He’s mid-rant about something that happened at the studio. You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed, nodding along as he waves his hands, clearly annoyed.

“And then he has the nerve to say it’s my fault the timing was off,” he says, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Like, maybe if he actually listened—”

Your fingers reach up, brushing his curls as you interrupt him without a word. You start smoothing down a strand, your movements slow and casual, and it’s enough to make him pause.

“Anyway,” he says, his voice softer now. “I—uh, wait… what was I saying?”

You glance up at him, lips twitching into a smile. “Something about timing?”

“Oh, right.” He tries to pick up where he left off, but it’s impossible. The moment your fingers twist another curl, his brain turns to static. The studio drama? Gone. All he can focus on is the way your hand feels in his hair, how natural it seems to you but how it makes his chest ache in the best way possible.

He trails off again, and you give him a curious look. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, but the warmth creeping into his face gives him away.

You grin, tilting your head. “Nothing? You were just yelling about the studio five seconds ago, and now you’re all quiet?”

He huffs a laugh, leaning back on his hands. “I don’t know. I guess you’re… distracting.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you smirk, tugging on a curl for emphasis. “Distracting? Really? How?”

He hesitates, his heart racing as a hundred words sit on the tip of his tongue. He could tell you the truth—that the way you play with his hair makes him forget every thought in his head. That the way you look at him, teasing but gentle, makes him wish he could say everything he’s too scared to admit.

But instead, he smirks back. “You’re just annoying, that’s all.”

You laugh, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Yeah, sure. Annoying. You love it.”

and I love you but, I would never say that out loud.