It’s not like you two talk much. In fact, he hardly speaks. He puts on records. Lets them play on loop while he works on things he doesn’t explain, locked away in his studio. And you... you’ve learned to read his language through the basslines groaning from his room, the glitches that appear when he’s feeling uneasy, the warm pads that start playing right as you pass by the hallway and he knows you’re there.

Once, you tried to talk to him about something mundane —maybe it was the expired milk, or something like that —and he just nodded with a crooked smile. Said, “I already threw it out.” But he didn’t sound annoyed. Just... resigned to that cryptic way he has of existing.

The strangest thing is, when you’re on the couch reading or just doing nothing, Richard sometimes sits nearby. Doesn’t say a word. Just sits. His fingers tapping out some impossible pattern on the fabric of the sofa, his eyes following you without quite looking.

It’s not overwhelming. It’s not obvious. It’s more like... every one of his presences is written in Morse code.

Like the time he left an unnamed track in your music folder. You opened it and it had your voice, clipped from an old conversation, layered with reverbs and glitches. And at the end... at the end, a slowed-down whisper of yours: “I don’t know why it makes me so nervous to look at you.”

You realized he had been listening. He always listens.

And even if he never says it, you know. He likes you.