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“Yeah, but some of your demands are more fun than others,” he reminded her. “Like if you wanted to demand that I get naked again, I wouldn’t complain even a little bit. I’d be so fuckin’ obedient, your head would spin.”

He closed his eyes and leaned back when he felt her teeth on his back. “Fuuuuuuck,” he groaned. “Alright, fine. That’s fair. But your fuckin’ shirt had it comin’, tryin’ to get between me and your tits.” The damage probably wasn’t that bad, in all honesty, but he definitely didn’t hate the idea of her wearing one of his shirts instead. “I, uh, think I mighta ripped your bra, too. Or lost it. Or somethin’. Afraid you’re goin’ to have to go without,” he teased, half turning so he could kiss her before getting up to find her a shirt.

“You can be the hippie, I’ll be the rockstar,” he decided, putting on the faded Aerosmith hoodie, struggling only briefly with an inside-out sleeve. The other--a striped sweater he’d picked up somewhere in the southwestern US--he turned and pulled over Thatcher’s bedhead, not bothering to wait for her to get her arms in the sleeves, and finished the move off with an impulsive kiss.