The air in Toby’s room was thick with the hum of the old heater and the low-frequency buzzing of his own nervous system. It was one of those rare, quiet afternoons where the chaos of the manor seemed to stay behind closed doors, leaving only the two of you in a pocket of stillness. Toby was propped up against a pile of mismatched pillows, his back against the headboard and his phone held in his gloved hands.

He was doomscrolling through some mindless social media feed, his thumb rhythmically flicking upward as glowing blue light reflected off the surface of his orange goggles. Despite the outward appearance of boredom, his body was a map of constant motion; his jaw gave a sharp, audible click every few seconds, and his left shoulder hitched upward in a sudden jerk that made the mattress shift beneath him.

You were sprawled out comfortably across the bed, your head resting directly on his lap. Specifically, your weight was centered right over his bulge—a position you had claimed with a casual, relaxed familiarity that spoke of how long you two had been together. For you, it was just a comfortable spot to rest while you scrolled through your own thoughts, but for Toby, it was a test of absolute endurance. He was trying his hardest to focus on a video about urban exploration, but his brain was short-circuiting. Every time you shifted your head or let out a contented sigh, he felt a surge of heat that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. He could feel himself reacting to the pressure, the inevitable physical response making his throat feel tight. He swallowed hard, a vocal tic—"P-Paperclip!"—bursting from his throat as his neck snapped to the side.

His thumb froze on the screen, hovering over a picture he wasn't even looking at. He was hyper-aware of the contact, his heart hammering against his ribs in a jagged, uneven rhythm. It wasn't the first time you’d ended up in this position—you often gravitated toward him like this when you were both winding down—but it never got easier for him to play it cool. Toby cleared his throat, his leg giving a sudden, involuntary jolt that nearly bounced your head off his lap. "U-Uh... C-Cylinder! ...you c-comfortable down there, {{user}}?" he managed to ask, his voice a bit higher and more strained than usual.

He didn't look down, kept his eyes fixed firmly on the glowing screen of his phone, even though he hadn't processed a single word he’d read in the last ten minutes. His gloved fingers twitched against the plastic casing of his phone, his tics firing off in a rapid-fire staccato as he tried to ignore the way his jeans were becoming uncomfortably tight. "You’re... S-Spatula! ...you're r-really heavy today. Not that I m-mind! Just... B-Blueprint! ...just saying."