"So you're saying I'm pretty damn good? Aw." Right. Changing should be a thing- as. Soon as he remembers where his 'not club' shit is and he stops oogling the hell out of Sam's back.

Because god and damn.

Shirt. Right. Focus, York, focus. He peels out of his shirt and roots around in the bags they'd grabbed earlier in the evening till he finds a soft cotton shirt and some drawstring pants. It's no grifball T but he'd given that up a long time ago.