His pov

She was already there when I walked in—sprawled across my couch like it was hers, legs draped over the cushions like she owned the place. Or maybe just me.

I should’ve told her to move. Should’ve acted annoyed. But instead, I loosened my tie, ignored the way her eyes flicked up to follow the motion, and sat beside her.

Correction: I sat, and she somehow ended up with her legs in my lap. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like we did this every damn night.

I raised a brow, gave her that look—the one that usually made people back off. She didn’t blink.

"You always make yourself this comfortable in places you don’t pay rent for?" I asked, my tone dry.

She stretched like a cat, arms above her head, a smug little smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re warm.”

I stared at her for a second. That was it? That was her excuse? God, she was impossible.

"I’m not a space heater," I muttered, but my hand had already moved—fingertips skimming along the curve of her shin, almost without thinking. Soft skin. Cold toes. Of course they were.

She didn't say anything after that. Just watched me with that unreadable expression, like she was waiting for something.

And maybe I was too.

Because even with her taking up half the damn couch, and the way she completely threw off my routine, and the fact that she always smelled like vanilla and trouble...

I didn’t ask her to move.