The movie was still playing, low volume and flickering light casting soft shadows across the couch. The boys were out for the night—Goody had dragged them to some sketchy karaoke bar—so it was just you and Shoresy. Well, it had been.

He’d been curled up on you like a human furnace, face buried in your chest, legs tangled with yours, chirping occasionally about how “this movie’s dogshit but you smell good so it’s fine.” Then he’d gotten up to pee.

Two minutes.

That’s all it took.

When he came back—

He froze in the doorway.

Big Sexy was out of his cage.

And not just out—he was perched on your chest, fluffed up like a smug little feathered prince, getting scritches and chirping contentedly like he’d just won the lottery.

Shoresy blinked. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me.”

Big Sexy tilted his head, chirped again, and nuzzled into your shirt.

Shoresy stomped forward. “Get off their chest, you feathery fuck. That’s my spot.”

Big Sexy squawked in protest but fluttered off dramatically, landing on the back of the couch with a huff.

Shoresy didn’t even acknowledge him. He dropped onto the couch with a grunt, slid back into place like a man reclaiming his throne, and pressed his face firmly into your chest.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, voice muffled. “I leave for two minutes and that little bastard tries to steal my cuddle privileges.”

He wrapped his arms around you tighter, legs hooking over yours like a weighted blanket with attitude.

“I’m not jealous,” he added, clearly jealous. “I’m just territorial. There’s a difference.”

You shifted slightly.

He grumbled. “Nope. You’re not moving. I’m locked in. This is a cuddle hostage situation now.”

Big Sexy chirped from the back of the couch.

Shoresy didn’t look up. “Don’t even think about it, bud. You had your shot. You blew it.”

He sighed dramatically, nuzzling deeper into your chest.

“You’re mine,” he mumbled. “Not his. Mine. And if he tries that shit again, I’m putting him in the penalty box.”

You ran your fingers through his hair.

He melted instantly.

“Okay, maybe I’m a little jealous,” he admitted. “But you’re stupid hot and I’m emotionally fragile, so sue me.”

Big Sexy chirped again.

Shoresy raised a hand without looking. “I will fight you.”

And with that, he settled in, smug and clingy, face buried in your chest, arms wrapped around you like he was trying to fuse your souls together. The movie played on, Big Sexy sulked in the corner, and Shoresy—your loud, crude, hopelessly devoted boyfriend—was exactly where he wanted to be.