Author's Note: As per FFnet's guidelines, this chapter is missing scenes due to adult content. The full version can be found on Ao3.

Trigger warnings: Mild anxiety and mentions of disordered eating.

Robin wakes to an empty bed, the smell of coffee, an almost eye-watering need to piss and a pitched tent. Lovely.

For a second, he just lies there, rubs the sleep from his eyes and yawns. And then he figures he ought to take care of the second two matters before he investigates the first, and forces himself up, out of bed, and across the hall.

Emptying the tank takes care of the morning wood – which is good, because he'd much rather save it for her, and he thinks he might smell a hint of bacon now. He'll have to wait until after breakfast to seduce her.

He doesn't really bother with clothes, just grabs his boxer briefs from the bedroom and pulls them back on (wouldn't even do that, except it seems a bit forward to be wandering around her place completely starkers). And then he makes his way down the stairs, toward the blessed relief of her coffee.

The house is quiet, still, rather peaceful like this, with no child, no roommate. The idea that he has a whole day to spend lazing about with Regina puts a little spring in his step.

And then he sees her, and Robin can't help a little internal groan of appreciation.

She's standing at the stove in nothing but a short silk robe—at least he thinks it's nothing but that; her legs are deliciously bare, her hair still sleep-tousled. That recently deflated stiffy starts to stir again, and he itches to touch her (can't think of a single reason why he shouldn't). And though she must have heard him come downstairs, she hasn't turned, hasn't acknowledged him in the slightest, so he offers a scratchy, "G'morning, gorgeous," as he closes the distance between them.

"Morning," she greets, a smile in her voice, and then she tells him, "There's coffee, and I'm making eggs and bacon."

"So I see," he murmurs, hands finding her hips and then wrapping warmly around her middle. She always seems so small like this – flat-footed, and dressed down. He's seen her this way time and again, but it always strikes him – perhaps more this time when he's ducking to press a kiss into the side of her neck, smiling at her shiver before he tells her it smells wonderful.

"If you want toast, there's bread," she offers, but a glance to the side tells him all he needs to know about her plans for sides. She has a carton of sliced mango sitting out, and an avocado beside it just waiting to be prepped. A peek at the barely cooked eggs she's stirring methodically bears the telltale flecks of her preferred salsa. It's breakfast à la Regina, so quintessentially her style that he can't help another smile and squeeze.

"I have everything I want right here," he assures, and then he's helping himself to the tie at the front of her robe, loosening it, and watching the way she draws a deeper breath at the action. "This is terribly sexy, you know. Do you wear this when your son is home?"

"No," she laughs softly, shaking her head. "I can't remember the last time I wore it, actually." Once the tie is undone, the front gaps open, and Robin wastes no time slipping his hands beneath the silk and coasting them up her belly, cupping her tits. Her voice has dropped a little when she sighs, "Haven't had much of a reason to."

"Mm," he hums, thumbs circling over her nipples before he grasps both of them and starts to tug what might be considered gently for her. Firm pressure, but not too firm – enough to have her swallowing heavily and whispering his name. "I like it," he tells her, nuzzling into the soft warmth of her hair and pressing a kiss there. She smells like morning – shampoo faded to little more than a floral whiff, and skin, and a bit of sweat from last night's marathon fuck.

Their "thirty minute snog" had gotten away from them by about minute twenty-five, wandering hands and weaving legs leading to groping and grinding. Her top had come off first, owing to a life-threatening need on his part to suck her nipples until she made a particular gasping moan he adores. And it hadn't taken long after that before her shorts were gone, his sweats too, Regina groping for a condom blindly in the midst of a slew of kisses.

The snogging had never stopped—lips and tongues and breath all mingling again and again from the moment they hit the sheets until the moment she'd parted her thighs for him and let him slip inside her. He'd gotten rather obsessed with the side of her neck, then—with the sensitive spot that makes her go all breathless for him—lavishing it in kisses as their hips had rocked against each other.

It had been languid, and intimate, and she'd come with his mouth on hers again, his own release following not long after.

They'd both been spark out no more than fifteen minutes later, sprawled starkers under her covers.

And now, here they are—in her kitchen, with breakfast on the way, and her tits in his hands, and his cock hard again, fully now.

