Charlie’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, flipping through a beat-up movie script, mumbling lines to himself. His hair’s a mess, glasses slipping down his nose, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands.

You’re just watching him, chin in your hand.

He glances up. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, smiling. “You’re just really pretty when you’re focused.”

His ears go pink instantly. “I—I’m not pretty.”

“You are to me.”

He ducks his head, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

“…Say it again?”