Just a note--this chapter the rating goes up to M.

A/N: I have been agonizing over this chapter for the last two weeks, and so I think I just have to post it. I wanted to try something different than the usual nervous Guy/Marian wedding-night scenario (although I do, of course, love them) and this is what happened. I never intended it to come out this dark and bittersweet; ultimately, however, it was the only version that felt right. It is also the first thing I've ever written that has anything to do with boy parts and girl parts, you know, together, and I found myself fighting the fanfic urge to idealize it. So I hope it comes off like I intended it to--hot/awkward/scary/frustrating/tender.

And yes, Guy is acting like a bastard, and probably should not be rewarded for it, but I felt that someone needed to break, and it was Marian's turn. I also feel that if we are taking her mindset in the finale as canon--and even to some extent the glimmers of recklessness that appear after her father's death--we can assume that she might do something stupid. The morning after will be a doozy.

But anyway, here it is--with a big eek!

Marian has never had many female friends. Growing up, she despised the girls her age who could think nothing other than the color of their tunic, girls who would simper and flounce when anyone asked them to do anything that took a shred of daring. On festival days, they would wilt in the corners while Marian knocked wooden swords with the boys until her father sent a castle guard to find her.

There was one, however. When Marian was thirteen she met Eleanor, the pale, pink, and blonde daughter of a neighboring Sheriff. At first Marian dismissed her as another dainty wisp of a lady who would faint if you crossed your eyes at her. But she was soon proven wrong when Eleanor happened to interrupt her and Robin playing "I dare," a game Marian had invented one summer morning in an effort to make him stop being quite so pleased with himself.

"I dare you to kiss this toad," Marian had said while holding up her small reptilian prisoner, which she had found trying to hop up the outer wall.

Robin had scoffed. "You are going to get warts all over your pretty hands. And I am too old to play your games."

"You mean that you are too much of a coward to play my games," she had teased, and then watched with delight as he screwed up his face and planted a peck on its bumpy head. She laughed when it croaked away in terror.

Robin had smiled patiently. "Now I have a dare for you, my lady."

"I have told you a thousand times, Robin of Locksley, I will not kiss you. I would rather we bring back the toad."

"So would I," he retorted, hopping up on a fallen slab of rock and squinting as he looked up into the sun. "No, Marian, I dare you to climb to the top of that turret and sit in the window."

She scowled at him; he knew of her fear of heights.

"Scared?" he asked, plopping down and giving her his familiar gap-toothed smile.

He didn't think that she would do it. He was always underestimating her—and Marian hated to be underestimated. Screwing up her courage, she stared at the doorway and walked forward.

Robin leapt up and grabbed her arm. "Marian, wait. I did not mean it. It is too dangerous."

"No, I will. You will see."

"Forget it, please."

"Let me go," she insisted, stamping her foot until he started to laugh. It only made her more enraged. She was raising her foot to tread on his toe when a high voice called out from behind them.

"I will do it."

They turned to see Eleanor standing behind them in a blue gown, her thick hair in long braids. And then, before either of them could make out what was what, she disappeared into the turret door.

A few seconds later her blonde head poked out from high above. She hopped onto the window ledge, counted loudly to ten, swung her feet back around, and was back down in the square in less time than it took to shake a stick.

Marian was impressed; she would like to think that she would have made it out the window, but it was just as likely that she would have grown queasy after one reckless look downward. Eleanor, however, was unfazed. She liked her even more when she chastised Robin for choosing such a weak dare.

From that point on, time crawled between Eleanor's visits. Two years older, Eleanor was everything that Marian hoped to be. She was smart and opinionated, but managed to hold her temper where Marian lashed out first and thought later, much to her father's eternal shame and worry. Together, they would make fun of the lazy guards, pompous boys, and the visiting nobles with their outlandish furs.

One day, however, after a particularly good laugh over the twelve-inch feather in an earl's cap, Eleanor grew quiet.

"I am to be married," she had said softly when Marian asked her why she was no longer laughing. At first she thought someone was coming; they were, after all, hidden behind a pillar in the great hall.

Marian could only ask the dumbest of questions. "To whom?"

"A friend of my father's. He is old. His first wife died."

"How old?"

"Forty-seven."

"But you are fifteen!"

"My cousin wed at thirteen," Eleanor said simply, but Marian could hear the tremble in her voice.

"And you have agreed?"

"I have no choice. It was arranged for me." She looked down at her hands. "It will happen in two weeks."

