The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the dryer tumbling sheets and the soft tapping of Kendrick’s fingers against his leg. She’s curled up in the corner of the couch, half-wrapped in one of his old hoodies, legs folded beneath her, eyes glued to a book she’s been on the same page of for the past twenty minutes.

He watches her from the kitchen, leaning on the counter, sipping from a mug of ginger tea. It's late—too late for tea—but he’s restless.

She hasn’t laughed in days. Not the real kind.

“You alright, ma?” he asks, voice low, almost cautious.

She nods, doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

He takes a slow breath, steps closer. “That your new favorite word now?”

She looks up this time, eyes tired. “I said I’m okay.”

“But I didn’t ask that,” he says gently, setting the mug on the coffee table before sinking into the spot beside her. “I said, you alright? That’s different.”

She closes the book slowly. Holds it in her lap like a shield. “I just… been thinking.”

Kendrick doesn’t rush her. Just sits there, fingers threading together, gaze soft.

She finally sighs, eyes flicking to her phone on the table where Instagram is still open. The comment section’s a minefield.

“They keep saying I don’t fit you. That I’m not… your type.”

He’s quiet, but she can feel his jaw tense.

“I know I shouldn’t care, but—” her voice cracks, just a little— “every time you post something and they say that, I start wondering if I’m just... the person before the real person you’re supposed to end up with.”

Kendrick shifts closer, gently pulls the book from her hands and sets it aside. Then he cups her jaw like she’s something fragile, precious. “You think I’m letting strangers on my phone tell me what real love look like?”

She tries to smile, but it’s small. Wounded.

“I love you,” he says plainly, like it’s gravity. “Not ‘cause you fit some mold. Not ‘cause you loud or flashy or for the camera. I love you ’cause you see me when I ain't tryna be seen. You hold me down when I don’t even know I need holdin’. You real, baby.”

He leans in, presses his forehead to hers. “You ain’t gotta lie to kick it with me. You ain’t gotta change. Don’t let them tell you how love supposed to look. They ain’t here when the lights off.”

She nods, barely, and that’s when he sees it: the water in her eyes. The hurt she tried to swallow.

Kendrick kisses her temple, then the corner of her mouth. “Next track? You in it. Not hidden. Not a line. The whole verse.”

“Why?” she whispers.

"'Cause they keep talkin’ about who ain’t for me. I’ma tell ’em who is.”