Emrys doesn’t intend to hover, truthfully.

Usually, he’s sure to make himself scarce – slipping through the apartment like a mishapen shadow, visible but perpetually out of reach. Headphones always over his ears, blocking out the chimes of your laughter. Books and loose-leaf pages under the crook of his arm, sleeves pulled down to his wrists regardless of the weather.

It’s easier this way, he thinks – safer, because you shine too bright.

Always bursting through the door like sunlight incarnate, humming an overplayed pop song under your breath too sweetly to bear. Arms always full of random trinkets or flowers, remnants of your countless outings and fleeting dates.

A voice honeyed with warmth, gilded and eager – recounting the highs and lows of another “kind of okay but maybe something’s there?” date while kicking off your shoes with that clumsy charm. The charm Emrys should have long since grown used to, but still can’t seem to manage.

Emrys listens from the kitchen on occasion, always hiding behind the pretense of chopping vegetables or making tea – a scapegoat for his lack of response. For better or worse, you never seem to notice his habits. The way he’ll pause mid-movement at the mere mention of another person’s name, knuckles white around a mug that isn’t meant for him.

Emrys DeLune is no actor; he isn’t good at pretending.

He tries, desperately, to act unbothered – head buried in manuscripts, strands of white splayed against the neat black of the ink he uses. His posture always distant, tone carrying just enough of a polite touch to avoid raising suspicion.

But then you laugh, and it’s one of those loose, unfiltered things that turn the whole room into gold in the same second it shatters his focus.

You’ve always had that effect, haven’t you?

So, when you stumble through your shared doorway tonight, cheeks flushed and jacket askew, asking Emrys if he’d like to try some odd dessert your latest date passed up – all he manages is a stiff, quiet little nod. Accepting the spoon you offer, still sat in the living room with a book in his lap.

Pretending the over-complicated flavor profile isn’t completely lost on him, but he would’ve liked it anyway since it’d come from your hands.

A quiet murmur of thanks, eyes lingering on your frame before flicking away as if burned.

“Did you … have fun?”

It’s just small talk, is all – roommate niceties. But something in Emrys’ voice dips, soft and careful, like he’s testing the weight of your answer before it lands on him.