He slid the lock back into place, the mechanism locking into place with a solid [i]thunk[/i]. Repocketing the key, he turned to the bed, noting the stirring Aleksandra. He, briefly, allowed himself to admire what he knew she looked like, and the outline of her figure in the sheets.

Then he stepped back to his table, and began undressing, already putting her out of his mind. He tossed his shirt aside on the growing pile of laundry, still somewhat neat from his routine of dropping it in the same exact spot, draped his chainmail over the chair again, and then shrugged out of his second shirt, dropping it on the small pile of second shirts.

Ready to get some shut-eye after dealing with another training session and an attempted assassination, he slipped under the covers, intending to fall asleep as quickly as possible. He brushed against Aleksandra's smooth leg; he quickly adjusted so they weren't touching.

Then he stiffened, slightly, at the unexpected contact of smooth skin- regardless of scars, it was still smooth- against his rougher, none-too-clean skin. Then a hand, lightly laying over his upper arm muscles, and her curling up slightly against him.

For an extraordinarily long amount of time- five minutes or so- he pondered this. Because based on how quickly she went to sleep, compared to how guarded she was, compared to how much she hated him last time she was aware that she had snuggled up to him after too much to drink.

He wasn't sure if she was just starting to like him, or if she was planning on killing him. Either way, it made him nervous and uneasy.