I gave her a gentle shake, fingertips brushing her shoulder.
"Honey, wake up. I've got a surprise for you."
Her eyes snapped open like she hadn't actually been asleep—just resting like a soldier does, ready to kill in under a breath. But she still gave a slow stretch, long and unhurried, her spine arching like a cat waking from the sun. She knew exactly what she was doing.
"What's the surprise, hooonneeyy?" she purred, stretching the word like she was teasing the vowels themselves. "Don't tell me it's just another excuse to stare at my body."
"Of course it is. I could look at it day and night, no doubt."
I said it without blinking, though my eyes traced their way back up to hers—slow, deliberate, respectful enough not to get smacked, but not saintly.
"But this? This might actually make you gasp."
I gestured to the screen and hit unpause with the same gravity people use when pressing nuclear launch buttons.
A man on screen—a tall, furious Black man in a leather jacket—screamed at the top of his lungs:
"I've had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!"
She blinked.
Tilted her head.
Then slowly turned to me.
"…Is that Fury?"
The look on her face said she wanted to believe it wasn't. But she already knew.
Her voice was calm. Too calm. That's how you knew the gears were grinding.
I raised both hands innocently. "I'm just as shocked as you are. Could be deepfake. Could be real. Could be… well, Fury."
She stared at the screen again. Then back at me. "And this was in the library?"
"Yup."
"Labeled?"
"Under 'Classics.' Right between Debbie Does Deep Undercover and Undercover Snow Bunny 3: The Hood Infiltration."
She squinted like she was actively judging my soul.
"I'm telling you." I said, throwing up a hand. "Maybe he did it for a mission. Deep cover, theatrical immersion, method acting—you know, all the things spies definitely do."
"Or maybe." she deadpanned. "He just really wanted to yell about snakes on a plane."
"Fair." I nodded solemnly. "It's relatable. Snakes. Planes. Authority. Fury's dream trifecta."
She leaned forward, grabbed the remote, and navigated through the video info with surgical precision.
"Snakes on a Plane." she read. "Released 2006. Runtime 1 hour 46 minutes. Rated R for language, violence, and... thematic elements." She raised a brow at me. "You think 'thematic elements' is code for Fury yelling at reptiles?"
I sipped my drink with theatrical grace.
"Honestly? I'm more concerned the producers didn't pair him with the blonde. Considering his obsession with snow bunnies, that feels like a missed opportunity."
She choked on her laugh, recovered with a perfectly trained cough, and shot me a glare.
"You really think he's projecting himself into his own library?"
"I know he is." I said, grinning. "This is his vision board, Natasha. Every category, every bookmark—it's all part of the Furry-verse."
She narrowed her eyes and turned back to the screen.
"You know what's worse?"
"What?"
"I actually kind of want to watch it now."
I leaned back, smug. "Because it has snakes?"
"No. Because now I need to know if he survives."
"Of course he survives. It's Fury. He probably kills the snakes, commandeers the plane, fires the pilot, then flies it himself—without a license and at the end shouts motherfucker to the whole world while not crashing into towers."
She nodded slowly. "Yeah. That sounds about right."
We fell into silence again, the movie playing on. Fury—young, intense, and clearly enjoying himself—stormed down the airplane aisle like he was born in a script.
I looked over at her.
She was watching. Still. Interested. Not laughing anymore. Not mocking.
Just… watching.
"He's different in this." she said softly. "Like someone who hadn't been hardened yet."
"Maybe this was before the eye patch." I said, watching young-Fury bark orders on-screen with both eyes wide open. "Or maybe the eye patch is fake. Honestly, with Fury, it wouldn't surprise me. Probably uses it to intimidate interns."
Her eyes didn't leave the screen, but the corner of her mouth curled. She knew I wasn't wrong.
I looked at her face a moment longer, let my hand drift up, fingers brushing along her jaw. She didn't pull away, but she didn't melt into it either. There was a flicker in her expression—smug amusement. The kind that said, I'm letting you, but don't get cocky.
"I did some digging while you were sleeping with your head on my shoulder." I said casually. "Scrolled deeper into Fury's cursed film archive."
She turned just slightly, curious.
"I found another movie. One where he plays a slave."
That got her attention.
"Of course. I'll watch it." She reached up, gently took my hand from her chin, and dropped it to the armrest like she was handling a misbehaving cat. Then, a subtle smirk. "But you're making the popcorn, chef."
I raised my hands like a soldier laying down his arms.
"Aye, madame."
I stood and made my way to the kitchen. "Salted, caramel, cheddar, spicy? You get one topping."
"Siracha." She was already flipping through the menu again, not even looking at me. "Oh, and juice."
"Siracha?" I frowned and shrugged. "That's semi-legal in some countries, you know. Mostly white countries. Salt is the most spiciest thing there." I opened the fridge, rummaging. "Bad news on the juice though. Shipment's delayed. You'll have to hydrate on sheer spite until Tuesday."
"Spite's my favorite flavor." she called back.
I chuckled and tossed the popcorn into the microwave, mixing the seasoning when it popped. When it was done, I dumped it into a bowl and poured in three bottles of Siracha with the smug pride of a man who took snacks way too seriously.
I returned to the couch and handed her the bowl like it was treasure.
She reached for it, but I pulled the remote out of her hand first.
"Uh-uh." I said, sitting back down. "If you want to watch the movie, there's a price."
She raised an eyebrow. "What kind of price?"
I gave her the most serious look I could muster.
"Your head. On my shoulder."
She blinked once. Then narrowed her eyes with suspicion.
"Is this your long game? Seduction via snack bribes and shoulder tax?"
"I'm just a man of simple desires." I said with a shrug. "Popcorn. Cheesy movies. And a redhead who pretends she's not already comfortable here."
She stared at me for a long second. Then, slowly, she slid closer and leaned in—her head resting just lightly on my shoulder.
"Only until the credits roll." she said softly. "Don't let it go to your head."
I didn't say anything.
Just hit play.
And let the movie run.
-----
Guess the movie.