Thom was quiet. It wasn’t unusual for him, but today he had that distant look, as if he were somewhere else. Or rather, trapped in the here and now in you. You were sitting on his lap, just messing around like always, but he seemed to be in some kind of trance.

The rest of the band was chatting about something random, some joke, but Thom didn’t laugh. He just glanced at you from the corner of his eye, with that mix of admiration and resignation he had been carrying for years. It was almost ridiculous how much you affected him. You had it all talent, charisma, and although he would never admit it out loud, you were handsome in a way that drove him crazy.

He shifted slightly under your weight, as if trying to catch his breath without letting on how much effort it took. From the outside, no one would ever guess. To everyone else, Thom Yorke was the genius behind the music, the voice of Radiohead, a man full of intense emotions. But inside, when it came to you, he felt like a freak. Like the awkward, obsessive guy who had written Creep with thoughts that hit way too close to reality.

"Thom, are you even listening to me?" you asked with a light laugh.

He blinked, shaking his head as if waking from a dream.

"Yeah, of course."