You awoke this morning just like any other, to the alarm clock that is Root.

Though you two sleep on opposite sides of the bed, all the tossing and turning she does at night eventually brings your fussy girlfriend closer. So when 5 AM rolls around, so does she; with a hand up your shirt or down your pants. Hmph, so Root's subconsciously chosen to play with your boobs today. Well alright then.

Like annoying clockwork, you come to when you feel her buzzing fingers tickling your skin, kneading the soft swells of your chest. Actually... it's not annoying, not today at least. After you blink and adjust to being awake, you find it more amusing than irritating.

She must still be sleeping, you think. This drooling nerd, mumbling and groaning nonsense as she foolhardily fondles and curls herself more into you. Spooning, but only she calls it that.

So Root's not spooning you, or cuddling, or any of that nonsense. When you really wake up, you realize she's having some kind of wet dream. What else could explain the way she's slow grinding into your backside, moaning incoherently. Grunting? Yep, that was a grunt.

Normally, you'd just push her off, swear and beg to have a few more minutes of rest. Oddly, today you feel like humoring her. Arching back and pretending to stretch, you give her just a bit more of that sought after pressure, enough to make her gasp and moan wantonly in her sleep... what she would call teasing, you call it fair play.

When those lazy fingers become more deliberate with your nipples, that's when you know Root's really awake.

She pulls you flush with her, mushes her face into the back of your neck and whispers a sleepy, "G'mornin." It just might be, you think. Maybe it's from the solid eight hours of sleep, maybe the dream you've already forgotten about was a nice one. Or maybe it's waking up enveloped by this frisky warmth of a woman.

You're not sure but you chuckle anyway. "Good dream huh?" you ask, and she replies in the affirmative with a drawn out hum that vibrates down your spine. "Better have been about me," you say, but the last word just tapers off into a small moan when she touches you somewhere more sensitive and rolls her hips into you one last good time.

"What do you think?" she says, running her cheek along your neck. You think you can feel the first smirk of the day pressing on your skin and in no way do you feel crowded by it.

You ask if she's hungry, because you know she worked late into the evening and probably skipped dinner. Root just drags the blunt ends of her nails along your stomach and nips your ear. Says, "M'starving," in a sultry voice still husky from sleep.

"I'll make something," you tell her. Then it becomes a mission. Objective: somehow leave the Root cocoon and make her breakfast. Keep her alive so that you two can continue this.

Root just tightens her arm around you though. "What I'm hungry for isn't in the kitchen," she cleverly adds. You have to stop her before that idle hand of hers meets the elastic waistband of your shorts.

"You're eating before I leave." However, the sternness of your scolding voice has yet to wake with you. You immediately have to elaborate before she can even begin to utter the wise crack itching on the tip of her tongue. That you're putting food in her mouth and nothing else. Well, for now.

And of course, once she's done pouting for show and untangling herself from you, she'll try one last time to get you to stay. When you're done stretching, you turn around and find Root lying nonchalantly on her back with an arm hooked behind her head. The other is playing somewhere beneath her thin white t-shirt. You smirk because she's so not subtle at all sometimes. Because in the three seconds your back was turned, she pushed all the sheets to the floor and hiked up her shirt just before the good bits.

You roll your eyes right out of the bedroom, hearing her groan irately as you leave. That's okay. You'd rather her be sexually frustrated than malnourished.

A few minutes later, you're mixing pancake batter by the stove, still smirking. Thinking if Root got any skinnier, she'd look like one those inflatable tube man things you see waving around car dealerships. You snort a little at the image in your head.

"What's so funny?" Root pokes her head out of the bedroom and you throw a quick, "Nothing," over your shoulder.

You hear her pad into the kitchen. Weird, a short while ago you thought she was mad at you, but now she's humming something indistinct but pretty sounding. A song you think might mimic what you believe to be her prancing around like a gazelle. But you're too focused on food to spare her the odd look.

She rifles through the fridge for a moment before you hear it close, and then she veers off somewhere near the kitchen island behind you. Root likes to keep you company while you cook sometimes and pretend to help. Though, you're pretty sure she really just likes staring at your butt. Especially when you chop vegetables.

The first pancake hits the skillet and sizzles on contact. The steam slowly starts to fill the apartment with the pleasant aroma of breakfast. Root lets out a hum to that effect. The way it escapes her lips though... long and drawn and far too pleased... you're sure it has nothing to do with the smell of food. In fact, you're very sure, when you let you're own curiosity get the better and divide your attention.

There on the island counter, long bare legs crossed over the edge, Root sits, sucking on strawberry rather than eating it. You could just roll your eyes at her new found enthusiasm for fruit, but they're kind of stuck where they are. Fixated as Root uses her mouth and this strawberry to act out something she could be doing to you instead.

