The TV’s still on, but the volume is low—just the faint hum of some old black-and-white movie flickering across the room. You’re on the couch, half-laying against him, one of your legs tangled with his, the hem of your shirt brushing his stomach. His T-shirt smells like laundry and something distinctly him, and he hasn’t let go of your waist in the last hour.

The kiss starts like the others did that night—unhurried, a lazy press of lips, like you’ve both finally accepted that this is happening and you don’t have to perform for it.

His hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing just under your ear, guiding your mouth open. Your fingers curl in the soft cotton at his ribs, your knees knocking gently into his thigh as he deepens the kiss with a groan that sounds like it's been waiting all day to get out.

No words. Just his mouth on yours, slow and a little sloppy, like he’s not trying to prove anything. Like he wants to memorize the shape of this.

Then his phone buzzes loudly on the table. Once. Twice.

"He'll live" he mutters, kissing you once again