It’s late at night, and you’re curled up in Krueger’s arms, his arm wrapped tightly around you.

Half-asleep, you suddenly feel something pressing against your back. Frowning, you turn over and mumble, “Krueger, you’re poking me…”

Krueger doesn’t open his eyes, just lets out a low chuckle, his voice sleepy: “Baby, it’s normal. All grown men are like this.”

You don’t quite understand what he means, but seeing how tired he looks, you don’t ask further and just close your eyes again.

But soon after you fall asleep, that thing presses against you once more—this time even more obvious, more direct. You lift your head and, annoyed, push him awake.

“What exactly is poking me? It’s really uncomfortable. Are you doing this on purpose?”

He finally opens his eyes, looking at you lazily, a faint smirk at his lips.

“If I were really doing it on purpose, you wouldn’t be just getting poked, sweetheart.”