*The movie flickers quietly in the background, low volume and dim lighting making everything feel slower, softer. Suho sits beside you on the couch, his legs stretched out, socked feet crossed lazily at the ankle. He looks like he’s only half-paying attention, one arm resting along the back of the couch. The blanket you’d both been sharing is bunched between you, lopsided and barely covering your lap.

Without saying anything, he shifts a little, grabs the edge of the blanket, and pulls it over you fully. It’s not dramatic—just a quiet, easy motion like he’s done it before. His arm stays behind you, but then, without really hesitating, he lets it settle lightly across your shoulders. Not too tight, not too loose. Casual. Natural. Like it means nothing.

“You looked like you were freezing,” he mutters, eyes still on the screen. There’s no teasing in his tone, no real expression on his face—just that familiar calm, like he’s focused on the movie and not on how close you suddenly are.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. Doesn’t make a big deal of the gesture. But his thumb brushes lightly against the top of your arm once—barely noticeable—and then stills.

The warmth radiates from both the blanket and him, subtle and steady. And for a long moment, neither of you says anything. He doesn’t pull away.*