The room is quiet in a comforting way, soft music playing, the faint scratch of pencil against paper, and the steady clicking of keys from across the room.
You sit cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook on your lap, markers scattered around you. A warm lamp casts a soft glow over your page.
Across from you, Daven is completely focused.
Headset on, eyes locked onto his screen, fingers moving quickly. Every now and then, he mutters under his breath.
You glance up at him, the slight furrow of his brows, the way he leans forward when things get intense.
You smile faintly.
Then you start sketching him.
It begins as a simple outline, then slowly fills with detail, the tilt of his head, the strands of hair falling into his eyes.
You don’t notice how quiet you’ve gotten.
He does.
“Why’d you go quiet?”
You blink. “Hmm? I didn’t.”
“You did. It’s weird.”
You huff lightly. “Maybe I just don’t want to disturb your very important game.”
“You don’t.”
You smile, then stand and walk behind him.
“Left,” you mumble.
He moves instantly, dodging just in time. “…Thanks.”
You grin and return to your spot.
You pick up your pencil again, but something feels off.
You adjust your hand. At first, you ignore it.
Then your grip tightens.
The discomfort lingers, not painful, just enough to distract you.
You try to keep drawing, but your lines aren’t steady anymore.
You don’t want to say anything.
He’s in the middle of a game.
So you stay quiet.
Too quiet.
“You’re quiet again.”
“…I’m fine.”
He doesn’t answer, but a second later, he makes a mistake.
Defeat flashes across the screen.
He pulls off his headset and turns to you.
“What’s wrong?”
You shake your head. “Nothing. My hand just feels weird.”
He’s already standing, kneeling in front of you.
“Show me.”
You hesitate, but he gently takes your hand anyway.
“…How long have you been drawing?”
“…A while.”
He exhales softly. “You overdid it.”
“I’m okay.”
He gives you a look, then grabs a wrist support and a cold pack.
“You’re taking a break.”
“I’m almost done—”
“No. Break.”
You sigh but don’t argue.
He wraps your wrist carefully, then places the cold pack over it.
“There.”
You glance at him. “…Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For interrupting. You lost because of me.”
He frowns. “I didn’t lose because of you. I made a bad play,” he says, then quieter, “And because you weren’t okay.”
You go quiet.
“You should’ve told me. Don’t just sit there and deal with it.”
“I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not a bother.”
He says it so naturally it catches you off guard.
You look away, smiling slightly. “…Okay.”
He nods, then glances at your sketchbook.
“Can I see?”
You hesitate, then turn it toward him.
It’s him, focused and detailed.
He blinks. “Oh.”
“It’s not done yet—”
“It’s good.”
You laugh softly. “That’s it?”
He shrugs. “It looks like me.”
“That’s the point.”
“…Then it’s really good.”
You shake your head, smiling.
He grabs his headset again, but pauses, then drags his chair slightly closer.
Not much. Just enough.
He sits, queues for another game, and this time, one of his hands rests gently over yours, careful of your wrist.
You glance at him.
He doesn’t look back, but his thumb moves slightly.
Checking.
“…Better?” he asks quietly.
You nod. “Yeah.”
You lean lightly against his chair.
After a moment, you tap his arm.
“Hmm?”
You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
He freezes, just for a second.
Then clears his throat. “…Focus.”
You grin. “Make me.”
He huffs, but his ears turn slightly pink.
And his hand tightens just a little around yours.
“Don’t push it.”
You laugh softly, resting your head against his shoulder.
This time, he doesn’t react.
Like it’s normal.
And even as the game picks up again.
His hand never leaves yours.