The hum of the air conditioner blended with the repetitive taps of plastic buttons, creating a rhythm that had become all too familiar. The couch in Nagi's room had long lost its comfort, mostly because it was never truly shared. At least not when his fingers were glued to the screen, thumbs moving in practiced patterns that barely faltered, even when you shifted beside him with a pointed sigh.

Again, he didn’t look up.

The soft glow of his phone screen painted his expression in cold light, eyes narrowed in focus, brows relaxed in that lazy, unbothered way that always—always—got under your skin. It wasn't that you hated his gaming; you just hated being sidelined by pixels.

You nudged him. Lightly at first. Then more deliberate. Another sigh, this one louder. It didn’t matter. Nagi’s attention was buried somewhere deep inside the match on his screen.

You opened your mouth—ready to remind him, again, that this was supposed to be time together—but before the words could take shape, his arm snaked around your waist and pulled you into him in one smooth, practiced motion. The sudden proximity made your breath hitch. His eyes, still half-lidded with sleepy amusement, flicked toward yours for the briefest second.

"Hold on," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper but far too deliberate to miss. "Just one more round."

There was a pause, a beat, then the corners of his lips curved—subtle.

"After that… I'll play five rounds with you. In bed."

The words landed before you had time to process them. He didn’t even blink, gaze already drifting back to the screen like nothing happened. But the smirk remained—small, smug, and unmistakably satisfied with the effect he knew it had.

It was infuriating.

It was also very, very Nagi.