They have two weeks left.

Levi collides with Erna when he opens the door. All she's wearing is a robe that he doesn't bother to take off of her, but it falls away at some point in the motion, after he fell to his knees in front of her and buried his face between her legs, but before he lifted her off the ground by her narrowed waist, held her firm to the wall, and slammed his cock inside her tight, silky cunt.

Only after he's done fucking her does he have time to take off his clothes and get in bed with her. There wasn't time for stripping down when he let himself in. He'd been locked in an internal struggle with his inner beast all day, taming it when it told him to drag her away and ruin her every time it saw her baring that blackberry bruise on her slender, pale neck. She flaunted it while acting completely oblivious as to what anyone was staring at, tilting her head to show more of the mark he'd left on the right side of her neck, daring someone to say something in front of her.

He teases her when she latches onto him, tucking into his arm and draping herself half across his chest, "What would they think if I told them how much you like to cuddle?"

"Who?"

"Anyone."

"They'd sooner believe that this bruise on my neck came from falling into a doorknob." She hooks a leg over him.

"You didn't stop me," he says.

"I told you," she says, "I don't care if anyone knows. Tell everyone if you want. Carve your name into the other side of my neck. No one will believe you anyway."

He tells her what he heard at dinner, when the other trainees felt safe enough to talk about her very obvious hickey. "Rumor is you fuck with demons you summon under the full moon."

She hums and squeezes him. She says, "Half true." Her eyes close and he lets her trail her nails with their black nail beds over his skin. She says quietly, almost as if to herself, "I only cuddle with you," and he doesn't respond. He would hope that isn't the only thing she only does with him. A beat later, she says, "I think I might care about you. I don't like it. It's uncomfortable."

It is, when she puts it like that. He doesn't know what to say. He can't deny that the admission makes him smile inside, but also the way she says it makes him wonder if he's supposed to apologize when she rises up and straddles his hips, sitting up tall, her back arched with a grace so pure it's almost regal. He doesn't return the intensity of her gaze, because his eyes travel, following her flawless form and flow of her lines.

The old man told him when he was young-ish and nearing the time when he would be left to his own devices, alone, that the maiden wall goddesses were stuffy and tame compared to what people used to worship. Levi never questioned how he knew that, because the old man had a penchant for lying when he was talking about anything but how to sharpen a knife or steal a wallet. Even he knew at that young age that every story was to be taken for an entertaining myth.

It comes back to him now. Kenny told him that before the walls there was a host of gods and goddesses, and they were a hell of a lot more fun than the wall sisters, petty and jealous and imperfect and fickle, most of them. All they demanded was sacrifice and attention, and if they got it then maybe they would favor you and maybe they wouldn't.

He thinks of it because sitting atop him, her penetrating eyes fastened to him, with the light from the candles making her skin glow, he thinks she might be one of them. A goddess of fire and ice and all things sharp, looking down on him aloof and powerful, but desperately hungry to be respected and adored and worshiped by him. He has a little of her, so little, and he craves so much. The touch of her hands on his flesh makes his blood burn black. His arm reaches up and snakes around her neck like a python. She closes her eyes as a sign of sweet submission.

He doesn't know if he'd say that he cares about her or if he believes that she really knows what caring is. He cares about his friends. Whatever he feels for her is more consumptive. He wants to own her mind and soul at deep primal levels in all of her cold, destructive madness.

He thinks that this time he's going to fuck her slow and long, but as soon as their hips slide and lock and he's inside her a darkness engulfs him. The demon in him wakens to feast on her and his hand tangles in her hair, pulling her down to tear at her neck and bite her tits. She hisses and gasps for breath that he steals with his mouth, biting at her lips and her tongue. He grabs handfuls of flesh and grips and lifts, slamming his cock inside her tight cunt again and again to see her buck. When the primal ache to rend her subsides from his jaw, he pushes her away, up again, so that he can get a good look at the goddess perched on his cock.

