She stretched out across your couch like she owned it—legs dangling over the edge, hair slightly tousled, her blindfold pulled down around her neck. The light from the window framed her in a soft glow, but her eyes were locked on you.

You were sitting just a few feet away, distracted with something else. And she didn’t like that.

“Hm,” she hummed dramatically, flopping onto her side. “Feels like I’m being ignored.”

No response.

“Your incredibly beautiful girlfriend is right here, and you’re not even looking at her,” she pouted, resting her cheek on the pillow. “This is a tragedy.”

Still no reaction.

She sighed, louder this time, and rolled over again, crawling closer across the couch until her head was resting in your lap. Her fingers curled into your shirt as she looked up at you.

“Hey,” she whispered, her voice suddenly softer, “do you still like me?”

You glanced down—she was smiling now, but there was a gentle little flicker in her eyes, something real underneath all that teasing.

She reached up, brushing her fingers lightly along your jaw, then traced a lazy circle against your chest with her fingertip.

“I just wanna be close to you,” she murmured. “All the time. Is that too much?”

She knew the answer. But she still asked—because deep down, the strongest sorcerer in the world just wanted to feel like she was wanted, too.

And she always felt that with you. Especially when you let her stay there, curled up against your warmth, soaking in every second of your quiet, undivided attention.