Bing Crosby on the Eve of December

Strains of White Christmas snake languidly around. In a clean-cluttered room, a couple sways to their own rhythm, dressed in rumpled jeans and shirts; floss thread trails from the girl's thigh. Their arms encircle each other completely, isolating, encompassing the pair as inseparably an island. The boy, his hair shaggy and long, shadows his face as he bends into the shoulder of the girl. It is both a tired, reluctant, and introverted pose. The girl tilts back her own head and rests it on his shoulder, and turns her face towards his neck, nuzzling into the warm curve of familiarity. Both crave the dark caves they create between them.
As they sway, their arms smooth and clutch at each other in fussy intimacy and with the absent-minded electricity of touch. Despite being three-thirty in the morning, together, they crystallize the tired sludge of an all-nighter and yet revel in the languid timelessness of a dancing couple. The song fades to an end, and they curl and crumple back in bed.
Sprawled like a rag doll on a rumpled bed, watching them through alert writer's in bleary sockets, the writer admires them over the top of her laptop, clicking her way towards her blog. As a romantic and a sleep-deprived (and thus delusional) member of humanity, she can't help but subconsciously bite her lip. She breathes deeply and quells the hormones, twitches her right ankle and returns to the dead, papery essays.

Edit: In a fit of madness, showed part of it to the couple-in-question. Ergh. I know this should be in WWHNtG, but eh.