She really gets into it, closes her eyes and moans. The sound is still hot when it reaches your ears, it warms the low center of your body now pooling with arousal. Root, she makes your mouth water in a way food never will and suddenly, you really really wanna be that strawberry.

Root finally takes notice of you. Finally, after what felt like ages she looks at you with those seductive bedroom eyes. "Sameen..." God, you love it when she says your name like that. You think any moment she's going to beckon you closer and claim you like she did with that piece of fruit. You're biting right through your own goddamn lip in anticipation for hers to open and voice that command, but when they do, they just say, "The pancakes are burning."

Later, after you play fire fighter with the sink's spray nozzle, breakfast is served!

Root could care less though, about the meal you almost burned up the apartment trying to prepare for her. She seemed far more interested in flirting with you. While you ate, she played footsie under the table, said things like how she'd love to 'flap your jack', or stick a fork in your cake instead. What the fuck does that even mean?

Anyhow, you threatened her with no 'cake' for a week and she took ONE teeny tiny bite. Then she just picked at the rest, moved pieces around to make the plate appear less full. Something a child would do. Did she really think that was going to work with you?

It wasn't until you made a certain deal with Root that she eventually finished the entire plate. You've never seen her eat so fast in your entire life. You don't regret it though. Later, when she devoured you like those pancakes. Even later than that, in the shower as you scrubbed syrup from places syrup should not be. Totally worth having to wash your hair a second time after Root's "shampoo" which was mostly her pulling your soapy hair and bucking into your face.

While you got dressed, she sat on the bed in a towel and painted her nails. Watching in between coats; you and your less than graceful attempt of putting pants on while trying not to disturb the spatula shaped welts on your ass. It's probably an added bonus for her, seeing how her handy work makes you hiss and wince later on.

When you reach for your gun on the nightstand, it means you're done. It means you leave Root and go off to work. Something about this part has always been awkward for you, maybe it's because you never really know what to say. You stand by the bed and rub your neck like it's sore, waiting for some words to fumble from your mouth so you can go.

Root blows on her fingers before looking up to you and smiling so sweetly, like you're something cute and endearing. But you're not cute, and you growl at her under your breath for thinking that.

"Don't be a grumpy Sam," she tuts.

"I'm not," you say out of reflex, but then you really mull it over it your head. You're not grumpy at all. If you were, you would have funnel fed Root her breakfast earlier with no reward, scolded her now for dripping black polish on your sheets. You would have just left.

"Come here," Root calls you closer and naturally you oblige. The way she kisses you goodbye, when you let her, it's never chaste. It pulls you in deep, it makes you want to drown in her. Through the minted toothpaste, you can still taste the maple syrup. Past that, her mouth and where it's already been today. And you could sink further, by the bruising force of her insatiable lips and how she uses them to selfishly claim you. You're already so late for work, but it's as if nothing outside of her seems to matter.

Before you leave, she takes you by the wrist. With the nail polish brush, she dabs a little black dot on the outside of your hand between the thumb and forefinger. You don't have to ask why, you already know what it's for. Root likes to mark you sometimes, in a possessive way with hickies or bruises, or in special ways like this. So you'll look it while you're gone and think of her. Pfft. Like that's any trouble for you already.

Something swells inside of you the moment you set foot outside. Something good, you think. A feeling like today might actually be alright. Not that everyday is terrible, it's just... different.

You don't quite know how to explain it. A good mood? Yeah, that's probably what it is, or your version of it at least. A good mood because you smiled at Root before you left, because you think you're frowning with less muscles as you walk down the street. The hand in your coat pocket isn't balled into a fist like it normally is, and you didn't use it to put that guys head through the train window for making that comment about your 'booty'.

As you hit the stairs leading down to headquarters, you hopefully wonder what the day has in store. What kind of number will greet you the moment you walk in. Whether or not it's simple or challenging, you'll get the job done regardless, but a part of you thinks it could be fun. You smirk at that, thinking if Finch ever heard you refer to saving lives in such a manner, he'd probably fire you. Then again... no, he'd just chew you out. Like he's going to now because you're thirty minutes late.

The first step you take into the subway, something hard crunches beneath your boot. You lift it up for inspection and there, stuck between the tread, is a Y button from a keyboard. Odd, you think, until you look at the floor and see the rest of alphabet scattered across it. Oh shit, when you find the rest of Harold's precious computer in shambles. There's a trail of plastic and metal bread crumbs leading from the desk to Bear's bed. And suddenly, it hits you...

It was your turn to let Bear out this morning. And you forgot.

Well... "Fuck!"