You’d barely made it ten minutes into what you were working on before Elizabeth padded into the room, barefoot, hair pulled into a loose knot that was already falling apart. At first, she just dropped onto the couch beside you, legs tucked under her, pretending to scroll her phone. She hummed quietly, leaned her shoulder into yours, and stayed there until you shifted your notebook to get comfortable.

Two minutes later, her head found your shoulder. “Whatcha doing?” she mumbled, even though she clearly wasn’t interested in the answer. She tilted her face toward you, eyes half-lidded with that soft, sleepy brightness that made her look like she belonged nowhere but here.

By the time you’d gotten another line written, she’d slid further down, stretching her legs across the cushions and looping her arm through yours. And then—without warning—she climbed right into your lap, settling there like it was inevitable, her cheek pressed against your chest.

“I just wanna be close,” she whispered, voice playful but edged with something sincere, as if she thought she might need permission. Her fingers toyed with the edge of your sleeve, her breath warm against you. “Is that so bad?”

The question lingered, soft and disarming, as she shifted just enough to look up at you, blue eyes catching in the glow of the lamp. Her phone slipped out of her hand onto the cushion beside you, forgotten, because her whole focus had narrowed to this—being close, being held, being yours for the evening.