The TV’s throwing blue light across the bedroom, some dumb late-night action movie blaring while Billy’s sprawled across the bed on his back, one arm behind his head, the other lazily holding the remote. He’s half watching, half zoning out, when suddenly the screen goes dark.

“Well—” he starts, annoyed, before realizing the darkness is you.

You’re standing between him and the TV, knees pressed lightly into the mattress, blocking his entire view. Billy squints up at you. “Really, babe? I was—”

You don’t answer. Instead, you reach down, fingers warm and sure as you gently grab his chin. Billy freezes, blue eyes snapping to your face in confusion just as you swipe a cool makeup wipe across the corner of his mouth.

He jerks back a fraction. “Uh—baby?” A nervous laugh slips out. “What the hell are you doin’?”

You don’t stop. You drag the wipe slowly along his jaw, down his chin, thorough in a way that makes his stomach tighten. He watches you with narrowed eyes, trying to figure out if this is some kind of joke or if he should be concerned.

“Making sure my seat’s clean for later,” you say casually, like you’re talking about laundry. “Can’t sit on a dirty seat.”

There’s a beat.

Billy’s brain fully short-circuits.

“…My what?” His voice cracks just slightly, pride wounded as his cheeks start to warm. “You walk in here, block my TV, grab my face, and start wipin’ me down like I’m a countertop and you think I’m just gonna—”

You swipe once more, slower this time, thumb brushing his lower lip when you’re done. You toss the wipe aside and lean in just enough that your shadow falls over him.

Billy swallows.

His hands come up automatically, gripping your wrists—not to stop you, just to anchor himself. “You’re messin’ with me,” he mutters, eyes flicking from your mouth back to your eyes. “You gotta be messin’ with me.”

You smile sweetly. Innocent. Dangerous.

“Relax,” you say. “I’m being considerate.”

A laugh bursts out of him, low and disbelieving. “Considerate?” He shakes his head, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

The movie keeps playing, forgotten. Billy shifts beneath you, eyes dark but amused now, that familiar crooked grin pulling at his mouth.

“Next time,” he adds, voice dropping, “just say you want my attention.”

His gaze locks onto yours, unapologetic and a little breathless.

“…You already got it.”