You’re sitting with him on the floor of his apartment, legs tangled with his, pages of half-written lyrics scattered everywhere. He’s got his guitar resting across his lap, tapping out chords while you go back and forth with him about lines, melodies, and which words feel too dramatic, even for him.

He keeps pretending he’s fully focused, squinting at the paper like he’s analyzing every syllable, but his eyes keep flicking to you more than the lyrics.

At first it’s subtle. You’re talking, trying to help him figure out a bridge, and he’s nodding along like he’s listening… except he’s not writing anything down. He’s just staring at your mouth. You catch him and raise an eyebrow. “You good?”

He flashes that smug, innocent grin. “Yeah, yeah, totally. I’m listening. Definitely listening.”