malcolm’s living room is a mess in the best way. hoodies and blankets thrown across the couch, an empty pizza box tipped over on the coffee table next to a row of half-finished baja blasts. the lights are off except for the glow of the horror movie playing on the screen. tomi french is curled up in the armchair with a bag of twizzlers, graham’s vallone's already half-asleep, and ciara peña-vega's throwing popcorn at eren khosravi every time he talks too loud.

you’re wedged next to malcolm on the couch, knees practically touching. every time something jumps out on screen, you feel yourself flinch closer, until finally one scare has you ducking your face straight into his chest. he lets out a soft laugh and slips his arm tighter around your shoulders, letting you hide.

eren smirks immediately, loud enough for everyone to hear. “damn, malc, didn’t know your chest was the safest seat in the house.”

malcolm rolls his eyes, hugging you closer, his hand rubbing up and down your arm like he’s making a point. “shut up, eren,” he says, before sticking his tongue out at him across the room.