"I'm trying to make eggs," she tells him thickly, and he thinks maybe it was meant to be a scold, but she doesn't sound very firm on the point. Robin chuckles into her neck and tells her that he's not stopping her, and then he squeezes her nipples a little harder. The same slow, rolling tugs, but firmer now, and she rewards him by rocking her ass back against his cock. "You're distracting me."

"Mmhmm," Robin confirms, adding a little twist to his teasing attentions, and she drops her head back into his shoulder and writhes a bit for him.

"If I burn the bacon, it'll be your fault," she warns, and Robin snickers. Of all the things to threaten him with…

"I think I'll live, babe," he assures and then, "I want to eat you out again while you finish breakfast."

She sucks in a breath sharply, licks her lips and swallows. And he doesn't expect she'll tell him no, but he doesn't give her much of a chance to anyway, drawing her back into a heated kiss as he makes his way around to the front of her and then drops to his knees.

He mutters, "Don't burn the bacon," and she laughs until he draws her hips closer and drags his tongue over her clit. She hitches off into a gasp, then, and he grins smugly and does it again.

.::.::. SCENE REDACTED. READ FULL VERSION ON AO3 .::.::.

And then he relaxes, and so does she, leaning forward a little to press her brow to his shoulder. Not for the first time, he's gotten cum all over her hand, or dripping down his belly at the very least—it's a relatively messy affair, a hand job—but at least this time they're nearish a roll of kitchen towel. She doesn't seem to mind, though, seems perfectly content to linger here a moment, so Robin wraps his arms around her waist and turns his head to press a kiss to the nearest part of her head he can reach.

After a full minute or so, she sighs, "Bacon's probably okay, but I think we ruined the eggs," against his shoulder and Robin chuckles, shaking his head and giving her a squeeze. Her shoulders shake a little, a breathy laugh of her own.

"I'm sure we can salvage them—and if not, I'd be perfectly happy with toast, and bacon, and the fixings," he tells her as she lifts her head.

She's smirking, and gorgeous, and he's so in love with her it pains him. Makes him smile dopily at her as she says, "We'll see how bad they are."

Regina wipes her hand on his belly (he can't be too bothered about it, considering how much cum he'd put there himself) and it occurs to him, "You didn't get off, did you?" When her brow furrows in confusion, he adds, "A second time, I mean."

The knit in her brow melts away into a smile, and she assures, "I don't need it. One was a perfectly fine start to the day—the rest was for you. Besides, if last night is any indication, I may need to pace myself."

Robin chuckles smugly, and promises, "I'll make it up to you later." One more smooch, and he adds, "After I've had my bacon."

She pushes to her feet with a laugh and a faint pop in one of her knees that makes her grunt.

A moment later, a roll of kitchen towel lands in Robin's lap.

.::.

They end up foregoing another round of scrambled eggs after Regina's insistence that the half-runny, half-rubbery ones left in the pan are not worth saving. Instead, they pilfer a few from the stash of hard-boiled ones she'd prepped for the work week, pairing them with the bacon, and the mango, and the avocado (he eats his in spoonfuls straight from the skin; she mashes hers onto her slice of toast and sprinkles red pepper flakes on top).

All the while they chit chat about nothing, about what their plans are for the day (laying about, sex, watching a bit of telly, maybe some more sex, order in some dinner to refuel for more sex…), and about Henry's first few days of school, and how much Robin enjoyed being back in the studio (how much Regina enjoyed the fruits of his labor).

She's back in her robe, but she'd done a half-assed job belting it and it keeps slipping, giving him tantalizing glimpses of her shoulder; every time she tugs it back up the middle seems to gap more, until there's enough cleavage on display that he has a hard time keeping his attention on what she's saying and not the deep vee of bare skin that's creeping down toward her navel.

He wants her again.

He's had her, over and over in just the last eighteen hours, but he still wants her. Robin's not sure if it's the dry spell or just her, but he's bloody insatiable. He'd like nothing more than to put that underachieving belt out of its misery, bare her tits again and spend the next half hour finding new ways to make her gasp and sigh with his mouth on her nipples.

Robin licks his lips at the thought—and then realizes Regina has stopped talking.

He glances up and finds her looking at him, one brow arched in amusement. When their eyes lock, she shakes her head, chuckling softly and teasing him, "We just had sex, and you're already undressing me with your eyes?"

Robin can't be arsed to feel guilty about it, so he just shrugs, and points out, "If last night proved anything, love, it's that there's no refractory period in my desire for you. And besides, there's not much undressing to do in that robe."

