It's not a song Sam recognizes. As he unfolds the blankets and makes a place for himself on the couch, he listens, as if the beat of the shower and the voice coming from it were a CD instead of a flesh and blood person.

He tries not to think about it. The couch is comfortable enough, but far too short. Not exactly for lying on when he's quite this much over six feet.

The lights are turned off long before Leah comes out of the shower. Not like she'll mind, Sam's sure. Even if, this morning, she absolutely would have.

Which just gets Sam, lying on his back on the couch, to cover his face with his hands and sigh deeply. He's fucking up. Still.