And it did happen in two weeks, and Marian did not see her friend again until a year later, and when she finally did, Eleanor did not act like Eleanor anymore. She was still very pretty, but she never smiled and her eyes flitted from dish to dish without taking anything in. Her husband, a grey and jowly man who sucked at the bones of his meat long after they had been stripped bare, kept his hand on her arm during the entire supper.

Marian waited until after the platters had been cleared to find her. Before she could even say a word, Eleanor hugged her tightly, giving Marian the chance to feel how thin she had become. When Marian asked if she was well, Eleanor only shook her head. "My husband, he is a cold man," she whispered before the man in question strode toward them with a frown. Six months later, Marian learned that Eleanor had died in childbirth.

After that, Marian felt as though there was an invisible axe over her head; marriage could befall her at any time, and to any man. When Robin had finally asked her father for permission to marry her, Marian thought she would cry with sheer relief. He was young, she knew him to be good, and she had been in love with him for years.

But then he had abandoned her, and she had cried, half because she wanted to marry him, but half because she felt as though he had thrown her to the wolves. That feeling only grew stronger when Vasey appeared a year later, Guy in tow. Here, she thought bitterly, was the axe.

He did not approach her at first, just fixed his eyes on her whenever Vasey was not yammering in his ear. She felt his gaze everywhere—on her lips, on her collarbone, on the nape of her neck, even on the curve of her waist. He would look away when she caught him, but its presence would linger.

One night she and her father were forced to attend one of Vasey's elaborate banquets, the ones he used as subterfuge for his wicked plans. The flagons of wine glinted in the candlelight, and Marian noticed that Guy's made more than one trip to his mouth. Later that evening he had approached her and her father, striding forward with a determined expression and then wavering in the last few steps. He had barked a few words about visiting them at Knighton the next day, and her father had agreed. Now that it was the appropriate time for him to look at her, he never even glanced her way.

"I will die," Marian had said to her father when Guy was back at Vasey's knee, "before I marry that man."

Edward had looked at her sharply, but when he spoke, his voice was soft. "Marian, we cannot afford to have such dramatic thoughts."

And it was true. By the time she was trapped into the engagement with Guy, she had learned that dramatic thoughts were a luxury. Robin's return had caused a momentary lapse—a lapse that becomes more and more obvious as she listens to the bustle of men outside her tent here in the Holy Land.

She misses the rhythms of the castle, the ebb and flow of servant chatter, the cool silence that would descend in the afternoon when everyone was either out or in their own chambers. Here there is a constant buzz, and she is getting quite the education from all their talk of girls back home. That is, when she is not desperately trying to talk herself into following through with her decision to marry Guy as soon as possible, before she can be blown in any other direction.

This is your choice, she tells herself, staring up at the softly swaying canvas and trying to ignore the hum of insects that fling themselves against the corners in their attempts to find an exit. You chose to trade yourself to save the King, for better or for worse. If this is a trap, you set it. The reminder is both comforting and terrifying. So is the realization that her feelings have changed since the last time she was facing marriage to Guy. Then she had felt that she was trotting stupidly toward Eleanor's fate with no hope of understanding the man she was to sleep beside for the rest of her life.

But now . . . now she does not know if she is wrong to hope. She is startled to realize that, despite everything, she has come to view him as her friend. A disconcerting friend, but a friend nonetheless. His scrutiny still unnerves her and makes her want to draw her defenses closer, but the sensations it causes are no longer unpleasant. In time, she thinks, borrowing his phrase, before she trails off into more dark thoughts.

When the light has dimmed and it is evening, she forces herself to ask the man outside if he knows where Guy's tent is. He does not, but sends someone to find out. As she waits, her resolve stutters when she realizes that if she does this, she could be a married woman at this time tomorrow. By the time the messenger returns with information, it fails her completely. Tomorrow, she promises herself. Tomorrow morning.

She sleeps in fits and starts. Each time she wakes, shift sticking to her back, she can feel her bravery slipping, cracking apart. The last time she dreams of Robin bending down to give her a kiss, and her eyes fly open. Now, she thinks. I have to do this now. Getting up, she wraps a blanket around her shoulders and searches for her clothing. She scrabbles through linens looking for something to wear. It does not matter, a small voice insists. Just go.

A quick peek outside confirms that the camp is deserted, except for poor William, who is unlucky enough to have the night shift. His snores are accompanied by a wheezy whistle. Marian slips out the door, and sets off through the maze of cloth and metal.

