it’s another friday night, and kyle’s on the couch, controller in hand, totally sucked into grand theft auto. he’s leaning forward, eyes glued to the screen, driving through the madness of los santos like he owns the place. she’s right next to him, not really paying attention to the game, but just enjoying how into it he is, his little frown, the way his lips move like he’s talking to someone who isn’t even there.

she’s got a controller too, but she’s barely using it. she’s more focused on him, on the way he’s just… there. it’s comfy. quiet. the only sound is the chaos of the game and the occasional click of buttons. then, out of nowhere, she feels his hand brush against her thigh. it’s quick, at first, like it could’ve been an accident, but then he leaves it there, palm just sitting on her leg. she doesn’t know what to do, but she doesn’t move. she doesn’t say anything. it’s just… him there, so close.

the game kinda fades into the background. she can hear him tapping the buttons, but all she can think about is the way his hand feels against her leg. it’s not like he’s doing anything crazy, just keeping it there, and for some reason, that feels like more than enough.