I could almost fall asleep right here, I start to think, completely naked and splayed out lazily across a dusty comforter, but all I end up doing is staring at the ceiling, trying to make out the places where the house ends and the real tree begins as my eyes finally adjust to the darkness after being shut for so long. The afterglow is starting to wear off, the warmth of my skin slowly being replaced by a slight chill, and I shudder once, briefly, before moving to pull the blanket from the foot of the bed over me, drawing it up to my shoulders.

It shifts and tugs away from my skin as he rolls over onto his side, laying next to me, his fingers tracing over the veins of my wrist, the bone. I curl my own fingers reflexively and let my head swivel over to face him as he presses forward, mouth brushing over mine, and the blanket slips down to my hips as my arm winds up over his chest, hand gently cupping his face.

"Are you - was that - ?" I don't know why I'm asking, only that it seems like the right thing to do, just to check, to make sure. I get the impression that I'm supposed to feel more torn about this, sobering up with a subtle pulse of pain in my head, but it's difficult to summon an objection to what we've just done, what he's managed to make me feel. Maybe I'd feel guiltier if I knew how old he really is. Maybe not.