She finds Guy's tent without much trouble. It is smaller than hers, she notes with surprise, and located by one of the few torches left burning. When she steps inside, it gives the interior a hazy orange cast, as though she had stepped into a smoldering hearth.

Guy is stretched out on the pallet, stomach-down, his face turned away from her. He wears no shirt, and Marian feels the first drop of hesitation; in the past, she has not been her most astute when faced with his bare chest. She bites her lip, bends down, and shakes his shoulder gently.

"Guy," she whispers near his ear, repeating it a little more loudly when he doesn't stir.

He rolls over, and she jumps back, preparing the speech that has been running through her mind since this afternoon. But he does not open his eyes, just throws an arm over his face so all she can see are his nose and lips, the latter of which look much fuller now that they are relaxed. Her eyes drift downward of their own accord, then snap back up to his face when she realizes that he is only wearing braies and they are molded to…well, to everything.

"Guy." She shakes him with more force, and then stops. This was a mistake—she will go back to sleep and stick with her original plan. But just as she is standing up to go, he speaks.

"What is it?" he mutters, his voice foggy and distant.

He is still half asleep. She should wake him the rest of the way before she starts, but this feels safer. She can try out the words, hear them aloud. "I want. . ., " she starts and then corrects herself. "I mean, I wish for us to be married as soon as possible."

"Cannot be married yet."

That was the last thing she expected. "Why not?" she asks, sounding more affronted than she would like.

"King," he mumbles and twists as though to roll back over.

She puts a hand on his shoulder, holds him steady. "What about the King?"

"Horrible."

She doesn't understand. "But we need to be married now. We need to be married now or else--,"

All of a sudden his hand snakes out and wraps around her waist. He pulls her on top of him, pulls her head down for a kiss. "We cannot have the wedding," he says huskily into her lips, "but we can have the wedding night."

"What? No!" she cries, startled, and pushes against his chest, but he holds her in place. Her skirt is tangled around her legs, the backs of her lower thighs exposed to the night air.

In a panic, she looks down. His eyelashes are still fanned against his cheeks; he is half-asleep. She pinches his arm. Hard.

He snaps awake, blinking up at her. For a second the only expression on his face is confusion. But then he says her name like it's a curse, and he takes in her loose hair, her bare arms, and the dipping bodice of her shift. His gaze goes hot, and her chest flushes warm. Before she can figure out what that means, however, his fingers clamp on her arms.

"What is going on, Marian?" he growls with no trace of his previous warmth, dragging her forward until she is only inches from his lips.

She is too rattled to respond coherently. The skin of her inner thigh is touching the trim sides of his waist. "I came to ask...that is, I came to say--,"

"What?"

"I think we should be married as soon as possible," she says, expecting him to be overjoyed. She attempts a weak smile.

"The King will not marry us until I have proven myself. But why…" His eyes narrow, and then he suddenly releases her arms as though they were hot pokers. "You are with child," he says. "His child."

It takes a few moments for his meaning to become clear, and when it finally does, it succeeds in snapping her out of whatever daze she has fallen into. "And you are demented," she hisses, scrambling off of him. She grabs her abandoned blanket and wraps it around herself. "This was a mistake," she says shortly. "I am leaving."

But he is too fast. Springing up, he blocks her way, moving in front of her whenever she feints to the side.

"Why else would you visit me in the middle of the night, half-dressed, and then beg prettily for a hasty marriage? I will not raise his bastard," he seethes. "You will get rid of it."

"I will not!" she snaps from force of habit, and then realizes that by saying that, she's just confirmed his ludicrous accusation. "There is nothing to get rid of. Now get out of my way." She moves forward, but he refuses to budge, and she runs into the hard wall of his shoulder before retreating to study his face, dark and shadowed in the dim light. He is angry—the last time she felt this level of tension rolling off of him, he was standing in Knighton Hall with a torch—but she cannot for the life of her figure out why. "Guy," she says, trying for a softer tone. "I am sorry that I pulled my hand away this afternoon—it was cruel of me. But I will not stand here and listen to your base accusations."

He rocks backward onto his heels. "Base accusations?" he spits, grabbing her arm and dragging her over to the bed before she knows what is happening. She kicks at his knees, but she has no leverage to stop him from shackling her wrists and trapping her legs between his. She can only curse at him as he bends over and digs something out of a pile of clothing at their feet. He thrusts what he finds into her hands, closes her fingers around it. "That is what I have to say to your base accusations."

Marian stops fighting when she feels the jagged prick of a dozen tiny points arranged in a circle, the cool press of a central stone. She has clutched the ring in secret too many times not to recognize it immediately.

