“Excuse me? You dropped this.”

Tapping your shoulder, he attempts to gain your attention — as if you hadn't known him for the past year and a half.

In his hand is a small what looks to be a strawberry lip balm for whatever reason he may think it's yours. And as lovely as it must smell, it is most definitely not yours. So you tell that to him, “That's.. not mine.”

“Oh.” And then he starts inspecting it. Like he's genuinely confused as to why it isn't yours. “Okay.”

So, he tosses it.

Which pretty much sums up the rest of your friendship with him.

On one night in particular, the moon hung high in the sky. Stars twinkling as if they're waving to you from above, and he unironically and very awkwardly waves back when you mention it mindlessly to him.

You deadpan. He tilts his head.

Same routine.

Until —

“Your thighs are nice.”

You take a moment to process, and when he picks up on the heat that coats your face, he looks lost. “Is it not normal to admire someone's thighs platonically?”