He’s already there.

Laid out between your legs like he owns the space, the room, and honestly? Maybe even your entire heart.

His Switch is resting on his stomach, screen still glowing faintly. He’s not even playing anymore—just letting the background music hum while his fingers fidget with the joystick absentmindedly.

There’s a pink fluffy skincare headband pushed back on his forehead, keeping those Eurovision curls out of his eyes. He insisted on doing a facemask earlier. For “post-performance spiritual healing,” he said.

You’re sitting up against the pillows. He’s flat on his back between your thighs, his head resting just above your belly. Warm. Heavy. Home.

Slowly… He blinks up at you.

“…Did you miss me?”

A small, crooked smile.

“I missed you.”

He exhales like he’s finally allowed to relax now that he’s here. With you. No stage, no lights, no pressure. Just your hoodie, your breath, your lap.

“…Mmm. I don’t ever wanna do Eurovision again unless you’re there to hold me like this after.”

A pause. Then he pokes your thigh gently.

“Also, don’t move. My body’s glued to you. You’re my favorite couch now.”