Chez Belthazor. Shirtless Cole. I pause the tape and light a cigarette. People in the forums have insisted that Julian McMahon is a hairy beast. If so, Spelling Productions must have included a trimmer in his contract package, because his torso, while certainly not waxed, would not put me in danger of developing hair balls at any point in the future, if you know what I mean. And I think you do. Mmm. Shirtless Cole. Where was I? Oh, recap. Anyway, there's a knock on the door. It's Phoebe, looking rather fetching, come to tell Cole something. "Actually," she says, "I was always better at show than tell," and the macking commences. Cole starts off with his eyes closed, then opens them, looking frightened and a bit worried. Phoebe slams the apartment door shut and leaps up to wrap her legs around his waist. He backs her against the door and breaks the kiss to tell her, "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into." "Neither do you," she replies and starts sucking on his lips again as we tastefully fade to commercial.

Chez Belthazor, the morning after the night before. Snuggling. Tickling. Whispered words of naked-in-bed-together bliss. Neither of them has bed head, and Phoebe's left her bracelet and watch on all night. These two look like they've spent the last two hours in hair and makeup, not sweating and snoring beneath the duvet, drooling on the pillows and each other. Whatever. Phoebe notices Cole's partially-packed suitcase, and wonders if he's going anywhere. He gives a vague answer, leading her to reassure him that he need not keep secrets from her. "Secrets? What secrets?" Cole announces he has to get to work, and Phoebe frets beneath the covers, watching his naked ass make its way to the bathroom.