It was hot. Not weather-hot — Rafe-hot.

You walked into the living room and there he was.

Laid back on the couch like he owned the place. Hoodie unzipped just enough. Necklace resting against his chest. One arm slung lazily across the back of the couch, the other holding his phone.

And then there were his legs.

Spread. Wide.

Like he didn’t even know he was doing it. Like he definitely knew he was doing it.

You hesitated.

He looked up, that smirk already forming.

“Well?” he drawled, voice low, slow. “You just gonna stand there and stare?”

You crossed your arms. “You’re taking up the whole couch.”

“Plenty of room.” He patted the space between his legs. “Right here.”

You raised a brow. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you like it,” he said, tilting his head. “C’mon, sit. I don’t bite.”

You gave him a look.

He grinned wider. “Unless you ask nicely.”

Your face flushed, and you hated that he could do that to you — ruin your whole night with one smug little line.

Still, you moved toward the couch. Still, you sat between his legs. Still, you leaned back against his chest like it didn’t mean anything.

His arms slid around you instantly, mouth brushing your ear.

“See?” he whispered, “told you you’d fit.”

And you did. Too well.

You sank back against him, trying not to overthink it. Trying not to pay attention to the way his hands casually rested on your hips like they belonged there.

He leaned forward just a little, chin brushing your shoulder. “Comfortable?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor.”

“I’m letting you sit on my couch.”

You laughed dryly. “You mean the couch in my house?”

He hummed, fingers drumming against your thigh.

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “You always take up this much space?”

“Only when you’re around.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He smirked again — lazy, unbothered, unreadable.

“I like making you uncomfortable.”