Convulsions and tremors rock her delicate frame and he sees her as if in a haze. The second time she comes is more violent than the first, her limbs going taut like high tension wires and her mouth opening as if she's in pain. Her breath hitches in her throat and stays there. When it's over and her entire body starts to go slack he's still slamming his hips into hers. He reaches and puts a hand to her chest to center her and feels her heart thumping as if to escape against the heel of his palm. Her head tilts back and lolls to the side like her neck doesn't have the power to support it anymore. His face twists with the effort of holding her steady while chasing his own release. He grunts and bares his teeth, but he can't come when she's relaxed like this. That's why it always feels like a race when he's fucking her. He gives up and lets her fall and she all but adheres to him, sliding her hands under his shoulders, resting her face against his chest. She wiggles off of his cunt-slick cock and laughs breathlessly, pressing her lips to his skin and teasing, "Beat you."

"You usually give me at least ten minutes to recover," he says. "I'm drained."

"Sorry," she purrs at him, "I'm stressed."

"About what?" he asks, expecting an ambiguous answer, because from what he can see, she has nothing to be stressed about. She goes around doing whatever she wants, answering to no one, the queen of her little universe here, wearing her power as if it's tailored perfectly to her small frame.

She doesn't answer. He settles and tries to ignore his swollen, aching cock while her index finger trails lightly back and forth over the straight line of bruise left imprinted on his chest after ten straight hours of maneuver training.

"How's your shoulder?"

"Hurts less than yesterday."

She says, "I was right, you know," as if she's worried about him holding it against her.

He remembers the personal insult of her questioning his abilities with the 3dm device and it at least helps take his mind off the need to get back inside her. "I don't need training," he says with certainty, not because he's cocky, though he is, but because he doesn't intend to join the Survey Corps or fight any titans.

"Expeditions are dangerous," she murmurs thoughtfully, because she doesn't know that, and she grabs at his side, suddenly and violently pressing her face to his chest like she just experienced a phantom fall.

He puts his fingers under her chin and tilts it up, forcing her to unplaster her face from his cooling skin. He changes the subject so that he won't be tempted to tell her why he is completely certain he isn't going on any expeditions. "Tell me another story."

"No," she moans. "You're going to make me run out of stories and then you'll get bored of me."

"I already have ideas for new ways to entertain myself when that happens," he says, running his hand down her naked hourglass figure. She flinches away. He retracts his hand and smirks down at her.

She suppresses the shudder of a yawn and whines. "I'm tired."

"You're lazy after you come," he says, like that's something entirely different from being tired.

"Because you make me come so hard," she purrs. "It's like dying."

"Then tell me another story and buy yourself some time before I make you get in the shower."

She smacks his chest lightly. Another time he'd been frustrated about how difficult it was to get off after she passed into the afterglow without him, he'd picked her up and put her in a cold shower. She shudders at the reminder and smiles. "You're a dick." He hums his agreement. "What do you want to hear?"

"What puts you here." She's told him a lot about her past, but there's an obvious hole in the timeline. The longer it takes her to get around to stories of anything more recent than a handful of years past, the more he wants to know what it is that bridges the gap between self-made seedy underworld ingenue to… this… whatever she is now…

"That's boring," is what she always says when he brings it up. She twists her body, folds her hands over his chest, and rests her chin on them to look up at him with her bright, cagey eyes. "Why are you so curious? Maybe I can put your suspicion to rest without getting into the whole thing."

"You hate it here," he says, but without full certainty. It's only something he's come to suspect. He can see that she's deeply unhappy, sometimes, when she drops the pretense of apathy, though he isn't certain it's because of the setting.

"Oh?" she says, her mouth an innocent little 'o'. "Do I?"

He ignores her attempt to sidetrack him into a circuitous, pointless debate. "Why do you stay?" She gives him the dangerous look that she sometimes does, that says don't think you can just demand things, but he's had enough of dancing around it. He wants to know how she's here, why she stays, and whether she could be dragged away kicking and screaming if necessary.

She huffs a discontented sigh out her nose and glares at him with pouting lips.

"Why's it such a secret?"

"Because I'm not proud of being caged." Her voice has a wet sound to it and, seeming ashamed of this, she turns her head, rests her cheek on his chest and looks away. He can feel her putting miles of distance between them already, in less time than it takes him to blink.

"Did you get the same deal I did?"

"What's your deal?"

"Join the Survey Corps or get a quick trial and sentencing."

"Funny," she says, "Wouldn't have thought they would need to resort to threats to get you to leave the sewer."

"I'd rather live free in a sewer than be a hostage on the surface."

"How'd they convince you?"

