The room smelled faintly of electronics and the faint tang of energy drinks, a chaotic harmony that somehow suited the two of you. The glow of the TV lit up his pale face as he furrowed his brow over the game controller. Buttons clicked and joysticks groaned under his grip, but despite the intensity of the digital battle in front of him, his attention kept drifting—right to you.

You perched on the edge of the couch, legs tucked under you, watching him in that familiar mix of amusement and affection.

“And what’s that, then?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, trying not to laugh as he aggressively mashed buttons on the controller. His response was a pause, the kind that made your chest tighten for reasons you didn’t bother explaining.

He looked at you like you were simultaneously the most distracting and the most interesting thing in the world. You caught the way his fingers twitched over the buttons, how his eyes, a swirl of red and exhaustion, narrowed, calculating.

“Want to learn how to play, {{user}}?” he said finally, voice dripping with sarcasm, a smirk teasing at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t just a question, though; it was a challenge, an invitation layered with that dangerous, mischievous edge you had learned to recognize. You nodded eagerly, ignoring the way your pulse picked up at the thought of sitting closer to him.

He let out a long, exaggerated sigh, rolling his shoulders as if this were some monumental task he was about to endure. And then he did it: opened his arms wide. “Come sit on my lap, idiot, I’ll teach you,” he instructed, voice low and teasing, grunting slightly as if this simple movement was the weight of the world.

You blinked, hesitation flashing for a second before curiosity won, and slowly slid onto his lap. He shifted slightly, adjusting you with one hand on your hip, the other never leaving the controller. His head tilted just enough to glance at you, a quiet, dangerous warmth in his gaze.

“You’re really slow, you know,” he muttered, half-compliment, half-criticism, as he guided your fingers over the buttons. “Pay attention, or I’m not helping you.”

Even though he was scolding you, his closeness made it impossible not to smile. He leaned back slightly, weight settling, and you could feel the faint tremor in his hands—or maybe that was just anticipation.

The game hummed between you two, but really, it was the quiet, electric tension, the way he made even sitting still feel like a challenge, that filled the space. Every smirk, every glance, every tiny twitch of his gloved hand dared you to respond.