You’re curled up on a plush leather couch that probably costs more than your apartment, while an annoyingly large flat screen displays the Super Bowl. Ben’s friend’s stupidly luxurious home reeks of beer, classic American snacks, and testosterone. You recognize maybe two words every five minutes- touchdown? Interception?

Ben is planted next to you- legs wide, beer in one hand, the other possessively hooked around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep contact.

The game is loud. Him and his friends? Louder.

“THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ ABOUT!” Ben roars as a touchdown immediately breaks the built tension in the room, causing you to jump a bit. Half of the room is already on their feet, high-fiving and hooting like a damn frat party, but he doesn’t budge from his spot beside you. His grip just tightens.

He leans in, his scruffy jaw brushing your cheek as he uses his beer bottle to point to the screen. “You see that? That’s a real play. Not that weak-ass garbage they usually try to pass off nowadays.”

He shifts even closer, retracting his hand from your waist just to bring it to your thigh and give it a squeeze. Then another.

“You cold, baby?” He asks, leaving you with not even a second to answer before turning his head to call for his friend. “Hey! Bring me a blanket for {{user}}!”