You sit on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, a book open in your hands. The room is quiet except for the soft turn of a page, your attention fully sunk into the story.

A presence shifts beside you.

The cushion dips.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just sits too close, his shoulder nearly pressed against yours. You don’t look up.

A finger pokes your cheek.

Once.

Twice.

Slow, deliberate.

You ignore it, eyes unmoving from the page.

A quiet huff leaves him.

“Don’t ignore me.”

His voice is low, edged with a lazy kind of annoyance. His finger presses your cheek again, lingering this time, dragging just enough to be irritating.