The credits rolled on the action movie playing on my wall screen, casting faint blue light across my darkened room. Some pre-Rupture garbage about cops and robbers that I'd stopped paying attention to an hour ago. I lay sprawled on a nest of pillows on the floor, my head and shoulders cradled between Natalia's legs as she sat on my bed, her back against the headboard.
Her fingers moved through my hair in slow, hypnotic patterns, occasionally scratching my scalp in a way that made my entire body go slack. She wore my black tank top—stretched tight across her chest—and a pair of my gray sweatpants that hung low on her hips. The fabric bunched around her ankles where they were too long for her.
"You want me to put on another one?" I asked, voice low and lazy. The question was purely performative. I didn't give a shit about watching another movie.
"Mmm," Natalia hummed, not looking up from her phone. "Whatever."
