The glow of the laptop screen was the only light in the room, casting shadows across Brock’s tired face as he leaned forward, eyes locked on the endless reels of game film. His brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, his mind cycling through plays over and over. Hours had slipped away unnoticed, his determination keeping him anchored to the screen even as exhaustion tugged at his shoulders.

From the couch, you shifted closer, curling into his side with the easy familiarity of someone who knew him better than anyone else. At first, he didn’t stir, too focused, but the moment your head found its place against his shoulder, he exhaled, just a little softer. His free hand instinctively rested against your leg, absently brushing his thumb over your skin, even as his eyes stayed fixed on the laptop.

You didn’t say anything—you didn’t need to. The warmth of your body pressed against his, the gentle rhythm of your breathing, the way your fingers slipped around his wrist—it all worked together, tugging him slowly away from the spiral of analysis. He lasted another few minutes, pretending he could balance both the game and you, but the longer you nestled into him, the more his focus wavered.

Finally, with a resigned sigh that carried no real regret, Brock shut the laptop and set it aside. His arm slid around you fully now, pulling you close until you were tucked into his chest. “Guess I never stood a chance,” he murmured against your hair, his voice low and heavy with affection. He leaned back into the cushions, his whole body relaxing for the first time that night, and you felt the shift instantly—the weight of the game lifting, replaced by something simpler, deeper, and infinitely more important.