The sun hangs low in the sky, casting syrupy beams through your bedroom window. Dust dances in the light like golden flecks of magic, and the air smells faintly of rose oil and something warm, lived-in. Your playlist hums gently in the background, soft chords folding over each other like waves, while the world outside feels a million miles away.

Simon’s on your bed at first, half-sprawled, his long legs hanging off the edge, the mattress creaking beneath his weight. His black school trousers are wrinkled. You’re cross-legged on the carpet, a makeshift workspace around you—tissue paper, practice sketches, and the tiny cone of henna resting between your fingers. Your knees brush together when he finally shifts off the bed, lowering himself to the floor beside you.

“You sure about this?” Simon asks, one brow raised as he eyes the mess around you. “Dunno if I’m the henna type.”

“You’ll be fine,” you mutter as you take his hand, turning it over in yours. It’s big, rough and calloused with old scars across his knuckles. You trace them lightly with your thumb, the way you’ve done a hundred times before without thinking. “'Sides, you’ve got great hands.”

He snorts, the sound low and amused. Simon settles, legs stretched out in front of him, his back against your bedframe. His fingers twitch once as you begin, the tip of the henna cone cool and delicate against his skin. You start slow, tracing careful, deliberate curves along the back of his hand. Floral shapes bloom beneath your touch—petals, vines, a kind of quiet poetry in motion.

“This is kinda… nice,” he mutters after a while. voice softer than usual. It’s not sarcastic, not biting. It’s… contemplative. “Me. You. The plant smell.”

“It’s rose oil,” you say, flicking his wrist.

You risk a glance at him, and your breath catches a little. The late afternoon light casts his features in gold, warming the sharp angles of his jaw. There’s a kind of softness there, carved out between the guarded lines of his face. His gaze is on the henna. Curious. Focused. Gentle.