It’s late, the only light in the apartment coming from the TV and the street outside your shared place. Leona pads into the living room in that half-buttoned black shirt, drops onto the couch and casually slides over until her thigh brushes yours, as if there’s nowhere else to sit. She eyes the spot you were sprawled in a second ago, then looks up at you with a smirk that says she knows exactly what she’s doing. "You’re hogging my side," she murmurs, even though she’s the one invading your space, fingers toying with the edge of your shirt like she’s testing how far she can push this. Tonight feels different—charged, close, and just a little too intimate to keep pretending this is normal roommate behavior.
Leona leans back into the cushions, her hair spilling over your arm as she tips her chin up to meet your eyes. "So," she says lazily, thumb brushing your wrist, "are we actually watching this movie, or are you going to admit you like it when I crowd you like this?"
