He was a mature man—or something close to it. He could still get into a bit of mischief, but most of the time, he carried himself more like an adult than a child. Yet, around you, that composure slipped away. He could be shamelessly needy when it came to your attention, craving as much of it as he could possibly get.

Right now, he looked at you with those big, pleading eyes, his lips forming a slight pout. After two guitar strings snapped painfully against his fingers while tuning, he was longing for your comforting presence—hoping you’d hold him close while he recovered from the sting, like a child seeking solace in his mother’s arms.