"Say something," he growls, hands tightening around her wrists.

Her sense of self-preservation takes over. "It is not mine," she says dismissively, and flicks the ring behind her as though it were an apple core.

"Stop lying!" he cries, and then closes his eyes. When he opens them, his voice is more restrained. "You think you are so clever with your little evasions, but I have heard the truth from Hood himself."

Her heart thumps. Robin gave her away? No. She cannot believe it. But then she remembers his face this afternoon, the coldness in his voice. "What have you done to him?"

"Done to him? He attacked me. And so he got what he deserved." Her panic must be plain on her face, because he sneers down at her. "Don't worry, he is still alive. I am sure his band of imbeciles is taking good care of him."

After the rush of relief comes the sudden realization that she should be worrying about herself. She tenses, mind scrambling to figure out how she will defend herself if he lashes out at her with more than words. But just when she expects him to attack, he retreats, letting go of her wrists and putting as much distance between them as possible. She starts to get up, head for the exit, but he points a finger at her.

"You stay there," he orders, beginning to pace. "We finish this tonight."

She moves to the edge of the bed. "Finish what?"

"Your lies. My foolishness." He throws her a sharp look. "How long, Marian? How long were you teasing me with your flattery and attention while you were secretly betrothed to him? Since you were brought to the castle?"

"No!"

"Since he returned?"

"How is that even possible?"

"Do not answer a question with a question," he orders. When she does not respond, he gives a dismissive snort. "Are you even able to tell the truth?"

The question strikes a nerve. "I tell the truth to those who deserve it."

He whirls around to face her, eyebrows raised. "And I do not deserve it? I have changed my life for you, Marian. I have given up everything. I have debased myself to serve the man who was the cause of my family's ruin—all because of love for you."

A stab of guilt causes her to shift uneasily. But she is also too angry to sit here while he yells at her for freeing him from a man he should not have been serving in the first place. "You debased yourself the minute you tied yourself to Vasey!"

"I had no choice!"

"Everything is a choice!"

"And whose words are those? Hood's?" He moves forward again until she has no choice but to scoot back. "It is not a choice when you are twelve and your parents send you away because they no longer have the means to keep you! What would you have had me do?" he asks bitterly. "Run to the forest? Become a miniature outlaw? Tell me, tell me what I should have done. I am tired of feeling guilty for things that I have no way of changing."

He crouches down in front of her, demanding an answer. She opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes. She can only stare at her hands.

"How pretty it must be to live in your world," he mocks. "Grow up, Marian."

And with those three words, the anger is back. "But when you were an adult," she insists, "once you had that trunk of money you were so proud of…"

"Do you honestly believe that Vasey would just let me go with my head full of his plots? I would have found a knife in my back the second I turned to leave." He gives a short, sharp laugh. "The sad thing is that I did try—when the Gisborne lands were offered again to raise money for this doomed campaign, I tried to reclaim them with the wealth I had saved from years in Vasey's service. And do you know what I was told by King Richard's emissaries? Not enough. Not enough to take back the lands that were lost in the support of him."

"I did not know," she whispers, but he is too worked up to listen.

"And now," he continues, "now I am here and forced to serve that man or lose my head.And the woman that I stupidly love, the woman that I stupidly did it for, treats me like a dog. She will not even look at me."

Her head snaps up. "I do not treat you like a—"

"You do. But that is done." He stands up and backs away. "I am finished begging for scraps."

Marian should feel elated that he is backing out, but all she feels is hollow, guilty. "So you will shun me, too?" she asks, staring into the corner to muffle her emotion.

"Shun you? Hardly," he says. "I will hold you to your promise."

"You would marry someone you hate?" she asks in disbelief.

He surveys her with cool detachment. "You will."

"I do not hate you." He expels a doubtful huff. "I do not," she insists.

"You do not love me," he says, and then turns to stare in a corner of his own.

"There are emotions between love and hate, Guy!"

He does not speak for several moments, giving her the chance to study him. He folds his arms across his chest, angles his body to the side. He refuses to look at her, and she wonders when she lost the desire to run. The flickering light accentuates the muscles of his biceps, the dark stubble on his jaw. His handsomeness strikes her as it usually does—randomly, without warning, and at the most inconvenient times.

"Like what?" he suddenly asks, grudgingly, as though his curiosity had gotten the better of him. When she doesn't immediately respond, he snaps, "Never mind."

"I care for you, Guy."

"You care for horses and peasants."

"It is not a competition!"

