The rain hammered against the windows, the dull neon glow of the city bleeding into Hobie’s flat. The sound of gunfire and victory jingles from the TV filled the room, but Hobie barely noticed—his attention kept slipping from the game to you. You were perched across his lap, controller in hand, shifting around as you tried to stay focused.

“Oi, love,” Hobie muttered, voice low, his thick accent cutting through the static of the storm, “ya tryin’ t’ win the game or drive me mad?”

You leaned forward, frustrated at the next level, and Hobie’s laugh rumbled from his chest against your back. His long fingers drummed lazily on your hip, almost like he wasn’t even playing anymore.

“Bloody hell,” he sighed, leaning in close enough for his breath to ghost over your ear, “keep wigglin’ like that, an’ the game’s the least of my worries.”