[ there are so many pillows. so many. at least none of them are frilly or ruffled the way half of her clothes seem to be, but that doesn't stop it from being a mess. on top of that, she's sprawled on top of them like she owns the space, looking at him upside-down with her upper body almost dangling off the edge.

her reply is completely unrepentant. ...all right, maybe a little bit repentant, mostly because she'd woken him up, but. a little harmless unpredictability is good for him. (and the fact that he puts up with it is good for her; makes something loosen in her chest.) ]

I do my best! I am sorry I took so long, but the making of a pillow pile is a fine art. You can't rush it.

[ ...and then she has the nerve to make grabby hands at him. ]