"What book was it?" she asked, looking up at his face; she could make out the edges of his features in the dark, comforting as their breaths heated up the enclosed space between them, surrounded by blankets.

This was better than finding the bottle of vodka in the next room and stealing Booker's sweater until morning, but the next job they took was going to be someplace warm. Tropical, if need be. Andy was sick of feeling cold and restless and lonely. "Maybe you could tell me about it." Unspoken, though almost certainly understood between them went the addendum: or just distract me from feeling so old and so alone.