[ As if Andy's any better. It probably speaks to some dysfunction, that she'd break his heart because she wanted him too much and then keep coming back for this anyway — years later, still hungry to be kissed by him, still wanting few things more than to put her hands on his bare skin. Sometimes she's sorry for it — sorry that the wound never fully closes, because she can't ever pull away fully — but not sorry enough to stop. ]

Wasn't sure we were still in the mood. [ Mild wryness, not so biting like it was before — but punctuated by the pointed press of her thigh a little harder between his. ] But you know me. [ Her hands start to wander, skimming along the hem of his equally terrible sweater. ] I could be pissed at you and still want to fuck you stupid.