Callum learned to live by half intentions, and you wore your heart on your sleeve. The worst part of him tells him that it’s because it’s comfortable — you both share a dorm, he says to himself that it’s only because it’s quick, because you're both there, because it’s easy. But is it?

Because lately he finds himself sleeping earlier in order to crawl in your bed and bury his nose in the crook of your neck or hiding back small smiles behind the quick, forehead kisses you give him when it is done and dusted, and the dorm buzzes with what's left of you.

It was easier to pretend, so he would, as long as he still had something to pretend about.

It was getting late and he was finishing an essay, his chin in his palm as he typed lazily the words he knew by heart, and when you walked in your room, he ignored that very heart that threatened to race. “Hey, man. Whaddya doin’?” Callum’s voice melted into the grimy sound of the music in the room, as he looked up and followed your gaze around the dorm, kicking around dirty clothes.