It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

The night had started with takeout and teasing, the usual banter that always felt a little too easy, a little too close to something else. One movie turned into two, laughter fading into the kind of quiet that only exists between people who’ve long since stopped needing words.

Now the credits were rolling, the glow of the TV flickering dim blue across the room. The blanket that had once been tossed haphazardly between you had somehow shifted — half-draped over both your shoulders, wrapped around your legs. His warmth pressed against your back, steady and unintentional. Maybe.

“You’re literally in my bed,” Wilbur mumbled, voice heavy with sleep. You could hear the smile in it, that lazy kind of teasing he slipped into when he was too tired to hide the affection beneath.

“Don’t sound so scandalized,” he continued when you didn’t respond, chin brushing your shoulder as he moved closer, “it’s just convenient. Floors are uncomfortable.”

You could feel his breath against your neck when he spoke. Every word vibrated somewhere deep in your chest, too warm, too careful. The silence that followed stretched out like held breath. The only sound was the quiet hum of the TV, the faint rhythm of his heartbeat against your spine.

Then, softly — “This doesn’t count as cuddling, right?”

The question lingered, almost playful, but his voice faltered at the end, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted an answer. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Seconds bled into minutes, the world shrinking until it was just the two of you, tangled in blankets that weren’t supposed to mean anything. His fingers brushed against yours — accidentally, probably — and stayed there.

Wilbur’s breath hitched. Then he exhaled, slow and quiet, settling closer like he’d finally lost the will to keep pretending.

“It’s definitely not cuddling,” he whispered, but his arm slid around your waist anyway, pulling you gently back into him.

You didn’t correct him.