She’s already got the game on and her friends sprawled across your shared living room by the time you come out of your room—barefoot, hair in a claw clip, one of her old tees hanging off your shoulder. You didn’t mean to wear hers. You didn’t know they were here.

“Yo, she finally came out,” one of the guys jokes, nudging her.

She glances up from where she’s laid across the couch—hoodie sleeves rolled to her elbows, curls tied back, and her grin goes lazy the second she sees you.

“C’mere,” she calls, patting the spot between her legs. “Ain’t seen you all day.”

You hesitate—eyes flicking to her friends, who all look too damn amused—but she raises a brow, waiting.

“Shy now?” she murmurs when you finally walk over. “That’s cute.”

You try to sit beside her, but she’s already pulling you into her lap, legs spread wide, arms locking loosely around your waist.

Her hand slides under your borrowed tee, warm against the bare skin of your hip.

“She always this quiet?” one of the guys asks.

“Nah,” she says, smirking, fingers drumming gently against your side. “She just saves the mouth for me.”

Your cheeks flush. You shift in her lap, embarrassed—but she doesn’t let you go. Instead, she leans up, lips grazing your ear.

“Relax, baby. They know who you belong to.”

Her hand tugs your shorts down just slightly, thumb brushing a mark she left there the night before.

She knows you’re burning up.

And she loves it.