He stares a minute at my slim calves. Ankles crossed, I lean into him. He skates an anxious hand across the duvet. Sifts my hair through his fingers and says there's something more striking about my winter eyes tonight than he's noticed before.
And then, abruptly, just before midnight, he goes back to his own bed. Says he doesn't trust himself here late at night with me lying the way I do on this duvet.
And I don't know if we're both scared, but one of us is, so we forego a discussion of what he means and instead, find sleep in our respective dreams.
His flannel shirts and Rhett Butler urgency, my Achilles Heel, but let that pass. There's tension in the banter, and he's pulling on my jeans, but carry on.
Because tomorrow will come, it'll happen again, and we'll both stay lonely soon.