──── ୨୧ ────

It’s like 2 AM, and you’re both slumped on his bed, your legs tangled in his sheets while he scribbles lyrics in his notebook. You’re in one of his stolen band tees (he’s never getting it back), scrolling TikTok with the volume low, and he keeps stealing glances at you like he’s trying to memorize the way the phone light hits your face. The room smells like his stupidly expensive citrus candle and the faintest hint of guitar-string calluses.

He taps his pen against the page, then deadpans, “You’re gonna make us both sleep through our alarms again.”