The apartment is silent, with the exception of his gentle snores and her steady breathing. His skin is white and clammy, hers is dark and silky, and their limbs are intertwined like true lovers; her leg over his hips, her arm over his chest, and if it were not for the stark contrast in colours, an onlooker would not have been able to decipher where she ended and he began.

She stirs, moving as she does, and her slight movement awakens him from his peaceful slumber. He blinks, letting his eyes sharpen into focus and then stiffens when he feels her soft skin beside him. His heart begins to pound as he desperately runs through the previous night's events. He remembers getting ready to go clubbing with his friends. He remembers dancing, colours, girls, sweat, music, lights, drinks. So many drinks. He remembers falling out of a taxi.

And then blackness.

He turns to look at the time. 05:15. He is too afraid to look at her, too afraid to confirm what he has done.

His throat is dry, but he is reluctant to disengage himself from her to go and get a glass of water. His mouth tastes like stale beer, and it takes him a while to realise that he also smells like it as well.

If he moves she will wake up.

And then he will have to look at her. And, worse, he will have to talk to her.

He closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep. Things will be better in the morning. The sunlight will dispel the nightmare as it does darkness. His eyes become laden with sleep, and he turns over and presses his body against hers, enjoying the sensation of skin against skin.

Maybe it didn't have to be over.