The rain had been falling steady for hours, soft and relentless.
It ticked against the windows like clock hands counting something only the sky understood. The common room was hushed, hollow in that late-afternoon way where everything stretched thin—sound, warmth, time. The lamp on the side table gave off a dull amber glow, just enough for reading.
You sat curled into the corner of the couch, book open, thumb pressed between the pages.
The door creaked.
Not urgent. Just enough to be heard. Heavy footsteps followed, measured and dragging.
Lei Heng wandered in with the kind of loose gait that said he hadn’t slept right in a few days and had no plans to start now. His shirt was untucked, coat left somewhere behind, and there was still a faint smudge of oil on his forearm from whatever mechanical headache he’d picked up earlier.
He paused in the doorway, squinting toward the fireless hearth, then toward you.
He didn’t say a word, just a sigh—half exasperation, half performance—and made his way over, each step heavier than it needed to be. He stopped beside the couch and looked down at you, expression unreadable except for the faint quirk of his brow.
“Still readin’, huh?” he muttered. “Ain’tcha tired of squintin’ at words that ain’t done nothin’ for you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
Instead, he dropped down beside you with a grunt, shoulders broad and warm and entirely too close.
His thigh pressed against yours. Then his hand settled casually on your leg. Palm down, solid.
Callused fingers splayed just wide enough to make a point.
He didn’t glance at you—didn’t need to. His thumb brushed idle arcs against your outer thigh, slow and thoughtless, like muscle memory more than intent.
You turned a page without reacting. That seemed to amuse him.
“You’re real serious with it, huh?” he mumbled, voice lowering as he leaned beside you. He let out a dramatic sigh.
“Bet y'don’t even notice I’m here.”
Without warning, his head dipped forward and came to rest in your lap.
Heavy. Intentional.
His stubble scraped faintly through the fabric of your pants, and his temple nudged your hip until he found a spot he liked.
He shifted once, then again. Dramatically, and exaggerated on purpose.
“Yeah,” he muttered, voice muffled by your thigh. “This’ll do.”
An arm slid behind your back, curling around your waist with practiced ease. His fingers hooked against your far hip, anchoring himself like he had every right to be there. He let out a long breath, hot through the fabric, and it felt more like a dare than an exhale.
“Comfortable, ain’t I?”
He cracked one eye open just to check before chuckling to himself.
“Nothin’? Not even a huff?” He smirked, pressing his cheek in deeper. “Heh. Stubborn lil'thing.”
His hand tightened slightly around your side. Possessive in that lazy, half-conscious way he always was with you, like a stray cat rubbing it's face against your leg.
He closed his eyes again, content in the silence he was working so hard to disturb.
“Tell me a story or somethin’,” he mumbled, tone dropping near a purr. “I’ll nap better with your voice in my head.”
When you stayed quiet, he hummed low in his throat.
“Could read to me,” he added, eyes still closed. “Or just keep breathin’ loud. I ain’t picky.”
His fingers drummed lightly on your hip.
“Long as you don’t move. You move, I’m takin’ the whole damn couch and your book with me.”
The lamp flickered slightly. Thunder rumbled somewhere deep in the belly of the storm. He shifted one last time, dragging his arm tighter around your waist like he meant to draw blood with comfort.
“You keep ignorin’ me like that, I’m gonna assume you want me to get more comfortable.” He teased in a way he always used when trying to get under your skin.
“I mean, hell, I could shift a little higher. Pillow’s nice and all, but your heartbeat’s a better lullaby.”
He huffed something between a laugh and a sigh, fingers tapping once against your hip. Then still.
“You gonna turn the page, sweetheart, or just stare at the same line ‘til dawn?”