I woke up suddenly the next morning, as if someone had dropped a book or something equally loud. I sat up straight in bed, looking around, terrified for some reason. I grabbed my bat and crept to my bedroom door, flinging it open I strode into the living room and foundā€¦nothing. The same in the kitchen, a big fat load of nothing. I checked outside my door in the hallway, and still zilch. I slung my bat to the ground next to my front door and clicked on the TV as I settled onto the couch.

The picture came up slowly of a waifish redhead, sobbing on the steps of the courthouse, saying, "Yes, I was thereā€¦"

The talking heads proceeded to babble on about the 'shocking display of vigilantism' and I felt the tears well up, so I turned it off and headed back to bed. My sleeve caught on my TV table as I walked away from the set, and I pulled it free before I realized that I had most definitely been naked when I fell asleep last night on Connor's chest, and now I was wearing my Bruins jersey and I know that **I** didn't' put it on.

I moped into my bedroom pulling the door closed behind me, shutting out the world that I didn't' want to deal with. Not today, anyway.

I flopped onto my bed and the scent of sex and mint and denim and leather wafted into the air, and I smiled to myself, the night coming back to me in Technicolor flashes and the imagined image of Connor digging through my dresser to find my jersey and dressing me in it before he covered me up and let himself out.

Was it love? For all of us? Is it even possible?

Did it matter?

No, I decided, hugging a pillow to my chest, not really. Whatever it was, it had been real.

And I was going to miss it, I realized as the tears started to spill over and I fell into a restless sleep, surrounded by comforting cotton and the smell of my men quickly fading away like the last strands of a pleasant dream in the unforgiving stream of morning sunlight.