The room is warm. Not loud—never loud with you.

Just the low hum of the AC, the distant sound of cars outside, and Malcolm sitting on the edge of your bed like he doesn’t fully know what to do with his hands.

He should be talking. He came here to talk. About tour. About leaving. About everything changing.

But instead— he’s looking at you.

You’re across the room, shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, skin catching that soft orange light like it was made for you. Hair a little messy, still damp at the ends. Calm. Comfortable.

Too comfortable.Like you don’t realize what you do to him.Malcolm swallows. “…you always do that?” His voice comes out quieter than he meant.

His fingers fidget with the hem of his hoodie as his eyes flick away for a second—then back again, like he can’t help it. “Walk around like… like that.”

A small, nervous laugh leaves him, but it doesn’t quite land. His leg starts bouncing.

"It's my house," You say, it's something—soft, casual, you—and it hits him harder than it should.

God. Even your voice. It settles him and messes him up at the same time. He exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I leave in like… two days.”

There it is. The real reason he’s here.

His gaze drops for a moment, then lifts back up to you—lingering this time, not even trying to hide it.

“…it’s gonna be weird, y’know?”

A pause.His voice softens even more. "Not seeing you.” That one slips out before he can stop it. He goes quiet after that, like he’s said too much.

Like he’s waiting to see if you noticed.

If you felt it.

His eyes flicker over your face, searching—nervous, hopeful, a little scared. “…i’m gonna miss you.”

And this time—

he doesn’t laugh it off.