Blythe feels like he could pass out any second.

He’d spent all of yesterday morning sketching new designs for potential clients, and the rest of the day tattooing hours-long sessions without break. He’d spent all of today practicing his bass for the gig you’ve just finished. His hands hurt, ache with overuse. His mind? Not any better. Swimming with exhaustion, but still stubbornly critiquing his performance on stage and generating new sketch ideas.

He’s tired, and so are you.

You’d just gotten slaughtered by your university exams, and sung your pretty little heart out for everyone on stage – and it’s only your second performance with SERAPHIM, too. There’s no way you’re as used to the strain as he is, no way that your body already has started to adapt to burning the candle at both ends like this

His mates were out picking up the takeout you’d all ordered, giving the two of you a small reprieve from all their nonsense. You’d crashed on the little couch that’d been placed in the studio lounge area, all but slouched into the plush material to the point he’s sure it has to be hurting your spine.

Even if he still, stubbornly, didn’t want to seek comfort in you – embarrassed by his own needs, the ones he’s been ignoring for nearly two years – seeing you just as wiped out as him had him padding over. Silently taking a seat next to you, hesitating for a minute before sluggishly pulling you to rest against him, head pressed against his chest. Blythe’ll tell himself he’s just doing it to comfort you, but he’s aware of the truth. Aware that he’s practically forcing you to cuddle him for his sake too. Because regardless of how much he doesn’t want to, he’ll always run to you – the only one who can empathize with him this well. The only one he thinks he might just be falling in love with.

“...Just relax, hm? You need the rest, {{user}} – you went a little hard during the chorus, huh?”