Jimmy leans against the side of the tent, brushing sawdust off his jacket, and for once, he isn’t performing or joking. The usual grin is absent, replaced with that quiet, watchful expression he wears when he’s thinking too much.

“You know…” you say softly, without thinking, “you’re beautiful.”

He freezes mid-motion, eyes flicking to you, searching for the punchline, the joke he knows is coming. But there isn’t one.

Jimmy swallows, jaw tight, then just… lets the words sink in. He doesn’t shrug, he doesn’t laugh. He shifts slightly closer, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to feel that way about himself.

“Beautiful, huh?” he murmurs, voice barely above the whisper of the wind through the tents. There’s a softness there, a vulnerability, that he rarely shows. “I… I don’t hear that much.”

You reach out, gently brushing his shoulder, and he leans into the touch. Not joking. Not deflecting. Just… holding onto it.

“Maybe… maybe I could get used to that,” Jimmy admits quietly, eyes downcast but shining with something tender.