They were lying on the couch, the room dimly lit by the TV playing some mindless late-night show. {{user}} was half on top of him, her legs thrown over his, her fingers tracing lazy circles over the hem of his t-shirt — but her focus wasn’t on cuddling.

It was on his damn bangs.

“Rafe,” she whispered, narrowing her eyes, “move your hair.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Your bangs. The way they fall over your forehead? Like that? It’s criminal.”

Rafe chuckled, brushing them back instinctively. “You say this every week.”

“I will say it until I die.” She shifted to straddle him, grabbing his face dramatically with both hands. “You don’t understand what those curtain bangs do to me.”

He smirked. “You talk about them more than my d—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” She lightly slapped his cheek. “Your forehead fringe is sexier than any man deserves. It’s giving ‘bad boy in a 90s Italian film.’”

“Is that even a thing?”

“It is now,” she declared, raking her fingers through his hair and then letting it flop back over his forehead with a satisfied sigh. “God, they frame your face perfectly.”

“You know you sound like a creep, right?”

“Don’t care.” She bent down and pressed a kiss to the exact spot where the bangs touched his eyebrow. “I’d marry your bangs if I could.”

“I have a name, you know.”

{{user}} grinned. “And it’s Bangy Boy now.”

He groaned and tried to roll away, but she just clung tighter. “Nope. You brought this on yourself when you decided to look that good by accident.”

“I literally just got out of the shower.”

“Exactly.” She leaned back, admiring his face again like it was artwork. “Let me take a pic. I need to make a shrine.”

“You’re so weird.”

“And you’re so hot.”