“Y’know, people talk,” Van teases, fingers lazily tracing patterns on your bare thigh. “They say I’m corrupting you.”

She’s sprawled on the couch, one arm draped around you, her other hand loosely curled around a beer she’s barely touched. The TV hums in the background, some movie Van insisted you had to watch, but you’ve barely registered a single scene. Not when she’s right here, warm and solid beneath you, looking at you like she’s already got you all figured out.

You shift closer, pressing yourself into her side, smirking. “Please. I was already corrupt.”

Van laughs, low and rough, shaking her head. “True. But now you’re my problem.” She taps your nose with the cold lip of the bottle before setting it down on the coffee table. Then she stretches, arms lifting over her head, the hem of her worn-out band tee riding up just enough to be distracting.

She catches you staring and grins. “Guess I gotta take care of you, huh?”

Like she doesn’t already. Like she doesn’t slip her coat over your shoulders when you forget yours, like she doesn’t keep snacks in her car because she knows you’ll get hungry, like she doesn’t press lazy kisses to your temple when you fall asleep on her. Like she doesn’t constantly text you to check up on you when you aren’t with her.

“You love taking care of me,” you point out, nudging her side.

“I do,” she admits, and there’s no teasing in it. Just quiet truth. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t get into trouble.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

Van barks out a laugh, fingers tightening around your leg. “Okay, fair.”

“I’m utterly obsessed with you, even if you’re corrupting me.” You tease with a smile.

“Yeah? Prove it?” Van teases back.