Regina stretches, that temptress, arching her back slightly as she does; that belt gives up almost entirely, robe opening even further, a hint of nipple peeking out at him. Her teasing smirk makes him absolutely certain she's doing it on purpose, so he's not at all surprised when she sighs leadingly, "I thought you'd like it."

"I do, very much," Robin assures, reaching for his coffee as he adds, "But your tit's half out, babe, there's no way I'm not going to stare at it."

And then, God bless her, she tugs one side all the way over, flashing him with a cheeky grin and a wink, taunting, "What if it's all the way out?"

"Then I think we're going to have to give up any illusions that we might be watching that movie before we go for another round," he tells her as she (much to his tandem relief and disappointment) fixes her robe and belts it more securely.

"No sex," Regina insists, and well, he's heard that tune before, hasn't he? He might be concerned if she didn't immediately follow it up with, "Not until I've had a shower. I stink. We both do. And I'm… sticky."

Robin glances down at his belly pointedly—he'd wiped all his junk off, obviously, but he still shoots back, "You're sticky?"

"Exactly," Regina answers, nabbing the final piece of mango from her plate and popping it into her mouth.

"A shower sounds good," Robin agrees, draining the last sip from his mug, and asking, "Do I get to wash your back? Maybe your front?"

"You can wash whatever you want…" Regina tells him, her voice low and sultry as she sits forward, leans into his space until her lips are a breath from his. And then she finishes, "...if you start with the dishes," and stands.

Robin tips head back and laughs, scolding, "Oh. Rude."

"Just rinse the plates and cups and put them in the dishwasher," she laughs, letting her fingers drag through his hair, tipping his head back and stealing a kiss. "I'll go start the shower running and grab us some towels."

With the promise of Regina all naked and soapy in the imminent future, Robin has no problem grinning back and agreeing, "Deal."

.::.

Regina does as promised and cranks the water on in the shower as soon as she climbs the stairs, and she does go in search of two fresh towels, too. But the real reason she'd wanted to duck upstairs rests in the top drawer of her nightstand.

She pulls out the journal she'd used to make her food diary the other night and flips to the first blank page, biting her lip and scribbling messily in her haste:

SAT dinner—

Baked BBQ chicken (drums and thighs bc they are Robin's favorite and I don't NEED to stick to white meat), zucchini, strawberries. One beer. Delicious, if I do say so myself. Zero guilt.

Note: Talk to DH about talk with Robin?

SAT snack—

Post-coital fry binge. Not a binge. Just a snack. Felt a little indulgent but not guilty.

SUN breakfast—

Ruined the eggs. Had avocado toast, hard-boiled eggs, mango slices. Lazy. Delicious. Feeling fabulous.

Her heart is pounding slightly as she slips her pen back into its loop and stashes the book back under the bottle of lube and condoms (a little avalanche tumbles from the box as she shoves the journal beneath it, and Regina nicks one to bring to the bathroom with her, just in case). She knows that they talked about this—the setback, the mindfulness—but there's something about Robin catching her logging food (even if it's for a good reason) that makes her feel… secretive. Guilty?

Embarrassed.

It makes her feel embarrassed, and very small, and so she grabs those two fresh towels and scurries her way back toward the bathroom with her heart in her throat, hoping he won't catch her sneaking off to deal with her eating disorder in the middle of their weekend.

That step near the top of the stairs creaks beneath his weight just as she's setting the towels down (condom resting neatly on top like a goddamn mint on a hotel pillow), and Regina doesn't know what to do with herself for a moment. What should she have been doing, if she hadn't been writing in her journal? Should she be in the shower already? Should she be waiting for him? Should she have—

She scrambles for toothpaste and her electric toothbrush, shoving it in her mouth and brushing vigorously, giving him what she hopes is a casual (if mildly frothy) smile as he steps into the bathroom. He's loose-limbed and relaxed—exactly the way he should be, the way she should be, and Regina tells herself to get a damn grip.

You were journaling, for God's sake, not turning a trick—and he wouldn't even care, so get ahold of yourself.

"You know, a toothbrush is the one thing I forgot to bring," he muses, and Regina manages to roll her eyes, shifting the toothbrush to a new quadrant of her mouth as she reaches wordlessly for one of the drawers near her hip and pulls out a pack of fresh ones she keeps for forgetful guests (not that they get many of those).

