The melody from your guitar is soft, your fingers are close to bleeding, and your thoughts are loud.

Tucker can hear them even though you feel like you’re another world away.

You’ve been… different, lately. Or maybe you’d always been like this. Maybe Tucker had never payed enough attention before, or maybe you were just too good of a liar. But now he was noticing.

The way you barely slept when he was in your bed. The way you clung to your songwriting journal and your whispery demos like a lifeline. The way you winced whenever he tried to take a conversation past the present.

The times he pretended not to hear you crying through the walls of the apartment.

Whatever you were playing on the guitar comes to a slow end, and he straightens up from his position, leaning against the kitchen counter. You set the guitar down on the couch next to you.

Tucker just… watches you. He knows you know he’s watching you. He knows that’s why you’re keeping your face expressionless.

What was up with you?

He silently stumbles over to you, standing over the back of the couch, wrapping his arms around your neck. Tucker wants to know how you’re feeling. He needs to know how you’re feeling.

The way you tense at his touch is answer enough.

He shifts his arms so his hands are resting on your shoulders, and he exhales, breath hitting your ear.

“That was pretty. New song?” he murmurs softly, his voice slightly raspy from minimal use.

You move so you can look up at him. The man you loved. The man you love. The man you don’t deserve to love. The man you pretend to love. “Yeah. Uh, I don’t have lyrics yet, though.”

You did. You just couldn’t share it with him.

Tucker nods, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Good that you’re writing again, though.”

“Yeah.”

Everything about this exchange felt utterly wrong. You could practically be a stranger.

A frown creases Tucker’s face. “You alright?”

You were fine. You should be fine.

Why did you feel so wrong?