Wes wakes up, arm hairs on end from sleeping atop her blankets all night. It's worth it though. Worth feeling like the pet who climbed in the bed when they know they're not supposed to, because when he does sleep over, when he wakes up to the light streaming through the curtains she never quite closest all the way, he knows that whatever's happening is real. Not some dream brought on by stress and murder memories, but an actual (unofficial) something between him and Annalise.

He hums out the discontent — his arms really do have goosebumps on them — but not so loud as to fully break the silence. She mirrors his sound, and he rolls a little closer to her body heat.

"One of these days," he grumbles, "you've got to give me, like, a throw blanket. At least."

"Do I now?" The sleep's still in her voice, and he grins a bit.

"Not right now. Just eventually. If this continues."

And they do want it to continue, want the late talks and moments that stay as chaste as they can handle for as long as they can keep them that way. Annalise tends to favor the chaste when it comes to Wes, like small extensions on the looks and brushes they've always shared. It's funny, how she'll let him onto her bed but not in it, let him soothe her and know her but never get to know her body the way he'd like to.

She stretches under the covers, and a little groan slips from her lips. He cracks an eye to see if she's looking his way, or doing it on purpose, but her gaze is on the ceiling. Even with the stretch, a bit of tension never quite leaves her shoulders.

"We just woke up," he tells her. "Please don't." Don't kick him out.

She turns to face him as if that'll make this any easier. "I've said it before. With the way everyone comes in and out of here—"

Someone will see. "I know." Then they'll ask questions that neither of them can answer, or even should answer. Besides, once people know, this has to mean something. This has to be something more than quick breaks from reality. "I'm sorry; I'll set louder alarms."

Her eyes soften a bit. "You've got to make it downstairs at least."

"At least," he repeats.

She nods, but he doubts she hears him. She's watching his lips, watching his tongue peak out and trace the cracks the alcohol brought back into them. Eventually, he won't have to just taste whiskey on his lips; he'll be able to taste that and her vodka and maybe even some of the leftover toothpaste that hides on her molars after she brushes. And eventually, he'll run his fingers down the length of the stretch marks along her stomach and thighs. Sam probably never did that. But Wes will.

Are all her marks from growing taller, or do some come from weight change and lost children she'll never actually mention to his face? He already knows about the son she'd had, figures that it's too late for another one (or too early, if they use his life for the reference point; still, he wouldn't mind a few more marks of a life well lived).

"Wes." She says his name like a warning.

"Hm?" He's not above punishment, but he doubts she's doling any out today.

She watches his lips again before eyeing him fully with lids drooped. Not with the gun kind of hooded eyes, the knowing ones instead. "You should go."

"I know." He forces himself to stretch a little, lets his body coast alongside hers for a few seconds until he finds his breath as she holds onto her own. Then, peeling away, he asks, "Tomorrow?"

Defenses and dismissals flit across her face. She settles on reminding him, "You've got class."

So he reminds her, "Your place is closer than mine. And I'll set alarms. I promise."

She stares him down, but the longer she does, the more they turn into the fun sort of hooded. The darker her cheeks get. The wider that tiny smile in the corners of her lips. She dips her head back into the pillow like she's sacrificing so much.

"Fine," she drawls, "I suppose I could set a few alarms myself. So you'll actually get some sleep."

He beams at her. "And a good morning?"

"Don't push your luck," she says, but he risks a peck anyway. Leans towards her to brush his lips against her cheek.

"Morning."

She returns the favor, her lips lingering a little too close to his own.

"G'morning." She pulls back enough to give him one of her teacher stares; he smiles even wider. "Now get out of my house."

Like he'd thought, it's worth it.

.

.