I've learned to stop thinking, stop questioning. Doing one or both always got me into trouble before, in way over my head when all I wanted to be doing was relaxing back at the hotel I'd started calling home with a glass of wine. A year before that, I would've found a way to see David, whether it was before his shift at the hospital or after, and we'd find a way to make up for lost time. I don't have any making up to do, not time owed to anyone other than myself. But maybe a part of me feels I need to partly owe something to Harley, if only this, and this I can manage.

I tip my head back into his hand, feeling more hair spill out of where I'd pinned it up earlier, sliding over his fingertips, and his other hand is skimming over me like he can't decide where to touch first. It's been a long time since I've been this wanted, since I've wanted, and I'm not going to turn back now. There's a clip that holds the dress closed, above my shoulders, and I turn slowly, keeping our hips aligned even while my back brushes against his chest, both hands rising to fiddle with it until it gives way and I can shrug my shoulders forward, feeling fabric part from skin. The lower half hangs on my hips and I clutch the front against my chest before turning back, suddenly self-conscious.