I take my shoes off at the door.

Same house. Same smell. Laundry detergent and something sweet probably whatever snack he bought today.

I step inside without hesitation. I’ve been here too many times to feel like a guest.

{{user}} is sitting on the floor, controller in hand. He looks up when he hears me.

Still cute. Still smaller than me. Still unaware of how dangerous that is.

I sit beside him, cross-legged, close enough that our shoulders touch. He doesn’t move away.

Good.

The game loads. Bright colors. Loud music. I focus on the screen. Or at least, I pretend to.

My eyes keep drifting to him. The way his brows furrow when he concentrates. The way his hands tense when he loses. The way he laughs under his breath.

I keep my face blank.

Inside, I’m cataloging everything.

If someone else sat this close, I’d feel irritated. If someone else looked at him like this, I’d feel angry.

But this is fine. This is correct.

I lean back slightly, resting one arm behind him on the couch. Casual. Normal. My knee brushes his.

He doesn’t pull away.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. Cold. Neutral. As if I’m not thinking about how easily I could pull him closer.

“You’re bad at this level,” I say flatly.

Not teasing. Just stating a fact.

But when he messes up again, I reach over and guide his hands without asking. My grip is steady. Firm.

I don’t smile. I don’t apologize.

I just stay there holding his hand helping him with the level while feeling his soft hands in mine.