How Warren ended up with you, on his knee, in his penthouse, sipping wine with him, he'll never know.

Okay, yeah, he does know. Alcohol was involved.

But that's besides the point, because here you are, and here you have been, for a few months now.

You actually loved him. And he loves you. It's great.

You're draped sideways across his lap, legs stretched out, in not much else but one of his button ups.

You catch him looking at you and smile softly before going back to the movie you're watching.

You'd looked gorgeous in your gown earlier, hair and makeup done up for the gala the two of you had gone to, but now? With your hair down, lipstick smudged from too many playfully sweet kisses, in his shirt?

That's the you he prefers.

Warren promised you, since you absolutely hate the galas, that you'd have a movie night when you got home. A nice reward for holding your tongue around rich assholes all evening.

"What are you thinking?"

He murmurs softly, leaning in close, and pressing a kiss to your collarbone.

"Good things, I hope."