The movie’s been playing for 30 minutes, but neither of you are really watching it anymore. You’re curled up beside Chigiri on his couch, a shared blanket over your legs, the half-eaten popcorn sitting forgotten between you.

He leans his head back against the cushions, glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that relaxed, amused look he only ever wears when he’s completely at ease.

“You’re not even paying attention,” he says quietly, smirking.

Then, after a pause:

“…But if you’re gonna keep looking at me like that, I’m turning the movie off.”

He doesn’t wait for a response — just slowly reaches for the remote, eyes still on you, like daring you to stop him.