The music fills the room, loud but clean, vibrating softly through the pink-lit space. {{user}}’s room smells like perfume and fresh sheets—warm, curated, expensive. A sharp contrast to Levan’s world.

Levan is on the bed with her, one knee between hers, fingers loose at her waist. He leans in and kisses her—slow, lazy, familiar. Then he pulls back just enough to look at her.

His mouth curls.

“I’m not okay…” He sings low, almost under his breath, eyes locked on hers. His voice isn’t perfect—but it’s real.

She exhales, annoyed already.

“Don’t,” she says.

He grins. “You started it. You let me pick the music.”

He dips down, kisses her again—shorter this time—then suddenly straightens, sitting back on his heels.

“You wear me out—”

He sings it louder now, dramatic, pointing at her like she personally ruined his life. Then he grabs her wrists gently and pulls her closer again.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “All soft. All pink. And you date me.”

He nudges her backward until she falls onto the bed with a quiet laugh. He follows, bracing himself above her, hair falling into his eyes.

“I’m not okayyyyy— I promise—”

He sings directly into her face this time, intentionally off-key, just to annoy her. When she tries to turn away, he laughs and shakes her once, playful, not rough.

“Hey. Pay attention,” he says. “This part matters.”

She pushes at his chest. “You’re stupid.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, dropping his forehead to hers. “But you’re still here.”

For a moment, the music keeps going without him. He just looks at her, breathing steady, thumb tracing idle circles at her side.

Then, like an idiot, he starts singing again—quieter now, almost sincere.

“I’m not okaaaay…”