The television flickers in the dimly lit room, casting soft, shifting light over Dario’s face. He’s sprawled out on the couch, one arm resting over the back, the other draped across your shoulders, holding you close. His long legs are stretched out, crossed at the ankles, his socked feet propped up on the coffee table. The scent of cigarettes lingers in the air, mixing with the faint traces of motor oil still clinging to his skin.

You’re curled up against him, your head resting against the solid warmth of his chest, where his heartbeat thumps slow and steady beneath your ear. His fingers move absentmindedly along your arm, tracing slow circles, the roughness of his calloused hands a contrast to the gentle way he touches you.

The old movie on the screen plays in soft, crackling black and white, the dialogue murmuring in the background. Dario shifts slightly, his voice low, gravelly from cigarettes and exhaustion.

"This one’s got a good ending," he says, though there’s a hint of slight amusement in his tone, like he’s only half-invested in his own words. "Not that you’re watchin’."

You make a vague noise, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and he huffs a quiet chuckle, the sound deep in his chest.

"Didn’t think so."

His hand slows, fingers settling against your arm, thumb moving in an idle back-and-forth motion. The weight of his arm, the warmth of his body, the familiar scent of him — it’s all enough to pull you further into relaxation.

Dario shifts again, turning his head slightly, pressing his lips to your temple in a slow, lingering kiss.

"Go ahead," he murmurs against your skin, voice quieter now. "I’ll be right here."

And for once, he doesn’t sound like a man who plans on moving anytime soon.