James rattles the door of the storage unit. Again.
Lewis says patiently, "Nothing we can do until morning." The building's deserted overnight.
"Fuck it! Sorry, sir."
"C'mere. Shared warmth and all that."
He presses against Lewis's comforting bulk, but can't restrain a shiver.
"I know you're not claustrophobic..."
"I'm not." He can't explain that a dark place reeking of disinfectant recalls the shed at Crevecoeur where a disobedient brat was locked up to contemplate his crimes.
Lewis pulls him closer. "Did I ever tell you about our Lyn and the dancing competition?"
There's more than one kind of shared warmth.