It’s something that tashi can’t not associate with home. The way you fit, nestIed in her arms just over her heart—like the space was made for you. How the blankets tangle up in a shared, mess of lImbs. Hell, even the way your cheek squishes against the flat of the motel pillows, damp with a smudge of drooI.

tashi inhales, sharply, as she buries her face into the pillow beside yours and, oh,, she hopes to God that noise was muffled.

It’s a dangerous game, really, and she’s too good at it. Too good at making sure you don't notice, don't realise anything. Just like at practice when she distracts you so sweetly into kissing your serve. It’s easy, when you sleep deeper than the fucking dead. (And that's cold, hard truth, actually. Like, Jesus. You really didn't wake up from your afternoon nap when art and patrick stormed in and raided the fridge?)

Usually, she wouldn't risk it. Usually, she'd sneak out and pad her sorry fucking self into the locker rooms. Necessary, for tashi. Because if she doesn’t do this now, in the dead of the night, thin walls between and Ieg propped up on the toilet seat—God knows what might happen, if she doesn't.

Except, tonight, she's teetering just in the right space between tipsy and drunk, to think maybe, maybe, she can get away with it. Maybe, if she's quiet enough. If she's good enough—

You stir, and she panics.

"Hey, hey. It's— s'okay." She soothes, freezing in the dark, tone lowered to a coo. "Go back to bed, baby. I'll keep good watch. Promise." She tries not to feel too guilty for the sleep-glazed, grateful look you blink back at her, and your soft Okay, if only because the list of things she has to be guilty for could wrap around the state, and then some.

She’s already burning in hell. What’s one more sin?