The ridiculousness of the unfinished questions strikes me and I laugh again, still riding on the lingering pulses of the feel-good hormones, making everything amusing for a beat, my head feeling both level and slightly left-of-center at the same time. I should be getting up, searching for my clothes in the darkness, fumbling around for the trail of clothes that would no doubt lead anyone to us, tangled here - and yet I can't bring myself to do much more than lean into him, my eyes falling shut as his palm grasps for my hip and his forehead nudges against mine. Something in my chest pangs, aches, and I swallow hard, nodding once, my hand sliding back from his cheek into his hair as I comb fingers through his hair, strands a shade of autumn leaves.

"Yeah. Yes," I promise, and I don't know what it says about me that it was, but I know it's not the worst decision I've ever made in my life. It probably won't ever be - this fling, this whatever-it-is with him. For all I know, it ends here, tonight, and that might explain my reluctance to extricate myself from him, so I linger here for a little longer, just breathing him in, taking advantage of the warmth in an otherwise cold room.

When I finally rise, it's to sit up, swinging my legs off the edge of the bed, my hair mussed beyond recognition of any kind of styling, and I hunch forward, feeling my spine curve and my shoulders roll as I put my back to him for a minute, the blanket half-clutched against my chest. "I should get dressed," I murmur, and yet it's like I'm almost frozen, in this stasis, torn between wanting to get up and walk out and laying back down and curling into his arms again.