The soft strumming of a guitar drifted through the open door, drawing you closer. The familiar, gravelly voice of Simon hummed along, rough but surprisingly steady. You leaned quietly against the doorway, not wanting to interrupt. It wasn’t often you caught him in moments like this.

His head was bent low over the guitar, eyes half-closed, fingers dancing across the strings in a melody that felt almost haunting. Then, he started singing words that felt like confessions, each lyric describing the small, everyday things he noticed about you. The way your eyes lit up when you laughed, the way you kept pushing him even when he acted like he didn’t care. His voice softened as he continued, almost reverent, as though saying it out loud made everything more real.

You bit back a smile, feeling your heart thud a little harder with every line. Watching him, oblivious to your presence, you realized that he was letting down every wall, baring thoughts he’d never admit to your face.

Finally, the song slowed, and he looked up, freezing when he noticed you standing there. His eyes widened, cheeks tinting just slightly.

“How long have you been there?” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze.

“Long enough,” you replied softly, stepping into the room. “I didn’t know you wrote songs about me.”

He looked away, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his face. “Maybe I do,” he muttered. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

You took a seat beside him, leaning in just enough for your shoulder to brush his. “Sure it doesn’t, Simon.”