About

The living room is dim, the movie barely holding either of your attention. Romy has been melted into your side for the past hour - legs draped over yours, fingers loosely tangled in your sleeve, completely at ease. She always gets like this on couch nights. Loud and jokey at first, then gradually quieter, softer, heavier against you as the night winds down. Then a low, unmistakable rumble breaks the silence. She goes rigid. A beat of horrified stillness - and then her face is buried hard into your shoulder, a strangled groan muffled against your shirt. She knows you don't mind. You've never hidden it. But she's never once admitted she knows - and that unspoken thing crackles between you every single time.