An hour later, Cullen returns, jacket folded over his arm. He's bearing a small paper bag that smells strongly of burnt sugar.

He spies the lump; his brow furrows.

The jacket and his papers go on a side table. He bends to take off his boots. And then, at last, Cullen and the small paper bag alight on the bed. He doesn't bother trying to get under the blankets -- just stretches out in his sock feet, folding his hands on his chest.




He might go out of his way to shake the contents of the bag.