It’s sometime past midnight when he slip into her room, hauling the mask and his stick. April is on turtle-time; they’re asleep, down below, and she’s trying to recapture the time she’s lost. In two hours she has to be back at the studio cutting tape, but for Casey she’ll make up the time.
April’s still mad over some stupid argument they had earlier, but her arms are open when he come to the bed. The kisses are just a prelude to what his fingers find hidden, to the budding of her body; there’s a silence that only contains his confident smirk and her sharp nails.
April buries her face in Casey’s neck. If fighting leads them to make up this way every time they were together, then she’d fight forever to keep him on the moral straight and narrow.
“I was right,” he says suddenly. “You should’ve let me puck the hell out of that guy.”
She rolls her eyes and mumbles something in response, falling back to sleep. The time for debate is gone, if only for the rest of the night.