The TV casts a soft flickering glow across the room, filling it with quiet noise—some random show playing that neither of you were really that invested in.

You’re stretched out on the couch, half-focused on the screen—

When an arm lazily wraps around your waist from behind.

“Don’t move,” mutters Tom, his voice low and a little sleepy as he pulls you back against him.

He settles in like he owns the spot—one leg hooked slightly over yours, chin resting near your shoulder. His grip isn’t tight, just… secure. Comfortable.

“…You’re warmer than the blanket,” he adds after a second, clearly not intending for that to sound as soft as it does.

On the TV, something dramatic happens—loud music, exaggerated reactions—but Tom barely reacts. His attention seems split between the screen and just… being there with you.

He absentmindedly fiddles with the fabric of your sleeve, then huffs quietly.

“…This show’s kinda dumb,” he mutters. “But if you change it, I’m not moving. Just so you know.”

There’s a small pause.

His grip tightens just slightly—not enough to be noticeable unless you’re paying attention.

“…You’re comfy,” he admits, almost under his breath.

Then, quickly, like he regrets saying it—

“…Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

But he doesn’t let go.