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Stirring from sleep, woken by Shannon squirming under his covers—her feet ice cold—it's familiar. She used to do it all the time. Bad dreams, supposedly, but he likes to think that she actually just liked the weird, fractured fairy tales he used to make up to calm her down. The warmth their bodies made side by side. His hand in hers.
Until around the time he'd turned fifteen—and she'd turned twelve. His mom thought it was officially inappropriate, and it didn't make any sense to him at all. Then.
Apparently, the whole not-blood-related thing was a hell of a lot more of an issue than he'd originally thought it was. So was, well, Shannon.
"You're not supposed to be here," he grouses, still half-asleep. He's eighteen now. He wonders if this could be construed as illegal. Shannon huffs and pulls at his sheets until he's not even covered all the way, one leg sticking out. "At least quit hogging the blanket."
She doesn't answer, and doesn't give back what she took, but at least doesn't take anymore. Lies on her side facing him.
"I learned how to do something tonight." He gets now why she didn't speak right away. Her voice is a little slurred. "Wanna see?"
"I'm guessing the whole 'French study group' thing was a lie?" he turns his head away from her. Can feel that her legs are bare against his.
"There was French wine," she snickers. "And, well—"
"Your dad's gonna be pissed at you. My mom, too."
She's quiet again for a little bit. "Are you pissed at me?"
"Not really," he sighs. Turns back to meet her gaze. She doesn't reek of alcohol or anything; the slur is probably just a front. She does that sometimes.
"Thought so," she grins. "So, wanna see?"
"See what?"
Her eye-roll is practically verbal. "What I learned how to do tonight, dumb ass."
She puts her hand on his stomach, her pinky finger digging into his belly button. He swallows. Hard. Her mouth is very suddenly only inches from his.
"No," he licks his lips. "Not really."