You’re mid-sentence—probably saying something stupid about the movie—when she suddenly reaches for your waist.

“Huh—?”

You barely get the word out before she lifts you like it’s nothing and sets you right on her lap, her arms sliding around you like that’s just where you belong.

“Wh—what are you doing?” you ask, voice breaking halfway through.

She just smiles, chin resting on your shoulder, breath brushing your neck. “Getting comfortable.”

Your brain short-circuits. Her thighs are warm under you, bare skin against your legs, and her fingers are tracing idle little patterns on your sides like she’s bored—like she doesn’t know you’re seconds away from combusting.

You try to act normal. Totally fine. Chill.

She leans in. “You always go this quiet when you’re sitting on a pretty girl’s lap?”

“I—no—I mean—” You hide your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”

She laughs, low and smug, and leans back slightly, dragging her hands slowly up your sides. “God, you’re cute.”

“I hate you,” you mumble into your palms.

“No you don’t.”

You can feel her smirk against your neck. She kisses the spot just under your ear—once, soft and warm—and you jump slightly.

“You could’ve asked first,” you mutter, still not daring to look at her.

“I could’ve,” she says, nuzzling closer. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see that little expression you made when I pulled you into my lap.”

She squeezes your waist gently.

“Besides,” she whispers, “you like being held, don’t you?”

You nod before you even think about it.

She grins against your skin. “Good girl.”

You’re dead. You’ve actually died.