"Bless you," Robin sighs, ripping one from the pack and praising, "You're such a good host," before he steals her toothpaste and half the space in front of the sink.

It's homey and domestic, and… easy. Standing here barely dressed, brushing their teeth after breakfast.

Being with him like this should not feel this comfortable—not this soon—and yet… it does. Or at least, it does until their elbows bump clumsily—her left into his right as they both brush merrily away.

Robin tilts his head curiously, as if he's seeing something for the first time, and as she switches to quadrant number three of her brushing, he mumbles around his toothpaste, "Are you left-handed?"

Oh.

Regina switches her toothbrush easily from left hand to right in order to avoid any more collisions, and answers him simply, "Both." Because ambidextrous is too complicated a word for the amount of Crest 3D White she'd have to say it through.

Once she's spit and rinsed, though, she tells him, "Natural lefty, right-handed out of practice. Mother's left-handed, and she used to get in trouble when she was younger for having messy homework—your hand rubs across the lead or the ink and it smears. So she taught herself to be right-handed. When little me started picking up crayons with my left hand, she nipped that in the bud very quickly. I was taught to be right-handed."

"What is this, the fifties?" Robin mutters after rinsing his own borrowed brush and setting it on the sink's edge.

Regina's smirks, and shrugs, and says, "All my homework was pristine. But I still do a lot with my left, and in middle school I retrained myself. I still wrote all my schoolwork with my right hand, but I wrote my diary with my left. My little rebellion."

"So she trained herself to be a righty and you trained yourself to be a proper lefty?" The idea clearly amuses him, his smile lopsided, a little pop of dimples on one side.

"Mmhmm," Regina nods, unable to keep her smile from matching his. "I'm definitely left-dominant; when I'm reaching for something, or throwing a ball, or—"

"Jerking me off," he says like a lightbulb has just sprung to life above his head. "Earlier, you were using your left. I didn't really think about it at the time on account of, y'know, you having your hand on my cock."

Regina snorts, and shakes her head, but acknowledges, "Yes, probably. I'll use whichever hand is most convenient, and I'm sure I'm better with my right than most people are with their left, but if I can use my left… I do."

"I can't believe I never noticed."

"I can. Who pays that much attention to how someone holds a fork?" Regina challenges. "And to this day, I still write right-handed for work—or anything Mother will see me write. It's easier at a conference table; you're not bumping elbows. But I write left at home."

Robin's smile edges into something secretive and private, his hand sliding over until he can loop his pinky around hers and tug her hand up. "So I see. Been writing me post-breakfast love notes, have you?"

Regina frowns for a moment, then glances in the mirror and sees the telltale blue smudge of ink on the edge of her hand from her hastily scribbled journaling.

Her stomach twists sharply with another surge of the anxiety that had only just settled and she yanks her hand out of his grip and crosses her arms tightly over her chest to hide the evidence.

Damnit.

She's not looking at him, but she can hear the cautious concern in Robin's voice as he asks, "Regina?"

"Food journal," she explains curtly. "Because of my…"

"Ah. Right."

"It's private," she explains, looking at him and feeling very silly for reacting at all, much less as intensely as she is. But her heart is racing and her underarms feel hot and itchy. She squeezes her fingers against her biceps, pleased with the steadiness of her voice as she continues, "I need to fill it out, I want to keep track—for myself, for my therapist. But I don't want you… to be a part of that."

"Okay. I'm sorry—I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's fine; you didn't know."

"Are you…" He hesitates for a moment, like he's searching for the right words. What he comes up with is, "...feeling alright?"

She knows what he means—is she struggling? Is that why she's upset right now?

And it's not, so she she shakes her head and tells him, "I'm feeling great today. But we're not snuggled up half-naked in my bed anymore, and… I know I don't have to be embarrassed with you, but it's… knee-jerk." Her shoulders lift and fall, and she says, "Journals are private. Food journals are very private—at least for me."

"I'm sor—"

"Don't apologize; you didn't know," Regina interrupts. And because she's absolutely certain it's the truth, she says, "I overreacted."

"I caught you off-guard."

He caught her sneaking, even worse, and for a second the hot shame of it slithers up her spine. The bathroom air feels muggy and warm from the shower that's probably going cold as they stand here, and for a second she just wants to turn tail and run. Walk out the bathroom door, down the steps, into the fresh air of the morning for just a few minutes until she doesn't feel this way.

