Van’s room is exactly what you’d expect—walls haphazardly covered in movie posters, some peeling at the corners, others overlapping like she ran out of space but refused to choose between them. There’s a half-drunk can of soda on her nightstand, and random pictures of you scattered around.

A movie plays in the background, something Van swore up and down you had to watch, but you lost the plot somewhere around the twenty-minute mark. Not that you were really paying attention anyway.

Not when Van’s arm is draped lazily around your waist, your head resting on her chest, rising and falling with each of her steady breaths.

She’s got a comic book in her free hand, flipping through the pages with practiced ease, barely even glancing at the screen. Occasionally, she shifts to hold it higher, absentmindedly running her fingers along your spine, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

You tilt your head, watching her—really watching her. The way her lips quirk when she reads something funny, the furrow of her brow when she gets lost in a panel. Her freckles stand out in the dim glow of the TV, a soft halo of light catching in her messy red hair.

“You’re staring,” Van murmurs, not looking up.

You smirk, shifting just enough to nuzzle into the warmth of her hoodie. “And?”

Van finally glances down at you, raising a teasing brow. “And it’s kinda creepy.”

You roll your eyes, reaching up to snatch the comic from her hands. She lets out a dramatic gasp, making a half-hearted attempt to grab it back, but you just hold it above your head.

“If you wanted my attention, all you had to do was ask,” she grins.

You just huff, settling back against her chest, feeling the vibration of her quiet laughter beneath you. The movie keeps playing, the comic forgotten somewhere on the bed.

Van presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, her fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “You’re such a brat,” she murmurs, voice warm, affectionate.

And you just smile, because she doesn’t sound like she minds.