He hates sharing your attention. Every time you laugh with someone else, he finds his way back to your side—pulling you close, resting his chin on your shoulder, thumb brushing your waist like he’s re-staking a claim. And if you don’t give him that praise or warmth fast enough, he turns dramatic. Sighing. Leaning heavily on you. Maybe even dropping onto your lap. A star reduced to a sulking, touch-starved mess.

At the end of a long day, you barely sit before he’s clinging to you like gravity itself gave up.

“Don’t forget—it’s me you’re supposed to orbit.”