers—trying to hit his "dougie" while her iPod plays on the dock.

It's in this moment Santana decides that he's never looked cuter. Getting him to cut his hair had been a bit of a stretch but she'd vowed to tame The Bieber whether he liked it or not. After a while, Sam learned to like it.

She pulls her eyes down to the carpet. He's wearing those Star Wars socks with the holes in them again. That's always bothered her. It's tacky, really, but she won't let him know that. He likes them too much. Besides, those socks always reminded her of their first of many summer nights together. One night in particular, they found themselves in her room with nothing but Smirnoff and a bottle of nail polish to keep them company. He'd walked around the pool wearing hot pink on his toes for three days before he actually noticed. He's officially traded his flip flops for Star Wars socks.

He still enjoys keying her up while they're together. She's starting to tolerate the Matthew McConaughey impressions, while he's learning to take the mouth jokes in stride. But it's not like they're polar opposites. They both idol The Godfather and swoon shamelessly over Mila Kunis.

They talk about everything under the sun, but it's the nocturnal tells that have them hiding. Sam's known the story of Brittany and Santana's break up; she's heard about his sore spot for Mercedes. They don't mention these things, they smother them when they're together. Like tonight, as she finally beckons him to bed, they're going to evade a little bit of the hard hitting truth: that they miss them.

So they'll wrap themselves up, his chest as warm and sleep inducing as a log fire; her hands icy and sobering to his wandering thoughts. He'll secure his arms around her, tight. Tight enough for it to feel real, to remind her that he's got her and he'll always have her. Sometimes she'll cry, let the pillow taste regret. Other times she'll laugh because his Star Wars socks are tickling her toes and he's taking Darth Vader breaths right in her ear. Between those times, he'll hum his favorite songs and vow to play them for her some day. He'll do all these things because he knows they're what she's missing. She misses someone sharing their life with her; the feeling of being a part of something important. And he knows she'll never admit it, but that's why she hates sleeping alone. So he'll tuck rogue hairs behind her ear and trace his lips over saline stained cheeks. Then he'll whisper his goodnight, knowing that she's already gone.