"They were going to hurt my friends." He isn't unaware of her stubborn spiral outward away from the point, carefully dodging anything close to an answer without plainly refusing to tell him what he wants to know. If she gets much further from his original question he plans to put her in a cold shower again.

"I don't keep friends," she says, like they're a hobby or a pet, "but sure, same kind of deal, only I took a little more convincing."

Levi's fingers pause at a small, sunburst-like scar at her breastbone, brick red around its edges like the skin will never stop remembering how many times it bled, and it clicks. "So this -"

She hums. She guides his hand from there down to her ribs with pockmark scars like she was ground into gravel, and she says, "And this," over her abdomen with some light lines like claw marks from a rabid animal, "And this." She lets go of his hand and wiggles her fingers, "And these."

He catches her left hand, makes her fingers still, and squints. She explains, "They ripped my fingernails out and burned the nail beds."

"Why?" he growls.

"Because it hurts a lot," she says flippantly.

"No, why wouldn't you just do it?" he asks, fucking exasperated with her. "They had to torture you for this?" He gestures at the room, but with a wide sweep, encompassing the entire camp. "All those fucking scars because… Why? So that you could have the Southern District Training Corps to yourself? Why would you refuse that?"

Erna tilts her chin up and narrows her eyes at him, but doesn't match his growing frustrated anger. Instead she looks at him like he thinks an imperious goddess would look down on a mortal and she takes his hand, turns it palm up, and starts massaging it, working out muscle knots he didn't feel until now. It feels so good he closes his eyes. Her hands working his feel more intimate than a kiss and it makes him feel less jilted about being rebuffed every time he's tried to get one out of her lately. She keeps massaging his hand, squeezing his fingers and rubbing her thumbs in upward circles over his palm. He asks again, because she hasn't answered, "Why are you here?"

"Oh, well, you know, just passing time," she answers with lyrical irony and a sarcastic little smile.

"No, you know what I mean. The whole story."

"It's boring," she says again, but this time it has the sound of a disclaimer. Then, "I mean… same reason you got picked up by the Survey Corps. I was too good at what I did." Her voice has a prim, lecturing sound. "Never be too good at anything. People notice and then they want to make you useful. It's better to be untalented or average at best."

"What were you too good at?"

"Graft," she says plainly. "Extortion. Bribery. Threats." She tilts her head back and forth in consideration. "More importantly, getting all manner of people to keep their fucking mouths shut and do what I wanted."

He knew that. After her first murder at fourteen, finding herself suddenly alone and unprotected, little Erna cared for herself by setting out to find just about every john she ever serviced to extort money from them in exchange for her silence. Then that money grew through investment in the right gambling rings, black market dealers, and drugs, but most importantly Erna traded in people and information. Her dictum is that no one can steal information from you. They can want you dead for it, but Erna was always careful to have a war chest of people between her and her victims. She used so many go-betweens and middle-men that most people preyed on by her never even knew her name or her face.

"I barely ever committed a crime myself," she points out with a little pride.

"Extortion is a crime," he counters for the sake of argument.

"Literally, sure, but have you ever seen anyone get arrested for it? It's the perfect crime. And everything else I just convinced other people to do for me. I had lackeys and goons to do the thievery and the threats and all." She lets go of his hand and reaches for the other. "I was smart about it. Never extravagant. Low profile."

"So?" Levi prods, curious about how that leads here. "Why would they want you?" He means it genuinely, and less shitty than he realizes it sounds.

"The military has a corruption problem. Soldiers are apathetic… lazy… incompetent..." she says, bending each of his fingers back gently until the knuckles pop, "From the bottom through the top ranks. It's too deep to fix with an injection of the morally righteous, so they get me, the absolute worst, to see if my methods, though questionable for this context, will work."

"And do they work?"

"I guess we'll see," she sing-songs. "If they don't, then I'm dead."

He tells her that he won't let anyone kill her, automatically, without thinking about the feasibility of keeping that promise, only knowing in his gut that he would never suffer anyone to kill her but him, and she laughs. She giggles, and through her high-pitched ringing laughter, she tells him, "Shut the fuck up. You're leaving in two weeks." She lets go of his hand and lets it fall to the mattress beside him, swinging her leg over him and sitting up to straddle his hips. "The long and short of it is, I'm supposed to make better soldiers and that's how we get military reform - the long way. Because reform the short way would result in a fucking coup, but I'm fucked either way. I'm supposed to be the pet project of the Military Police, but this wasn't their idea and they would rather I didn't succeed. They benefit from things the way they are. I'm not an idiot. They're going to kill me eventually either way, and if that's the case, I'd rather have it done quickly and without the fucking pretense."

