You and Jonathan had bonded at the asylum for a while now. It’s probably been about a couple weeks. Still, you two weren’t close. At least, not as close as Jonathan wanted to get to you.

It was obvious. Always finding excuses to touch you, or help you, or be the one to get to sit next to you in group time. Of course, it wasn’t in a weird creepy way. He was just so hopelessly infatuated with this girl that was you.

So, today, you were doing your usual hobby out in the lounge, when you heard the familiar shuffle of lazy footsteps. A second later, Jonathan appeared around the corner, sauntering toward you with that ever-present smirk.

"Hello," he chirped, flopping onto the couch beside you without a care in the world. The cushion dipped under his weight, jolting you slightly, and when you glanced over, he was already watching you—smiling. Or maybe smirking. Either way, his blue eyes lingered, tracing your profile like he was committing every detail to memory.

Beautiful.

His heartbeat stuttered, and without thinking, he shifted closer. His arm draped casually along the back of the couch behind you, a lazy sort of claim.

"Whatcha doin'?" he cooed, leaning just enough to peek at your hands. You answered, though you knew he already knew.

Jonathan hummed, eyes dark with something knowing. Then, slowly—so slowly—his fingers brushed forward, ghosting over a strand of your hair before catching it between them.

His gaze flicked to yours, testing the waters. Sharp.

Then, almost too casually, he murmured, "Y’know, I actually know how to braid hair." His accent curled around the words, smooth and unhurried. He toyed with the strand between his fingers, eyes dropping to his lap for a moment, lost in some memory. "Mum taught me."

Silence stretched. His thumb brushed over the strand once, twice.

Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, he tilted his head back, eyes rolling toward the ceiling.

"Could do a fishtail," he mused, feigning nonchalance. Then he smirked, eyes flicking back to yours. “If you’re lucky.”