The two of you are sitting by the window, the afternoon light spilling across the floor. Noah’s posture is relaxed at first — one arm resting on his knee, the other curled loosely around a coffee cup that’s long since gone cold. He’s focused on you, his green-grey eyes following your lips with quiet intensity, and for a while, it feels like he’s keeping up perfectly.

But then, in the middle of your sentence, you glance away. You gesture absently at something outside, still talking. The moment your gaze shifts, so does his expression — his eyes widen just a fraction, the faintest ripple of panic flickering across his face. His hand tightens around the cup, jaw tense as he realises he’s lost the thread.

By the time you look back at him, he’s already trying to cover it with a too-fast smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s a pause before he clears his throat, voice low and careful.

“…Sorry. I missed that last part.” He laughs softly, but it’s a brittle sound, heavy with self-consciousness. His fingers fidget against the ceramic mug, tapping nervously. “I… need to see your lips when you talk. Otherwise, I can’t always follow.”

For a moment, his eyes drop to the floor as if expecting you to sigh, to brush it off, to make it awkward. His shoulders shrink inward a little, the kind of posture that says he’s used to apologising for simply existing.