"So that's why you're stressed?" he asks while he reaches for her hips.

Her eyes flutter closed when his hands grab at her. She leans back slightly and rides the wave as he grinds up against her. She murmurs, "It's pretty fucking stressful."

"I'm the only one who's going to kill you," he promises again and gets a smirk from her like she thinks that's cute. She still doesn't believe him. Doesn't matter. He's going to get those fucking documents and bribe the right people for enough money to buy a peaceful life in the capital and he's going to find a way to make that life include her, because what even is a life without this.

Her eyelids lower. "How would you do it?"

A ghost of a smile creases the corners of his eyes. "Same way I originally planned to. Choke you until you stop breathing."

"I'd prefer the knife," she sighs, her eyes covered in a dark liquid shine. "Suffocation takes so loooong," she complains, tilting her head and her eyes back, noticeably baring her neck. "You pass out before you know you're dying."

Her voice comes out breathy, wanting, and he's unsettled by how hard it makes him, further unsettled still by how she smiles when he asks her, "So you want a single severed artery?"

"Right here," she hums, and slashes a finger slowly across where her femoral artery is hiding under the skin of her inner thigh, but he's more preoccupied with the slick sheen her finger slides over, of her sweat, his cum, thin and incandescent over her warm, pale skin. He licks his lips. She says, "If I have to die, I want to find out what it feels like to lose that much blood that quickly."

He groans and bares his teeth while closing his eyes. Her hand is grabbing at his cock now with ungentle interest. Lustful tunnel vision quiets the part of him that feels wrong getting so hard while talking about the method of her murder. One hand runs up her side, reaching for her throat. He growls, "I thought you liked being choked."

She leans down and fits her neck against his curled hand, presses with her eyes shining, and says, "I do."

His thumb curls and presses against the bruise he left on the side of her neck, leaving a white imprint that lingers after he throws her to the floor next to the bed. Sprawled at his feet, she makes a short indignant sound. He wraps a hand in her hair and growls his warning that she should stay still. He adjusts himself and when he's sitting comfortably on the edge of the bed, he pulls her to her knees, tilts her head back to look up at him and sees her narrowed eyes pricked with hate-coated lust. He pulls her in toward his cock and she makes a whiney noise, scrunches her face, curling her lip and pulling away.

The noise of the slap across her face cracks through the room. Her eyes close and her mouth opens, her chest rising and falling quickly, needy and desperate despite her pride. Her tongue slips out and he re-tangles his hand in her hair to bring her hungry mouth to his cock. He fucks her throat, making her choke again and again, pulling away to give her a break when her face is flushed and her eyes tearing only to watch her push forward, wet eyes locked on his as she continues to gag and choke herself on him. He takes some deep breaths to calm himself, releases her hair, grabs the sheets, twists them in his fingers while he watches her body jerk and convulse as it tries to fight against her determined pursuit of cutting off its air.

They beat an inconsistent and clumsy rhythm, her trying take him deep as if air is an afterthought, not a need, convulsing off of him when her body decides she's doing something impossible, and him bucking up and chasing her mouth just as she's coming back down and hitting the back of her throat, making her gag again. He loses his patience with it and takes her head in his hands again, fucks into her mouth without an ounce of sympathy for her, then pulls his cock out and holds its base. He slaps her with it and rubs it against her, smearing her cheek with her own saliva. He lets her catch it when she chases it with her mouth, but slides his hand up the shaft so that she can only suckle on the head. She whines at him, nudges her nose against his fingers, begging him to let her swallow more. He pulls his cock out of her mouth, and, gripping his shaft tight, he traces the curve of her lip with the tip. She follows it with her tongue, cute and desperate to chase it when he pulls it away again.

He doesn't want to come yet. He wants to wreck her. He wants to dull the black glint in her eyes and tame her restless, feral nature, fuck and torture her into a domesticated pet. He wants that more than he wants to come. Then, while she's trying to catch his cock in her mouth again, he sees her hand reach between her thighs, and he growls. He lifts her by her shoulders and pulls her back onto the bed, her body light and easy to toss around. He sprawls her over the mattress and looms over her. When he reaches toward her face she winces until his hand goes past her and finds the knife that's always there under the pillow, factoring more into foreplay lately than self defense. He takes her wrist in one hand and she whimpers while he pins her hand to her side, and with his other hand he rests the blade against her inner thigh and asks with an impatient, hungry growl, "Here?"

