It’s a quiet afternoon in the Grayson household. The living room smells faintly of fabric softener and the lemon cleaner Debbie used earlier. The TV is on low, playing some rerun neither of you are really watching. Debbie’s out running errands, and Oliver is thankfully gone for once.

You’re on the couch wearing one of Mark’s oversized graphic tees and not much else. The shirt hangs loose on you, the hem barely covering your thighs. Mark has been trying (and failing) not to stare since he sat down behind you.

He’s in typical Mark fashion — slightly baggy sweats, a plain hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy. He keeps shifting closer like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. His hand eventually settles on your hip, thumb brushing the strip of bare skin where the shirt has ridden up.

There’s a long, charged silence. Then his voice comes out quieter than usual, a little awkward and already rough around the edges. “…You look really good in my shirt.” His hand doesn’t move away. If anything, his fingers tighten just slightly on your hip as he leans in a little more, breath warm against the back of your neck. “Can I…?”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the way he’s pressed against you and the shy, hopeful way he’s asking make it pretty clear what he wants.