Wrinkling her nose, Lydia shook her head. For a grown ass man, Derek was such a boy. "Nothing," she replied. Except that you probably never wash it and you've probably had sex in it since the last time you've washed—you know what? Whatever, I'm freezing. Lydia tried to tell herself that maybe she was wrong and maybe he'd washed it recently and it wasn't teeming with sweat and God knew what else.
She made her way to his bed, pushed up against that wall of windows, and stripped the comforter off it, wrapping herself in it. "Thanks," she said, trying to keep the distaste out of her tone because he didn't have to let her tear up his bed just to keep warm. He didn't have to let her stay, no matter what Scott said; he could've sent her off without a word and she could've tried to navigate the roads with no functional traffic lights and make it back to her place just hoping that she wouldn't end up home alone when she got there.
Lydia didn't want to be here, but she didn't want to be out there alone, either. This was the lesser of two evils and if she was a jerk about it, he'd be fully within his right to send her packing.