She smiles at first, relaxed and ecstatic to have him entertain her sickness, and she moans. Her thighs twitch, squeezing slightly while her back arches. He slides the blade higher, closer to her wet, swollen lips.

He can almost hear her heart beating through her chest. His eyes stay locked on the blade pressed carefully to the skin of her thigh. He can see a blue vein showing through her paper white skin, tinted with a gilded glow by the candlelight, and he thinks about the cathartic feeling of slicing flesh open. His pupils expand for him to take in all the darkness.

He caresses her thigh with the blade, turning it over, pressing the flat of it against her with his thumb. He shifts the weight along the bottom edge of it, pressing hard enough to scratch and leave a faintly pink, puffy line along her skin, carefully. She keeps this fucker sharp. His attention is ripped away from her thigh to her mouth by a whine and he catches a sight of her biting down on her lower lip, eager, maybe, or fearful. Both, he thinks. He lifts the knife and trails the tip of it lightly up her leg. He locks eyes with hers, tilts his head at her, and asks quizzically, "You scared?" because he doesn't think he's noticed her breathing for about a minute.

She swallows, nods, and says, "I like it."

He's hearing, but not really listening, and certainly not pausing to wonder why a woman who never seems to feel too much of anything would thrive on fear. The tip of the knife glides up her belly, between her breasts, and settles at her neck, goosebumps trailing its ascent. He studies every expression that flits across her face from the thirsty lick of her lips to the way her teeth sink into her bottom lip, the way she holds her breath when the knife reaches her throat, and the gasp and wince when he pushes his cock inside her wet hole.

The breath escapes her lungs in a long, relieved sigh like she's been needing this for an eternity, though not even an hour has passed since he was last inside her. The tension of fear starts to leave her and she links her ankles loosely at the base of his spine, but the thought of hurting her, the pantomime of taking her fucking life, has already filled his head with sharp thoughts. He holds himself still, feels her clench and bear down as she starts to move, flexing her legs and lifting her hips to close the minute gap between them until she feels him pressing the knife against the underside of her chin, threatening to cut if she moves another inch, and her movement ceases and her eyes snap open. He smirks at the way her expression falls, anxious eyes searching for reassurance and not finding it. He caresses her skin with the razor-sharp edge, drags it up behind her ear and slowly down her jawline, following the hollow of her neck until the point is resting in the little well between her clavicles.

Satisfied that she isn't confident in her safety, he finally thrusts forward with an abrupt snap of his hips and watches her teeth bite down on a whimper. She finds a way to arch her back and undulate her hips without letting her shoulders rise, without pressing against the knife that he isn't drawing back.

She pants and swallows while he's fucking her and the rise and roll of her throat is too much and he sees her eyelids twitch when she feels it. A small line of red appears on her skin. She seems to try to let her lungs deflate, to sink further into the mattress, but he follows. He lays his forearm across her chest, pinning her perfectly still with the knife aimed at the point of her jaw.

She asks, breathless, "Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Yes," he hisses without pausing his assault on her cunt, his bloodlust not dissipating in the slightest, brutal images flashing intrusively through his head. He sees scenes of her screaming noiselessly, bent face down on the floor, tears streaking her face. He keeps the need to make her destruction a reality on a tight leash, feeding on the energy without losing control.

"How many?" she asks with the tinge of a high, needy whine in her voice.

He can only say, "A lot." He doesn't remember the details of every kill like she does, can't recount them with glee the same way. "It's been…" he sighs, mesmerized by the sinful, ethereal glow of her skin, lulled to something like peace by the steady rhythm of his cock pounding into her, "... a lot."

He wonders about how observant she is with those keen, wary eyes, if she knows how lucky she is for the amount of self control he has, and if she can see how badly he wants her limp and broken, how much he wants to drag her outside and whip at her skin with his belt until blood seeps from her. He wants her torn and marked with bruises while she cries and pleads, her red eyes wide and full of tears while she finally accepts a fucking kiss from him.

