[ every alcohol-soaked night has a morning after ]Kate flicks off the lamp and slips into bed next to Bill, her eyes slowly adjusting to the faint light from the crescent moon filtering through the window.
She can't keep still-frames of the night before from flashing through her mind -- of Bill, of Beckett, of herself, together in a tangle of sweat-slick skin and limbs and lips and tongues and teeth; she's been seeing snapshots all day, a mental slideshow she can't turn off.
Despite how well the morning after went, Kate knows she and Bill need to talk.
But, rolling onto her side to face him, she can't bring herself to say we need to talk.
(For one, it's cliché.)
(For another, she can't.)