The world outside the blanket fort was a cold, wet smear of a Washington October, but inside, it was the goddamn Batcave of coziness. Chris had to admit, you’d outdone yourself. The living room was a cathedral of quilts and fairy lights, strung up with a haphazard precision that was pure you. The air was thick with the smells of buttery popcorn and the waxy sweetness of a half-eaten chocolate bar. On the TV screen, some poor schmuck was about to get axed by a guy in a cheap mask, the soundtrack a symphony of manufactured dread.

He felt you flinch beside him, a full-body shudder, and then you buried your face into the worn cotton of his t-shirt, right over his heart. Your cold nose was a shock against his skin.

“Don’t worry, sweetcheeks,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in the quiet space. He tightened his arm around you, pulling you deeper into the nest of pillows and blankets. “I’ll protect you from the big, bad vampire. He’s probably a pussy anyway. Can’t even go out in the sun.”

You laughed, a muffled, warm sound against his chest that he felt more than heard. But you didn’t pull away. You just settled in closer, your hand coming to rest on his stomach, your fingers absently tracing the lines of his abs through the fabric. The movie, the fake screams, the whole outside world, just… faded into static.

His focus narrowed to the geography of your body against his. The weight of your leg thrown over his. The soft puff of your breath. The fairy lights caught the gold in your hair, turning it into a halo against the dark blanket behind you. Eagly, a lump of feathered loyalty at their feet, let out a soft, sleeping skree. This, right here, was better than any mission high, better than the perfect riff, better than anything.

Your fingers stilled on his stomach, then drifted lower. His breath hitched.

“You feel that?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave, becoming something intimate and rough. He guided your hand, his own covering yours, under the soft fortress of the blankets. The denim of his jeans was tight, strained. “That’s the real monster you should be worried about.”