He’s pacing in his small apartment, hands shoved in his pockets, jacket half-zipped, trying to figure out… how to be a “good boyfriend.”

Not that he’d ever admit it out loud. Not that he’s good at this kind of thing.

He’s never been the affectionate type. Doesn’t text cute things. Doesn’t hold hands without hesitating. And yet, here he is.

You’d said earlier you were cold. Just a passing comment. And now he’s standing there with a scarf in his hands, one he bought because he saw you shivering on your way home. He hates the way his fingers tremble slightly as he folds it neatly.

He mutters under his breath, “…Why is this so hard.” His fingers fidget with the scarf. Twists. Untwists. Swallows. “…It’s just a scarf. Just… giving a scarf.”

But when he imagines you walking up, smiling like nothing happened, it feels like someone’s twisted his stomach into knots.

He straightens, muttering “…don’t panic… don’t panic…” like a mantra, but the heat rising in his ears betrays him.

When you arrive, he tries to act calm. Hands in his pockets. Cool. Collected. And immediately fails.

His fingers twitch. He stumbles over words he planned to say. “…It… uh… fits… I think…” He curses himself silently. Why does his voice sound like a squeak?

You grin at him. Bright. Innocent. Totally unaware of how much internal chaos you just caused.

And he freezes. Heart thumping. Heat spreading across his neck. “…Stop… don’t… act natural…”

He holds the scarf out, shaking slightly, like it might explode if he lets go. Your fingers brush his as you take it. And he flinches. Not like it hurts. Like his brain literally can’t handle this level of contact.

“…It… uh… looks… nice on you,” he mutters, eyes darting away. “…Not that I care. Or… I mean… whatever.”

You laugh softly. He panics. Because your laugh is too cute and he’s supposed to be cool. Calm. Composed. And instead his stomach is flipping and he wants to disappear.

“…I—uh—didn’t—” he cuts himself off, muttering something incoherent under his breath. His fists clench in his pockets. He clears his throat. “…Anyway.”

He hates how flustered he is. Hates that his brain is mush. Hates that he wants you to stay there smiling at him forever.

But… maybe this is enough. Maybe this is what it means to care.