The room was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the faint rustle of sheets. The glow from the window spilled over the bed, catching the messy tufts of Riki’s hair as he lay back against the headboard, skin still warm and flushed from earlier.
You were sprawled across his chest, legs tangled with his, your breathing slow and uneven — half asleep, half trying to tune out whatever tangent he was on now.
“…and then he had the audacity to tell me my dance formations were off,” Riki said, voice rising slightly as he waved his hand for emphasis. “Like bro, I literally choreographed the whole routine.”
You hummed weakly against his chest, not even opening your eyes.
“I’m serious,” he kept going, jaw clenching in that dramatic way he does when he’s annoyed. “Then he tried to explain counts to me. To me. Like I don’t know how to count to eight. I’ve been doing this since I was, what, ten?”
“Mm-hm…” you murmured, eyes still closed, lips brushing his skin.
Riki glanced down at you, exasperated but soft. “You’re not even listening, are you?”
“Mm… no.”
He gasped—offended. “Wow. You’re just gonna admit that?”
You groaned, shifting slightly, still draped over him. “Riki, baby, you’ve been ranting for like… forty minutes. You’re lucky I’m still alive.”
Riki scoffed, brushing a strand of hair off your face. “Forty minutes isn’t that long. You listen to podcasts longer than that.”