"Nooo!" cried Jackle, falling back onto his bed, holding back his own gloved hand. "I can't! I won't!" He turned away, burying his face in his pillow. Whump. Peering up, his hand had landed on the bed beside him, and it slowly crept forward. He slammed it down, holding it in place with his other hand. "I'm sorry baby, I can't. I just can't. I promised myself I wouldn't." His hand struggled beneath the other. "No! Don't say that! It's not true." His hand escaped and lunged for him, and he cried out, rolling away to the edge of the bed. His hand was about to strike the finishing blow, but everything stopped upon the pounding on his door.
He rolled out of bed and opened it to find, what else, an angry Shirona standing and waiting with crossed arms and tapping fingers.
"Jackle... I try to be patient with you. I really do. I don't complain about your nightly raves and parties; I tolerate your weird taste in food; I actually enjoy our conversations that last until sunrise. I don't need a lot of sleep, but when I do, I need you to shut. the fuck. up. ok?"
But he wasn't listening. He was looking at her: Her blonde, messy hair, the light shadows of sleep deprivation beneath her eyes, but especially those nice, lacy, matching black underwear and bra she wore.
"Well?"
His gaze was prompted up; he met her irritated eyes, but then his gaze dropped. His hand had won. "You sneaky bastard."