"It does not matter what you feel for me," he snaps. "I do not need to love you to bed you."

She sucks in a breath. The words were meant as a slap in the face, and he watches for her reaction. Her pride tells her to go, to stand up and try to storm out again. But her conscience recognizes that these are the pieces of something she started long ago. They will cling to her wherever she goes.

For once, she bites back her anger. "I do not want a cold marriage," she says softly.

His head turns toward her, and for a moment she sees genuine surprise before he coaches his expression back to inscrutability. "Well, Marian, that will be difficult considering that you pull away whenever I try to get close as though my touch revolts you."

Of all the accusations he could throw at her, this one is the most asinine. "Your touch does not revolt me! You do not listen to me."

"No, I do not trust you. There is a difference," he patronizes. And then smirks.

The temper she's been holding in check bubbles over. When she tells him the truth, he throws it back in her face! She reacts before she thinks, standing up and crossing the space that divides them until she is inches away from his body, looking up into his uncertain face. "Trust this," she says before pulling him down to meet her lips.

At first he does not move. His arms do not clasp around her back, his mouth does not return her kiss. He holds himself rigid. She is starting to feel embarrassed . . . and rejected. Flustered by how much that disturbs her, she moves in closer and presses the length of her body against his. Her breasts rub against his chest, and the friction created by the thin material of her shift teases her nipples to attention. He is still not responding.

And then he breaks. He groans low in his throat, opens his mouth, and teases her bottom lip with his tongue. His hands go to the small of her back before they cup her bottom and pull her the rest of the way against him so she can feel his hardness pressing against her abdomen. She has overheard enough servant chatter to know what that means. Some of her bravado leaves her; her body still tingles where it meets his, but her back goes cold. She starts to retreat, but he picks her up and moves toward the bed. She feels herself falling, feels her back land on the bed, and then she is staring up into his face.

His eyes slide down her body, and she begins to regret her rash action. She wanted to prove a point and wipe that smirk off of his face, but now she is out of her element.

She says his name tentatively, struggling to figure out what words should come next. Just when she can see one glimmering in the distance, he runs his hand up her outer thigh, leans over, and teases her nipple through the cloth of her shift with his tongue. Whatever she had to say comes out as a squeak as his hand comes up to palm her other breast. She finds herself arching into it without thinking. The spot between her legs begins to ache.

Suddenly he pulls back. He shakes his head. "Tell me something true," he blurts out.

"I do not understand."

"Tell me something true," he repeats as his thumb make a lazy circle around her nipple.

She hisses in a short breath. She cannot think—her brain feels like cotton wadding, like two pieces of rope that won't connect. "A truth about what?"

"A truth about me. About you. Just…," he trails off, and curses beneath his breath. "Just give me this one thing."

This would be the perfect time to call a halt to everything. Instead, she arches her neck up in an attempt to regain his lips, to stop her mind from running in circles. But he turns his cheek, and she is forced to fall back.

"One thing, Marian."

She does not know what to say—after their previous conversations, any declaration of love will sound false. She watches his lips compress as his face begins to go cold once again.

"I wanted to come back to the castle," she says in a rush. Only when she hears it aloud does she realize how true it is.

"What?"

"When you . . . rescued me. I wanted to come back. I hated the forest. I felt trapped."

"There was no convent," he says darkly.

"No."

"You were with Hood."

"Yes."

"But you wanted to come back."

"I . . . I did."

She watches his emotions do battle across his face. His jaw tenses, he looks to the side, and she wonders if she has been too foolhardy. He claims to want honesty, but that may have been too much, too fast. She rarely worries that he will hurt her. Perhaps she should. Just as she is readying herself to fight back if he becomes violent, however, he brings his gaze back to hers.

"You and Hood are finished," he orders, but she can detect the glimmer of a question beneath it.

She exhales. "We are," she says, and forces herself to move past the twinge. The warm flush spreading through her body helps her forget.

"No more lies, Marian."

"I have not been the only liar."

The silence grows thick around them. "For either of us," he mutters grudgingly, and then waits.

But she doesn't speak. Instead she reaches out a hand and touches his bare chest, trailing her fingers down over his nipple and to the flat plane of his stomach. When he shudders, she pulls back. "What is wrong?"

He gives a choked laugh. "Nothing," he says, voice hot. "Do it again."

