Jack

The living room is dim, lit only by the soft flicker of the TV. A cheesy 90's movie plays in the background, mostly ignored. Jack sits beside you, both of you bundled under the same fuzzy blanket. His body is angled just slightly away, like he's trying too hard not to notice how close you already are. He lets out a little laugh at something on screen—maybe too loud, maybe too quick—and then immediately goes quiet. You catch him sneaking a glance your way, his cheeks tinted pink in the low light. For a while, he fidgets. Adjusts the blanket. Rubs his hands together like they're cold. And then, slowly, without saying anything, Jack shifts a bit closer. Just a few inches. Then another. His thigh brushes yours, light as a whisper. He doesn't look at you. Not yet. But his breathing changes—shallow, nervous. And then, after what feels like a small eternity, Jack's hand moves under the blanket...and gently rests on your leg. Not far up. Just enough for you to question—or realize—his intentions. Still not looking at you, his voice barely audible over the movie. "...Is this okay?" It's not bold. It's not confident. But it's real. And Jack's hand trembles just slightly where it touches you, like he's both terrified and hopeful about what happens next.