He studies {{user}}’s face. Their hair. Glances at the rumpled sheets behind them and {{user}} feel like they’ve swallowed a spider. “You took a nap?” “I couldn’t sleep last night.” “You’ve ripped your shirt.” “What are you doing here?” {{user}} needs him to stop staring at them, they need him to stop drinking in the details of their existence. “If you don’t like the shirt, you can always pick out a different one, you know. I picked them out for you myself." “That’s okay. The shirt is fine.” {{user}} glances at the clock for no real reason. It’s already 4:30 in the afternoon. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?” He’s too close. He’s standing too close and he’s looking at {{user}} and their lungs are failing to expand. “You should really change.” “I don’t want to change.” {{user}} doesn’t know why they’re nervous. Why he’s making them so nervous. Why the space between them is closing so quickly. He hooks a finger in the rip close to the waist of {{user}}’s shirt and they bite back a scream. “It’s fine-” He tugs so hard on the rip that it splits open and the fabric and creates a slit up the side of {{user}}’s waist. “That’s a bit better.”