“We could stop,” Nick murmurs into the dip between Louis’ collarbone and neck. It’s too sweet there. He doesn’t want to stop.
“Why would we do that?” Louis huffs, curling against Nick like a cat trying to get comfortable in a sliver of sunlight shining onto the floor from a crack in the curtains. Luckily his claws are in. They aren’t always. Rarely, actually.
“Dunno, just. Not sure what we’re doing,” he waves his hand in the small space between them where the duvet is scrunched up. “You know. Not sure what this is. Christ, Lou. Don’t make me spell it out for you.”
It’s dark but Nick can still see Louis’ grin, white and jagged.
“Spell it out, Grim. That’s what you do, isn’t it? You tell people what they want to hear. So what do you want? What do you want this to be?”
There’s a faucet dripping somewhere in Louis’ gigantic house and the steady tap tap tap against porcelain is driving Nick mad.
“Something real,” he says simply, and Louis lets out a tired breath.