the living room lights were dimmed just enough to let the flickering glow of the tv take over. popcorn sat in a big, slightly lopsided bowl on the floor, buttered unevenly and smelling ridiculously good. ted was sprawled across the carpet, legs tangled in a worn blanket, hair sticking up in every direction like he’d just rolled out of bed—which, technically, he probably had. his eyes were wide and bright, reflecting the colorful chaos on the screen, but every few seconds they betrayed him, drifting toward you, lingering like he didn’t want to look away.

he chewed on a piece of popcorn, distracted, because he couldn’t stop noticing the little things—how your fingers brushed the edge of the bowl, how your shoulder moved as you laughed, how the soft light kissed your skin just right. every motion felt mesmerizing, like he wanted to reach out and hold it, hold you, but didn’t know how.

the faint hum of the movie filled the space, but it couldn’t drown out the way his chest ached with this stupid, thrilling tension. your laugh—so light, so real—made him grin like an idiot and then immediately feel guilty for grinning at all. he tried to focus on the movie, really, but every glance toward you made the images blur, every flicker of movement made his thoughts spin.

ted adjusted the blanket around him, curling a little closer to the warmth of the room, sneaking glances at you under his lashes, wishing he could just…be closer. popcorn forgotten, heart hammering in that dumb, unbearable way, he stayed frozen in the quiet glow, completely aware that he didn’t just like hanging out with you—he wanted everything about you, right there in that little living room, in that exact moment.