She does, and is rewarded with the hot row of kisses down her neck. She is doing this, she thinks with the part of her brain that is still functioning. There is something exciting about doing this outside the rigid structure of weddings and wedding nights and dowries and witnesses, something liberating. She is enjoying the feel of his stubble as it rasps across her collarbone when he tugs at her shift. He pulls it over her head and gently untangles it from her hair. The night air hits her skin just as she hears him suck in a deep breath. He leans down and takes a nipple in his mouth. "Beautiful," he says, and the word vibrates against her chest.

He kisses his way down her body like he is staking claim; it should anger her, will anger her, she knows, if she thinks about it later, but right now it feels too pleasant to care. He pauses when he reaches her scar. His breath tickles as he hovers above it. Then he continues to move downward. When she realizes where she is going, she tries to clamp her legs together, but he stops her, holding her thighs. His tongue darts forward presses against the spot that has been throbbing since he first laid her on the bed. Her hips buck upward, and she hears herself cry out. He does it again, causing a wave of pleasure to ripple all the way up to her chest.

The gentle pressure of his tongue ceases. "Did he make you moan like that?"

The implications of that question—and the annoyance it brings—cut through the fog pleasure. "Guy, I have not… I think you believe that I—," she starts, but gasps when his tongue returns. "This is my . . . I mean to say," she tries again, but then she feels his finger ease inside her and she is lost.

"God, you are tight," he says thickly, and moves back up her body and toward her mouth, bringing her knee up with him. "I need to be inside you," he whispers in her ear as she hears the scrape of leather ties as he works at the front of his braies. Once they are off, he wraps her leg around his back and presses forward until she can feel the tip of him pressing against her sex. She feels a flutter of panic. This is happening too fast.

"Guy," she says, just as he thrusts forward. The pain it causes is sharp and obliterating. As her body convulses around his, she bites his shoulder to keep from crying out and buries her face in his neck. If she moves, she will fall apart.

He has gone completely still, except for his arms, which tremble as he tries to keep his weight from pressing down against her. He begins to murmur a litany of apologies into her hair. "I can stop," he says finally, but she only shakes her head. "Do you want me to continue?" She shakes her head harder as he clumsily rubs at her back.

She takes a few deep breaths, feels the pain's jagged edge begin to soften. She shifts her hips, bumps them up. He hisses her name. She does it again, liking the sense of power that comes from seeing his reactions, liking when he moves forward gently, even though it makes her wince. He stops.

No," she tells him. "Keep going."

He buries his head in the crook of her neck and thrusts inside her again. This time she just digs the pads of her fingers into his shoulders, and he begins to move more steadily. The pain is still there, but so is the ghost of the previous pleasure. It is the strangest sensation that she has ever encountered. She is making small noises in his ear, and she is possessed with the desire to nip his neck. When she gives in, it only causes him to move harder, quicker.

All of a sudden he raises his head. "Look at me," he says.

She tries to meet his eyes, but it is too intimate. It will make everything real.

"Look at me," he repeats, and thrusts inside her sharply, causing a bolt of pain-pleasure to jangle all the way down to the soles of her feet. "Marian, please."

She forces her gaze to connect with his. In the dark she cannot make out the color of his eyes, but she can see them widen in happy surprise. His fingers dig into the flesh of her hip, and he brings it up just as he moves down for the deepest thrust yet.

She feels a rush of warmth between her legs, and then he collapses on top of her. The rapid beat of her heart races between their bodies—it stays fast and brisk even as his slows. Now that she is beginning to feel sore and sticky instead of flushed and overheated, the enormity of what she's done hits her hard, and her breath hitches. There is no going back from this.

Suddenly she needs space, needs it more than air. She pushes against his shoulders, causing him to raise his head. He looks down at her questioningly.

"Can you please…," she starts but then falters. How do you ask someone to get off of you after you've just let them do that?

Nevertheless, he understands. His eyelids droop, and his lips twist into a cynical smirk, but he rolls away from her. Throwing an arm over his eyes, he lies there, not bothering to cover himself.

She scoots away and wraps herself in as many blankets as she can find. Left with nothing to do but stare upwards, she can only think of how she knows nothing about the person beside her. Not even the basics.

"How old are you?" she asks suddenly, turning toward him. At first she wonders if he has fallen asleep. But then his voice rumbles up from beside her.

"Thirty….two? Three? I do not know."

"But . . . when is your birthday?"

"August."

"Your birthday is the entire month of August?"

"I do not know the exact day."

She rolls back, stares up. "I do not know anything about you," she whispers, but if he hears her, he does not respond. She hears the rustle of bedclothes, turns to find that he has covered himself with a sheet and shown her his back. By the time she drifts off to sleep, she has met it with her own.