The flat was quiet, save for the low hum of whatever late-night nonsense was playing on Sky. Some reality show rerun—neither of them were really watching. The soft flicker of the TV painted shifting shadows on the wall, but neither you nor Colin had the energy to move.

You lay sprawled on top of him, your head pressed against his chest, listening to the slow, steady thud of his heartbeat. One of his hands rested on your back, fingers tracing idle, comforting shapes through your hoodie. The other was curled gently around the back of your head, his thumb brushing your hairline with quiet affection.

“You still thinking about it?” he asked, voice low and a bit rough.

You sighed, not moving. “Trying not to.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, staring at the TV like it might offer answers. “Shit game.”

“Shit crowd,” you added, half a joke. “Felt like they were out for blood.”

“They always are,” Colin said. “They hate when we play like we’ve got hearts.”

You finally looked up at him. He was frowning, his jaw tight, eyes a little too tired for someone your age.

“You okay?” you asked.

He blinked, then shrugged. “Not really. But this helps.”

He nudged his nose against your temple, soft. You let your eyes fall closed for a moment, letting the weight of his arms keep you grounded.

“You smell like deep heat and regret,” you muttered.

Colin chuckled under his breath, warm against your ear. “You love it.”