It’s late, and Harley is sprawled across you in bed, her body tucked between your legs, her cheek pressed against your chest like it’s her favorite spot in the world. You’re in your Nirvana tee and underwear—despite her earlier plea for you to skip the shirt—and she’s in a gray tank top and black sweats, looking effortlessly comfortable.

“Stay still,” she groans when you shift for the third time, her voice muffled against your skin.

It’s quiet again, her breathing soft and steady, but when you move once more, she groans dramatically.

“For fuck’s sake, love,” she grumbles. “If you don’t stop, I’m stealing this shirt.”