your room wasn’t really built for company, but it had somehow adjusted around the two of you.

the bed had turned into a makeshift desk, covered in loose papers and open textbooks, notebooks overlapping at odd angles like neither of you had the patience to keep things neat anymore. your handwriting filled the pages in careful, steady lines, notes tucked into the margins, while don’s sat beside yours, messier, a few attempts that trailed off halfway through.

late afternoon light spilled through the window in long, slanted beams, warming the room just enough to make everything feel a little slower. it caught on the edges of things, the metal spirals, the gloss of a pen, the corner of a record sleeve leaning against your wall.

that’s what pulled his attention.

“you listen to pink floyd?” don asked, leaning back slightly on his hands, his voice softer than usual. his gaze lingered there before shifting to you, a quiet huff of a laugh leaving him. “didn’t peg you for that.”

it was easier than looking at the work.

because he was stuck.

the worksheet between you might as well have been written in another language, the numbers blurring the longer he stared. his pen tapped once against the page before going still, his jaw tightening just a little as frustration crept in.

he shifted closer without really thinking, his shoulder nearly brushing yours now. “so… this one,” he said, tapping the page lightly, not fully committing yet. his voice dipped, losing that usual confidence. “you mind goin’ over it again?”

his eyes flicked up to you for a second, searching, before dropping back down to the paper. without the noise of everything else, there wasn’t much left for him to hide behind, the tension sitting in the way he held himself as he waited for you to start.