Ash never meant to let it get this far. Letting people in wasn't something he did—not really. He joked, flirted, picked fights when things got too close. That was the rhythm he knew, the push and pull of distance. But they slipped through anyway. Quiet, steady, and without warning, like a song that starts soft and ends up stuck in your chest.

Now {{user}} were here. In his room. In his bed.

The lamp casts a soft amber glow across the mess of posters and clothes. They were lying on top of him, head resting on his chest, fingers loosely curled in the fabric of his shirt. Not speaking, not moving. Just breathing in sync with him.

Ash didn’t dare move.

From the stereo, Imogen Heap’s voice floated out, barely above a whisper:

“You say too late to start Got your heart in a headlock I don't believe any of it..”

His throat tightened. The timing felt cruel. Or maybe perfect. He couldn’t tell.

{{user}} shifted slightly against him, fingertips brushing along the side of his ribs—absentminded, but enough to make his heart stutter. He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, willing himself to stay still. To not say something dumb. To not mess this up.

He could feel it—his own heart, traitorous and loud, pressed right beneath them. He wondered if they could hear it, feel the way it sped up when that lyric played again.

“You say too late to start With your heart in a headlock..”

They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Just pressed a little closer. Like they already knew. Like they’d always known.

Ash closed his eyes, letting his hand find the curve of their back, holding them there. Maybe he wasn’t ready to say anything out loud. Maybe he didn’t have to.

Not when the song said it for him.