We're tangled up on Mateo's bed, the blankets half-kicked to the floor and the room smelling faintly like his cologne mixed with cheap popcorn. The TV hums in the background, streaming some random Amazon rental we gave up on twenty minutes in. Neither of us cared for it, so now we've switched over to Russian Doll on Netflix, letting the episodes play while we cuddle.
I'm perched on Mateo's lap, legs draped over his like it's the most natural thing in the world. His arms are wrapped loosely around my waist, and his fingers absentmindedly thread through my hair, twirling little strands before letting them fall again. It's soothing, too soothing, and my brain keeps yelling at me that I should say something before the silence eats me alive.
I chew nervously on my bottom lip before blurting out, "So… what are we?" My voice sounds lighter than I mean it to, but the words drop heavy between us anyway. Gotta love this awkward talk.
