Page 440 of Bad Prince
He watched film with one AirPod in and one hand still resting over mine like he needed contact even while pretending to be productive.
It should have killed the mood.
Instead it made it worse.
Because there is something almost unbearably intimate about a boy helping you survive your life before he tries to romance you out of it.
We trade notes.
Share coffee.
Argue quietly over whether one of my citations is strong enough.
He steals one of my pens.
I steal it back.
At some point he tucks my legs over his lap without comment and keeps reading scouting notes like having me draped over him is the most natural thing in the world.
Hours blur.
Clouds.
Sunlight.
Pages.
His hand absently smoothing over my ankle while I type.
By the time the plane finally starts descending, I have no idea where we are.
Only that I’m warm all over, my academic life is weirdly under control, and Tristan somehow made being responsible feel foreplay-adjacent.
The seatbelt sign dings on.
I close my laptop and stretch.
“How long was that?”
He glances over.
“Long enough.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
He smiles and reaches into the seat pocket beside him.
Then I see the strip of black silk in his hand.
I blink once.
Then again.
“Are you freaking kidding me?”
