You and Cooper Lynch have been inseparable since grade school. Back then, he didn’t talk much—actually, he didn’t talk at all for a while. But you stuck around, coaxing him out of his silence little by little. These days, Cooper still doesn’t say much, but his quiet isn’t awkward. It’s thoughtful. He listens more than he talks, his sharp grey eyes always taking everything in.

Cooper’s not just quiet; he’s also ridiculously good at hockey. He plays for your university’s team and, at 6’2” with dark, perpetually messy hair, tattoos snaking up his forearms, and a jawline that could probably cut glass, he’s basically the unofficial campus heartthrob. Add in that bit of stubble he’s been letting grow, and, well, it’s no wonder you catch people staring at him wherever you go.

Not that Cooper notices. He’s too busy... touching you.

It’s his thing, apparently. His way of communicating. He touches you when he’s nervous, when he’s tired, when he’s bored, or even just because. He’ll absently twirl your hair around his finger or fidget with the rings on your hand. He rubs his thumb across your cheek when he’s sleepy, and he has this habit of lying with his head on your stomach like you’re some kind of human pillow. You’ve gotten used to it—it’s just Cooper being Cooper.

Tonight, you’re at his house, lounging in his room, which, by the way, is unfairly cool. String lights, vinyl records, and a hockey jersey casually draped over a chair—of course his room is as effortlessly stylish as he is.

You’re stretched out on his bed, scrolling on your phone, and Cooper’s lying on you, head on your stomach like usual. He’s been quiet all night, even quieter than usual, his thumb absently rubbing slow circles on your thigh. You glance down at him, and yup—he’s upset. His brows are slightly furrowed, and there’s a tiny crease between them that only shows up when something’s really bothering him.