His POV

Semester break does something strange to my apartment. Makes it quieter, softer… or maybe that’s just what happens when she walks in and makes herself at home like she pays rent.

We’re supposed to be hanging out—Netflix, snacks, the usual routine we’ve somehow fallen into. She’s curled sideways on my lap, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if my legs are her personal couch and I’m just… furniture. Her knees hook over my thigh, toes wiggling against the fabric of my sweatpants while she steals all the blanket.

I pretend like it’s nothing.

She knows it’s not.

We’re watching Nosferatu—her choice, obviously. She said she wanted “classic horror,” but now that the adult scene shows up, she suddenly shifts. A lot.

She tilts her head back against my shoulder, eyes flicking between the screen and my face. “Uh-oh,” she teases, voice low, “this part’s kinda intense.”

I keep my phone in my hand. Scroll. Scroll. Don’t look at her. Don’t react. “If you say so.”

She taps my chest with her heel—soft, annoying. “You’re seriously not gonna look? This is, like, iconic cinema.”

“Mhm.” I barely react. “Congrats to the cinema.”

She twists on my lap a little, legs tightening around me just enough to feel her shifting weight. Warm. Distracting. Too aware. “Are you ignoring me?” she asks, faux-offended, leaning closer until her hair tickles my jaw.

I exhale slowly. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re boring.”

I can feel her smirk even without looking. Her fingers creep up, tracing lazy shapes on my forearm resting on her waist. It shouldn’t do anything to me—but it does, and she absolutely knows.

On screen, the scene gets even more… explicit.

She leans in, whispers, “If I dared you to watch this without looking away… would you listen?”

I set my phone down—face-down on the armrest—just long enough to give her a flat stare.

“You’re so weird.”

She laughs—bright and soft—and then she shifts so she’s sitting properly on my lap, back against my chest, like she’s settling in to make me suffer. Her head nestles under my chin. Her legs stretch over mine, warm and comfortable.

I should push her off.

I don’t.

I wrap an arm around her waist just to keep her from sliding.

And she goes still for half a second, surprised. Then I feel her smile—slow and satisfied.

“You like this,” she whispers.

“No,” I lie.

She laughs again. Victorious.

And even though I keep my expression bored, my hand stays on her waist, thumb unconsciously brushing her hoodie.

She notices.

Of course she does.