It’s late. The living room’s dim, just the glow of the TV flickering across the walls. You're in sweats, shirtless, sprawled out on the couch.

Saiko’s curled up beside you, in nothing but your oversized T-shirt—legs bare, hair messy, cheeks still flushed from the shower.*

She’s got a half-finished bag of chips in her lap, one hand lazily scrolling on her phone.

Every so often, her thigh brushes yours. Deliberately.

“So,” she mumbles, without looking up, “you ever gonna admit you’re thinking about it too, or should I just crawl on top and make you say it?”