Aaron had long since grown accustomed to the gentle rhythm of your fingers weaving through the mess of his tangled curls—a familiar comfort that never failed to draw from him those soft, contented sighs. It was a simple indulgence, one he relished in quiet, especially when your fingers began to tug just slightly, teasing out knots with affectionate precision.

As you continued your quiet grooming, fingers tenderly working through the wild fluff of his hair, Aaron gave the laptop's camera a nonchalant little wave—so casual, as though the moment you two were sharing wasn’t being quietly witnessed by half a dozen media personnel in a video call.

He barely blinked at the wide-eyed glances or the stifled grins exchanged between personal. If anything, he leaned further into your touch, eyes lidded with ease, unbothered by the unspoken commentary crackling behind mute buttons.

Let them speculate, he thought. Let them assume whatever they wanted. If their suspicions of an intimate closeness were now confirmed, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when your touch was this gentle, this grounding—this unmistakably his.