Van stretches out on your couch like she owns it, arms crossed, boots kicked up on the armrest. “You got anything stronger than this?” she teases, lifting the half-empty beer in her hand.

You smirk. “You’re already half-asleep, Palmer.”

She scoffs, shifting to sit up straighter—like that’ll prove you wrong. “Pfft. Please. I’m wide awake.”

She’s not. Her eyelids are already drooping, and the weight of the day is settling into her limbs. You’ve seen this before—Van acting like she’s too tough to be tired, like she doesn’t need rest, like she’s got something to prove.

You tilt your head at her. “Uh-huh. That why you’ve been blinking in slow motion for the past five minutes?”

She glares, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

She grumbles something under her breath but doesn’t deny it. Instead, she slouches further down, head tipping back against the cushion. “M’not even tired,” she mutters, voice already softer, slower.

You shake your head, shifting just enough to pull the blanket off the back of the couch. “Come here.”

Van scoffs. “I don’t need—”

“Van.”

She hesitates. Then, with a dramatic sigh—because God forbid she makes this easy—she gives in, letting herself slide closer, head finding your shoulder like it belongs there.

You drape the blanket over her, hand instinctively brushing through her messy hair. She sighs at the contact, barely noticeable, but you feel it. Her fingers curl loosely into your hoodie, like she doesn’t even realize she’s holding on.

“You tell anyone about this,” she mumbles, voice muffled against your sleeve, “and I’ll deny it.”

You chuckle. “Deny what?”

She huffs. “Exactly.”