"Damon," she said, and her voice was soft, rougher than usual, and the way she said his name sent something electric up his spine that he was absolutely not acknowledging.
"Go to sleep," he said, and was proud of how normal his voice sounded.
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
"That's very helpful, thank you."
He almost smiled. She almost smiled back. The moment stretched between them, warm and specific and weighted with everything they were both very carefully not doing.
"I know," she said quietly. "I know we can't. I'm not....I'm not trying to....."
"I know you're not," he said. "Your body doesn't care about intentions."
"No," she agreed. "It really doesn't."
She looked at him with those amber eyes, clearer now than they'd been an hour ago, and he saw in them the same thing he was feeling....the particular frustration of wanting something and being sensible about it and deeply resenting being sensible about it.
"Tell me something," she said. "Distract me."
"From?"
