The apartment smelled faintly of melted cheese, warm crust, and the open bag of chips you’d left sitting on the coffee table, but neither of you cared. It was the sort of scent that belonged to nights like this—lazy, comfortable, a little indulgent. The glow of the TV screen bathed the room in shifting colors from the game Matt was absorbed in, his headset tilted low over his messy hair, his goggle lenses reflecting the bright reds and blues of the match.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, his back pressed to the couch between your legs. Your thighs framed his head, snug against him, and though you hadn’t meant to, you found yourself giving the faintest squeezes now and then. It wasn’t conscious at first, just the natural rhythm of your body, but every time, his ears would turn pink, his shoulders stiffening for half a second before he pushed through it, fingers never faltering on the controller.

“Oi, Matt, cover left side!” one of his friends barked through the mic.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he mumbled around the cigarette dangling from his lips, voice muffled but cool as always. His thumbs flew over the buttons, a streak of concentration furrowing his brow.

Meanwhile, your attention was half on your phone, thumb lazily scrolling, half on him. Your free hand tangled in his hair, twirling strands around your fingers, scratching lightly at his scalp in a way that made his shoulders sag in relief when the game quieted down for a second. It had become habit—whenever he parked himself in front of you to game, your hands naturally found his hair. He always claimed it “kept him focused,” but you knew better.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, tugging a little at a stubborn knot near the back of his head.

“Mm? What’s that?” His voice was distracted, sharp clicks filling the silence as he shot at something on-screen.

“Playing while I do this. Doesn’t it mess you up?”

He snorted, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth as he ducked behind in-game cover. “Nah. Feels good. You’re like—my good luck charm or somethin’.”

That made you squeeze your thighs just a little tighter around his head, amused by the way his ears went crimson. “Good luck charm, huh?”

He cleared his throat, tugging at the cord of his controller like it was suddenly very interesting. “Yeah, well—don’t go gettin’ cocky about it.”

You laughed, leaning over him a little, resting your chin against the top of his head. He smelled faintly of smoke and whatever shampoo he’d grabbed last from the store, a scent that had become so distinctly him. With your hand lazily combing through his hair and his weight solid against your legs, it felt like one of those rare moments where the world outside didn’t exist.

The night stretched comfortably. His friends yelled through the headset, the sound of gunfire and explosions filled the room, and every now and then he’d reach back blindly, grab a handful of chips, and miss his mouth entirely until you shoved the bag closer for him. You teased, he grumbled, but the rhythm was perfect: him gaming, you lounging, both of you tucked safely into the little world you’d made.

Eventually, the match ended, and his friends were still chattering, arguing about who screwed up. Matt muted his mic, craning his head back against your thigh to glance up at you with a smirk.

“You know, if you keep squeezin’ me like that, I’m not gonna make it through another round.”

You raised a brow, feigning innocence as your fingers combed lazily through his bangs. “Guess you’ll just have to deal with it.”

His grin widened, sly and soft all at once, before he tilted his head forward again, unmuting his mic and pretending like nothing had happened. But the pink lingering on his cheeks said otherwise, and you couldn’t help squeezing once more, just to hear him groan under his breath.