There's kind of a point where it stops making sense to pretend I'm going to be able to get back to sleep. Came earlier than usual today.

[Jetshard fiddles with the controls on the washing machine for a moment; once the machine starts, she turns and leans against it. Of course, this means she's now turned around facing him.

And, well, it's not like she's entirely unfamiliar with human musculature in theory, but there is a distinct difference between studying diagrams in an anatomy textbook and seeing someone she knows moving around with no shirt on. It seems a little gauche to stare, and equally so to make a whole big thing of averting her eyes. She compromises by absently cleaning her glasses on the front of her sweater.]

You've a bit on your arm, there.