He woke up after a long night. Not that they'd done all that much, in the end, but they talked and drank for hourse before they'd made their moves; he shivered just thinking about it, but seeing her still there next to him calmed him down a little.
She woke up when he touched her forhead, and he quickly withdrew his hand.
“H-hey,” he muttered. She looked at him blearily, almost like she needed glasses (and she didn't, even though he knew she thought they made her look smart). She clapped her hand over her mouth suddenly, almost like she'd only just realised where she was. He knew she hadn't been tát drunk, so it couldn't be the shock of waking up next to him.
“Morning breath,” she muttered from behind her hand. He wanted to lean in, kiss her, but when his weight shifted the mattress she rolled her shoulder and pressed her hand further into the pillows.
Oh. Well, that's a no, then.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and raked a hand through his hair. She didn't move to touch him, to keep him from getting up, so he did. He quickly pulled out a some jeans and a t-shirt from his dresser and put them on.
“Breakfast?” He figured he'd leave her alone for a few minutes. Besides, the front door was accessible without having to go through the kitchen, so there was always that. If she felt like it.
“Nice,” he comented. He still didn't look back at her (because if not Belgium she embodied temptation). “Cheap.”
She gave a short laugh; he recognised it as her nervous laugh. He got that-- she wasn't the only nervous one in the room.
He walked downstairs, and after five minutes she joined him, as well. He'd made coffee, gotten himself bread with cheese, and had not at all been agonising over what to do next, whether she joined him or not.
They looked at each other over his old wooden table (kept out of nostalgy and frugality)-- she'd dressed in yesterday's lothes, but her make-up was either smudged or gone. Along with her wild hair and her untucked blouse, the illusion of nothing having happened was pretty much shattered.
He opened his mouth to say something to her, anything at all, but she beat him:
“I'm going to get some coffee.”
He almost let out a relieved sound: she was stáying-- but he just looked at her as she made her way to his coffeemaker.
She'd been in his kitchen tons of times, had made her own coffee there, but it felt different tnow. Now, he wanted to pull out her chair when she sat down; help her up when she stood up again seconds later; pull her against him when she stared out the window.
Instead, what came out was, “Your hair's a mess.”
She turned around, offended look in place, before he'd even realised what he'd said.
“...Your hair,” he said, straight-faced because he'd started this and it'd look stupid if he stopped now (right?). “It's messy.”
“Like you have any right of speaking,” she muttered. And then she just turned back around. He was at a loss, couldn't think of a single thing to say to her at that moment, just looked at the place her bloude folded around her left hip until she spoke again.
“You shouldn't tell anyone.”
He'd dreaded this. He knew she wouldn't have wanted to tell anyone, but this meant it probably wouldn't hapena gain. So he decided to play dumb-- drag it out, make her tal. For once he wanted her to.
“About-- You know! Us, doing-- us!” Her voice trembled a little, and when he looked at her hands on the counter he saw them trembling as well.
“Are you...” Serious, he'd intended to ask, but-- “crying?”
“I'm not!” She sniffled and raised her hand to her eyes, back still turned to him.
“You are. You're crying.” It almost made him wish she'd left without saying goodbye. This morning he'd felt happier than he had in years, and she was crying.
“Look, I'm sorry. I'll call you a taxi so you can leave. I won't talk about it if you don't want me to. Nothing happened. We drank some beer. That's all.” He got up and walked to the phone, to call her a taxi so she could get away from him, so he could start forgetting everything that had happened yesterday.
“You're so typical,” she said, still choked up. “You're such an oaf. Can't tell the difference after all these years, huh?”
His hand was half-raided to the phone attached to his hallway wall, but he turned around.
“It's not sad tears. Jerk.”
He pulled his hand back completely instead of letting it hover. “But I thought you didn't want me to tell anyone.”
“You put words in my mouth.” She carefully pressed the cappuccino button on his machine. “They'll make comments, and you'll get mad and I won't want to deal with you. Let's enjoy this quietly. For now.”
“They always make comments,” he murmured, moving from the hall back to the table.
“So beat them up like you always do,” she whispered. “Just for a little longer. Isn't it a little exciting to be secretive?”
He didn't think so, but he'd agree happily for her sake. The coffee was finished, not even a drop left in the machine, and he knew that she'd want to add two spoons of sugar to it even though it was already sickly sweet. He reached out for the sugar at the same time she did, and when their wrists touched they both pulled back so quickly the pot fell to the floor.
“Don't move,” he said before pulling her against him tightly.
She drank her coffee while leaning against him, sugar and broken ceramic littering the floor around their bare feet.