We both freeze.
He looks at me. I look at him.
His gaze flicks down again briefly.
I don’t bother covering myself.
If he has seen everything already, modesty feels like a pointless formality.
He scrubs a hand down his face slowly.
“What…” he starts, then stops.
He tries again. “What happened?”
I blink at him. “You don’t remember?”
He pauses. “Do you?”
“I think it’s coming back to me.”
He hesitates, then asks carefully, “Did we have…?” His voice trails off.
“Did we have what?”
He clears his throat. “Did we have sex?”
I stare at him. “What do you think?”
His jaw tightens. “I think it’s a possibility.”
“Well,” I say evenly, “yes, we did.”
He swallows.
His voice drops, quieter now.
“Oh God,” he murmurs. “I remember now.”
His eyes lift to mine. “Do you remember?”
I blink. “Of course I remember. I wasn’t drunk anymore by then.”
He watches me carefully.
Like he’s evaluating something important.
“Were you sure you wanted to?”
I stare at him for a long moment.
Then I snort. “Yes. I told you, I was practically sober by then.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
His eyes search my face. “You were drunk before.” He scrunches his eyes, like he’s trying to piece together everything that happened before the sex.
“I was. So were you.”
