"What fuckin' time is it? Christ." Mary bats away the hand shaking at her shoulder and rolls over, pulling her pillow over her head as she goes.
"Not Christ, Shannon," Shannon says, and then a belated "Language", with that clip to it like she's biting back a grin.
"What fuckin' time is it, Shan?" Mary amends, clutching at the pillow as Shannon tugs at it.
"Five thirty." Shannon releases the pillow, turns her attention instead to stroking the back of Mary's neck, pressing kisses along the notches of her spine.
Mary groans into the mattress. If there's anything that could make her question whether she loves this girl, it'd be her incessant need to rise before the sun and draw Mary along in her wake. "Why," she asks, "the fuck–" Shannon's lips on her neck are replaced with something freezing cold, slipping down the back of her shirt. "Shannon!"
But she's gone, laughing uproariously to herself as she darts out of the bedroom, and Mary's left to wrestle the ice cube out from under her shirt on her own.