[Shit. Shit shit. What a terrible, perfect moment; his cheeks go hot under her fingers.
Here's the confusing thing about wanting to kiss her: it's not because he wants to make out, or anything beyond that. He does . . . in the abstract state of being sense. Not in the right-now sense. And he figures that's probably good and normal; what kind of asshole would want to screw a girl who was crying on him about her best friend, another guy she likes way more, not coming home because he's—gone? You'd have to be totally screwed up to be a guy like that . . .
So why does he still want to do it? Not that part. Just the kissing part. Just once, a little, no tongue or anything, to—make her feel better? Tell her how he feels about her? How he feels about her?! What the hell . . . this isn't that kind of time! What does that even mean, anyway?
Of course, he doesn't. He averts his eyes because he's a little too flustered to make eye contact, but then all he does is reach up, take her hand, and squeeze it, letting his eyelids drift closed for a moment.]
'Course I am . . . heh. It's nothing, I mean . . . you can stay all you want. You should stay. It's not—it ain't like I wanna be alone either right now—it feels empty in here.
[That's slightly more than he meant to say, but it's true. "In here" isn't even necessarily just his apartment. There's something empty in his head and chest after last night, like he's still waiting to be filled back up with life and the real world again.]
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Here's the confusing thing about wanting to kiss her: it's not because he wants to make out, or anything beyond that. He does . . . in the abstract state of being sense. Not in the right-now sense. And he figures that's probably good and normal; what kind of asshole would want to screw a girl who was crying on him about her best friend, another guy she likes way more, not coming home because he's—gone? You'd have to be totally screwed up to be a guy like that . . .
So why does he still want to do it? Not that part. Just the kissing part. Just once, a little, no tongue or anything, to—make her feel better? Tell her how he feels about her? How he feels about her?! What the hell . . . this isn't that kind of time! What does that even mean, anyway?
Of course, he doesn't. He averts his eyes because he's a little too flustered to make eye contact, but then all he does is reach up, take her hand, and squeeze it, letting his eyelids drift closed for a moment.]
'Course I am . . . heh. It's nothing, I mean . . . you can stay all you want. You should stay. It's not—it ain't like I wanna be alone either right now—it feels empty in here.
[That's slightly more than he meant to say, but it's true. "In here" isn't even necessarily just his apartment. There's something empty in his head and chest after last night, like he's still waiting to be filled back up with life and the real world again.]