The guilt is nearly instant, but it begins as a trickle. Hap listens to her with his body; when she doesn't throw him off her, he follows her down and rests partially atop her like a lover, slipping free of her and softening. He noses at the nape of her neck as the cold air on his cock triggers pinpricks of shame in his gut. His touch smooths down her shoulder blade, the back of her arm. He's sorry. He's thankful.

"You don't have to worry," are the words he chooses to burden her with first. Just above a whisper, a half-rasp after their exertion. He means to go on and tell her the chances of impregnating her are below 1%, but it sits sourly on his tongue, cruelly clinical. He inhales their mingled sweat and lets out a deep breath.

"You can stay up here tonight. I'll leave unless you don't want me to." He's ready to move off her, unable to imagine she wouldn't want to be alone.