Instead she says, "Can we just get in the shower, please? I smell like a prostitute."

"You most certainly do not," Robin tells her, adding a hasty (and she thinks sincere), "Not that I would know."

She laughs, but is not entirely sure she sells it. She's thinking of those fair few women now, and whatever had been climbing its way up her back finishes the trip, settling in the backs of her eyeballs and making them prickle with tears.

Fuck.

Regina lifts her hands to her face, taking a deep breath in and out, eyes shut as tears press against her lashes. She whispers to herself, "Oh God, don't do this," and Robin rushes to reassure her in a way that just mortifies her even more.

"I've never been with a prostitute, love, I swear—"

"It's not that," she tells him, dropping her hands as his wrap around her waist. "I just have…"

She presses one hand to the pinching, vibrating feeling in her chest, and Robin finishes for her, "Anxiety."

Regina nods, all tension, and the words just come vomiting their way up out of her: "I asked you to put away the dishes so I could come up here and write everything down without you knowing. I should have just done it this morning before you woke up; I'm such an idiot. But I didn't want you to know about it, so I was rushed, and anxious, and then you were faster than I expected, or I took longer, I don't know, and I—"

"Breathe, babe," Robin urges softly, and right. She's not breathing. Regina sucks in a slow breath, then exhales even more slowly, and Robin's voice is low and quiet near her ear, urging, "That's it; deep breaths."

She does another one and the tension in her chest starts to loosen— this anxiety isn't acute, just… just the beginnings. Another few deep breaths should do it, so she inhales slowly again.

"Good," Robin murmurs, and then, "In the future, babe, just tell me when you need some privacy. I won't ask questions; you don't have to sneak around."

"I know," she exhales, feeling stupider by the minute, and this spectacular show of poor mental health sure isn't helping with that. Why is she like this? She shouldn't be like this, not today, not right now. Nothing bad has happened; she should be fine. "God, I don't want to go on meds," she blurts (whines, almost, but she'd never admit to that.)

"It's nothing so bad as that; I just freaked you out a bit."

"But it shouldn't cause this," she tells him, meeting his gaze and finding him all blue-eyed concern and understanding. "It shouldn't be this close to the surface all the time—and certainly not after last night and this morning. I should be relaxed."

"You were–you are," he insists as she takes one more deep breath in, another slow breath out as he finishes, "Your food issues wind you up. You're always a bit anxious when we talk about them, and usually it's on your terms. But if you want a bit more relaxation, John just got a new vape; I could run next door and we could really mellow you out. Wouldn't even stink up the house."

Regina snorts a little, shaking her head and huffing out a chuckle, the last of her anxiety starting to dissipate with it. "No, thank you," she mutters, "I don't need to get high, I just need to… settle. And you're right—it's the… my issues. Trying to hide it and getting caught, that's what caused this."

"Just keep breathing," he urges softly, and she does, one more in, one more out, fighting against the little lapping waves of tension that keep teasing at her. "It's over now, and no harm done."

She'd looked away from him, focusing on her breathing, but she looks back now, as another little ripple tightens her chest for a moment, and she must look at him a certain way, it must show on her face, because he shakes his head a little, and just says, "It's brain chemistry, yeah? Your body's flooding you with hormones you don't need, frying all your wires a bit. There's nothing truly amiss other than that. It's not you. Just breathe til it stops."

It's both helpful and not—the coddling makes her feel foolish, and also supported. Heard, but ridiculous. But he's right; it's her brain playing tricks, and it will stop, it's stopping. She's been stopping it. Slow breaths. In, and out.

After one more, she's finally purged the tension in her chest almost entirely—enough at least to tell him, "We should get in the shower before the water runs cold."

Robin's hand shifts down to hers and gives it a quick squeeze, before he agrees with an easy, "Okay," and reaches for the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Regina shrugs out of her robe, rakes her hands through her hair (deep breath in, slow breath out) and lets him hold the shower curtain open for her. Once they're both inside, she reaches for the knob, cranking the heat up a few more degrees and then tipping her head back into the spray, shutting her eyes and visualizing any lingering anxiety rinsing off and washing away, puddling around their feet and then swirling down the drain.

Robin's hands settle at her hips, wrap around her waist, and knead up and down the base of her spine. Waiting her out.

