Mmmmhm, well. You've proven yourself capable of handling jam, at the very least. [Considering the jar is nearly a third of the way gone, at this point -- a fact that has Koby looking pleased, satisfied with himself. There's a relaxed looseness about Quentin, evident in his broad, bare shoulders, the softness of his jam-reddened mouth.

There's a moment where Koby chases after Quentin's mouth, leans forward and thumbs over his cheekbone, mindful of the bruise from the other day. But then he sits back, clears his throat, sets aside the plates and the empty mugs -- and just in time, too, since Quentin is flopping back into the blankets.] Mmmm, let me think...

[Koby kicks off his shoes, then lets Quentin tug him down into the messy sheets, to the scent of linen and a few stray crumbs, which are negligible in favor of their fingers lacing together, callus to callus. He settles on his side, cheek pillowed on his free hand, smile curling almost shy, now.] Could I stay, for a little? I woke up too early, I think, so I could use a nap. And my room's a whole four doors away, you know.