Lawrence is screaming.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Allison says. She is patient, but still a little put out. She looks worriedly at the closed door of the room. Did he remember to lock it? Are the hall monitors going to kick it in and find them? Plus the air conditioning is making her break out in goose pimples.
Lawrence stops screaming, mostly because he runs out of breath. “Hwoo, hweeee,” he wheezes.
Allison starts to shrug back into her shirt. She’s cranky now.
“No, wait,” Lawrence manages to gasp. “You don’t–“
She pauses, with her arms threaded through the sleeves, the bar of the shirt pinioning her breasts.
“Uh,” pants Lawrence. “I’m, uh, sorry. I mean, uh, I didn’t — it was a little … I’m sorry.”
Allison finishes putting her shirt on. She runs her fingers through the short butcher’s-cut of her hair and bites her cheek to keep from yawning.
Lawrence draws breath to ask her The Question, and Allison closes her eyes. That’s when the door crashes back against the hinges and the angry, metallic voice of the hall monitor booms furiously into the room. Her eyes fly wide open. “Larry, you idiot!”