It's not more than thirty seconds before she opens her eyes, feeling clearer-headed already. Robin has a kiss waiting for her; it's slow, and lazy, their bodies pressing, rocking, waltzing a slow half-turn until the spray is hitting both of them more fully, warming their skin, making them slippery as their kisses spin out and out and out.

When she's half-dizzy from steam and hot kisses, he stops long enough to breathe, "Where's the soap?"

Something about it makes her smile as she reaches blindly for the lavender-scented bar on the soap tray, passing it over to him. It's nubby on one side, covered in bumps meant to massage away tension—something she thinks will do her more good than frothy body wash and a loofah right now.

Robin's kissing her again before the bar even changes hands, and then he lazily trails the soap over her skin, wandering her back with it, and her ass, her arms, her ribs. He's caressesing as much as lathering, and there are parts of her that need to see some suds more than the dip of her spine does, but it feels so very good.

It's soothing, calming, the pressure from the nubby side of the soap easing tension from her muscles and the familiar floral scent relaxing her even further.

Five minutes ago, she'd loathed herself, her mind, her stupid brain chemistry, but the combination of affection and hot, soapy water is doing wonders for her. All her brain is coming up with at the moment is, This is nice.

When he sneaks the soap between them and starts coasting it over her her breasts, her belly, it feels even better. Good enough, in fact, to have her moaning quietly and weaving her fingers into his dampening hair. He gets her all slick and sudsy, and then he teases, focusing his soapy swirls on her breasts, the bumpy side of it circling over them again and again until her nipples go stiff and her breath shallow. It's a subtle pleasure, but wonderful; she's really been missing out by not doing this herself during her more private showers and baths.

"I like that," she breathes into the steamy air between them, and Robin hums softly and smiles at her.

"I noticed."

Their noses bump, and then he's running the soap up to her collar, the back of her neck, back down.

"So by all means, stop," she ribs him; Robin just chuckles and soaps the other side of her neck.

She should be soaping him up too, enjoying the feel of his skin the way he's enjoying the feel of hers. She should be less selfish. But the moment she reaches toward the soap, he's drawing it away, setting it back in it's little dish, reaching down to turn the water a touch hotter.

He'd missed some places—some vital ones, considering what they've been up to—but before she can do much more than frown, his hand is slipping between her thighs and she decides that the rest of the washing can wait.

Regina keeps an arm looped around his neck but lets her other hand wander over wet skin; she explores the slope from his neck down to his shoulder, let's her thumb trace down the scar on his bicep, and back up. Robin is definitely not wandering. For all his lazy exploration of her last night, he's focused today.

.::.::. SCENE REDACTED. READ FULL VERSION ON AO3 .::.::.

His mouth covers her again, steals kiss after breathless kiss as she comes back to herself.

Their lips are still touching, brushing against each other as she offers, "There's a condom on the towels if you want…"

But Robin only shakes his head and murmurs, "No, I'm good. I owed you one." His lips press gently to hers as his hand slips away and rises to tuck a wet lock of hair behind her ear. "And I thought you could use a little bump of oxytocin."

It should make her feel embarrassed, or pitied, or… anything other than soft. But realizing that his wandering hands had been an attempt to ease her frazzled mind rather than satisfy his libido has her humming warmly and agreeing, "Definitely. Who needs Xanax?"

Robin gives a single, short chuckle, fingers stroking down the side of her neck. "Well, I'm sure there are situations where an orgasm would be an inappropriate or inconvenient cure for the tension."

She thinks of all the places she's had an anxiety flare up lately where Robin's particular brand of soothing would be wildly inappropriate—work, her therapist's office, the Baltimore Country Club—and snickers. "True. You're sure you don't need…?"

"Later. The water's getting cold and we still both need to actually wash."

He's certainly right about that—on both counts. The water is rapidly approaching a temperature that can only be called "tepid", and if she doesn't scrub off all this sweat and lube and sleep, what was the point of this, anyway?

They make quick work of it, Regina shampooing while Robin lathers up, conditioning while he rinses, washing the parts he'd missed while he uses Henry's shampoo to make a mohawk that makes her snort and roll her eyes. They're both clean as a whistle before the water manages to get south of "cool" and wrapped in fluffy bath towels not long after that.

If they end up making out on the bed a few minutes after that, sheets dampening from wet hair and hastily dried skin, well, why shouldn't they?

The sheets will dry, and for once, they have all the time in the world.