That's what he's thinking about when his heart starts to race and he feels a rushing tightness in his abdomen. Then he feels her pulse and twitch, and he rasps, "Don't do it." She makes a high, questioning sound, no words, and he pushes the knife against the underside of her chin again. "Don't come, don't fucking breathe, not until I tell you to."

She blinks fast, bites her lip so hard the skin caught under her teeth turns from pink to white, and tries to hold back. He fucks her coarse and frantic and feels her pelvic muscles contract. She winces and whimpers, worried that he means it, that he'll really slice her throat if she can't keep herself under control. Just to be cruel and heighten the difficulty, he reaches down and rubs his thumb lightly over her clit.

She grabs his wrist - the one attached to the hand rubbing her clit, not holding the knife, which gets pressed harder against her jaw, warning her. She retracts her claws and moans helplessly. He smirks and makes a show of slamming his hips harder into hers, bottoming out, and sneering. "Don't worry, I'm close."

Her body twitches on a climax plateau. He can see her getting swallowed by the sweetest, blackest pain, moans muffled behind her clenched teeth. He brings his face to hers. She doesn't turn her head away this time, he wouldn't let her without a kiss from the knife, so she lets him press his lips to hers, achingly sweet in contrast with how hard he's fucking her. He comes deep inside her when he feels her shudder around his cock. She pleads against his mouth, babbling while he tries to lick her lower lip, begging him with, "Please," and his name over and over.

He tells her "Go ahead," and convulsions rack her body so hard he has to drop the knife to the floor to keep from accidentally letting it push too hard and cut her burning skin. He hisses and pulls back from her lips while the intense pressure of her tremors squeeze his cock. Her hips are still twitching when he pulls out. Her mouth is still open in a silent gasp when he kisses the corner of her lips and her cheek and her forehead and she starts to coo and hum and turn her face away like it's too much while she moves over and makes room for him on the bed. This time he clings to her while she lies breathless, still shocked by the magnitude of her orgasm.

While she catches her breath, he sucks another bruise onto the left side of her neck this time close to her collarbone and she sobs the way she does when he's going down on her and refuses to stop just because she's come. When she can breathe again, she grabs at his arm and pulls at it as if he isn't already holding her as tightly as possible, and she says, "I've never let anyone fuck me like that."

And he says, "Why not? You seem to enjoy it," with a devilish gleam in his eyes. If he'd had to guess he would have assumed that was the only way she knew how to fuck: violently, on a knife's edge. He likes that about her.

"I don't," she says, but quickly corrects, "I like it with you," and searches for clarity, "but I wouldn't…"

She doesn't make sense and he doesn't care.

"Once," she says, "a woman I was fucking tried to put her hands around my neck, so I put her head into the brick wall next to my bed."

"Yeah?" he says lazily.

"And another tried to be cute and slap me before I got on my knees, so I smothered her with a pillow."

"I'm noticing a common thread."

"I don't let anyone get rough with me," she says quietly, staring up at the ceiling, "but I like it when you do."

"Why?"

"I think because you mean it… and it's a little frightening."

He smiles slightly. "I wouldn't kill you."

"No?"

"I try to only kill in self defense."

"Sounds awful," she says. "I would never. Too difficult. Better to get the jump on them before they attack you or kill them later, in their sleep."

He cups her jaw in his hand and turns her face toward his. She smirks like she was only kidding, but the thing is he knows what she just said was true. He knows enough about the animal kingdom to know that physically weak things like her fight dirty for survival. It's fair. It isn't ethical by any stretch, but he'll give it to her. He kisses her lips again, without the knife this time, and she presses toward him and kisses back. His eyes are closed, but he can feel her eyelashes brushing his face while she blinks wide-eyed. He pulls away, smirks at her, and asks, "Why did it take so long to get a fucking kiss from you?"

She hums, silvery sweet and melodic, sounding so happy and satisfied for once. She says, "It just seems so… nice." The word hisses like water hitting hot iron. He squints and smiles at it, amused that nice things are to be avoided. She continues, "And I didn't want to get attached. You'll be gone soon. I guess it's too late."

"What are you going to do when I'm gone?" he asks, content to let her think that she'll never see him again, curious to see if she feels anything about it.

"Catch up on my sleep."

She yawns.

He kisses her perfect jawline again.

"Then I'm not going to feel bad about keeping you up until sunrise."