The kiss presses him back against the couch, distracts him from the work of tugging away his shirt, so the moment seems to pass without him. He's clothes and holding onto Bodhi, then he isn't, and his hands hover at their last places--equally concerned for Bodhi's staying upright. He's only a little chilly, the fire still heating the room, but he's only managed to wake up with Bodhi curled against him: it's harder to achieve in waking hours.

He doesn't know if it makes any difference, Bodhi holding him instead of the other way around. Maybe it's the contact in general.

Jude swallows, missing him in the moment more than he feels self conscious. When it was warmer he'd toss his shirt aside and chop wood while Bodhi pretended to check on the drying paper sheets; he's used to this from a distance. Anyone who's lived here long enough is probably on the skinny side, but he's glad to have chopped wood all summer and fall before this point. He sets his hands back where they were, but on the hems of Bodhi's shirt more than his skin. "Should I--" he asks, hesitating, not wanting to mind in the least if Bodhi draws the line here.