"I'm decent," she says, after a minute, and flops on the bed. "Does it count as talking about your life if I ask what you went to Hell for?"

“…kind of.”

He proceeds back to his chair.

“But I don’t know for sure, anyway.”

"They don't tell you? That sucks."

“I could probably go ask Lucifer. But I don’t really want to know.”

"...yeah, I haven't looked at my final grades from last semester either."

Pfft.

“…I think somebody asked me if I wanted to know? It’s kind of a blur.”

"That's -- nice of them, I guess."

Also probably a lie. She has to remember that he's probably lying to her all the time. But it's so hard to.

“Yeah. I guess.”

He curls up a little in the chair.

"...do you ... sleep?"

“Sometimes. Why?”

"You can be in the bed. If you don't try anything."

“I don’t even like girls,” he protests, automatically.

"--well you could have said that when I was upset about changing in front of you."

It would be very silly to feel disappointed about this, so she doesn't.

"...I should have said 'no, it's fine, I'm gay enough to see you naked'?"

"Yes!"

He takes a moment to process this.

“…I don’t really need to sleep. You don’t have to.”

"Just get in the stupid bed and stop making a federal issue out of it."

He gets in the stupid bed.

(His legs are much softer and fluffier than you’d expect.)

She is not snuggling him and wouldn't know.

...she is not snuggling him while she's awake. She might migrate in her sleep.

Then she may discover, if she wakes up in the middle of the night, that he is also very warm.

Warm with the flames of hell.

...also, soft.

She cannot actually think of any good reason to stop cuddling him.

He seems quite content with this.

When she wakes up, her bed is empty.

Her desk has a cheese sandwich on it.