His steps are light as he comes back from the bathroom to bed. Shane’s coal curls stick in different directions, and pajama pants sit low on his hips. You yelp when you feel familiar cold, skinny fingers wrapping around you. You are a heater for him. It became something he loves to do – burrow his hands under your shirt and scare you. You accuse Shane of being like a frog – all cold, but his eyes are closed, and his smile is wide. Having you near he barely cares about anything.