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When she’s done with her shower and she returns to pick her clothes off the floor, Benedick has rolled over into the hollow of his cheap mattress. He’s asleep with his mouth slightly open, his hair ruffled up absurdly, and Beatrice’s heart flips over, because suddenly she doesn’t want to leave. She wants to smooth down that disheveled hair and sink into the covers with him, warmed by their two bodies. And that’s not how their arrangement works. It’s supposed to be wham, bam, thank you, ma’am; see you next Friday.
The post-sex haze, Beatrice thinks—it makes you stupid.