Ah, fuck. Ben had known this entire morning was too good to be truth — hangover notwithstanding — but now he'd gone and poked it a little too hard, and it was starting to fall apart. He was still confused about how he'd managed to talk her into his bedroom if they hadn't resolved anything, when from his perspective it seemed she'd started off the evening hating him. How had they gotten from point A to point B? He didn't know, and couldn't ask.

He didn't want to retrace their steps through whatever twisted paths they'd tread last night. He had the sinking feeling that whatever leaps they'd made while he was drunk and tired wouldn't make as much sense in the clear light of the morning. If they started backtracking, they might never get back to the same place they were currently standing in. And he liked being here. He was confused, sure, but it was a hell of a lot better than being convinced she hated him over the past few weeks, or the widening gulf of mistrust two years ago, or the blaze of resentment before that. Why couldn't they just stay here? Why couldn't they just be the sort of couple who slept in the same bed and exchanged meaningless banter while they dressed in the morning?

"Bits and pieces," he responded with a frown. Not very many, but he didn't want to tell Melody that. Tentatively, Ben reached out his hand to stroke her upper arm. "But the important thing is how it ended, right?"

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