There's a soft, pleased noise from Tim when Raylan pulls out. He settles back into the couch for the time being. If he tries to stand right now, his legs will be trembling, and it seems like a bad thing to try to combine with the unsteadiness he already feels from the alcohol. Besides, Raylan seems more than content to take charge of the cleanup, and Tim wants the chance to get more unfettered views of that lean body.

"Not my drinkin' shirts," he mutters, and reaches down to snag his flannel from beside the couch, balling it up and throwing it towards the open door of his bedroom with surprisingly good accuracy given his inebriation.

The apartment is small and open, so he's able to just point across the room where the kitchen is half visible. Traditionally, this is where things get awkward, and where Tim typically dips out before the dust has even settled. But, well-- this is his place, and he knows without a doubt that Raylan would leave if he made the desire known, and maybe that's why that desire isn't there at all.

Tim isn't usually the kind to want that close contact after sex, but he also usually doesn't invite people in, or fuck someone whose last names he knows, or want to do it again in the near future. He bets Raylan would look fantastic tangled up in his bed sheets, and he's quiet as he tries to figure out the most nonchalant way to invite Raylan to stay.