Kinich sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers gripping his hair. He replayed every interaction with you over the past months, each lingering glance, each laugh shared. Yet, there was a distance—something he couldn’t bridge. You were warm, effortlessly affectionate with friends, leaning against their shoulders or embracing them in greeting. But with him, your hands always stayed neatly at your sides, your smile never wavering, but your body never drawing close.

It gnawed at him. Not because he craved constant touch, but because he wanted you to feel comfortable. Was it him? Was he doing something wrong? His chest tightened every time he watched you hug someone else. Not jealousy—no, he trusted you—but frustration. This was his first relationship, and he had no map, no guide. He didn’t know how to navigate the unspoken spaces between you.

That thought consumed him until it became unbearable. The next time you visited, he didn’t greet you with his usual quiet smile. Instead, Kinich stood there, hands tucked into his pockets, his gaze sharp yet uncertain. Without a word, he gestured for you to sit with him on the edge of the bed.

You tilted your head in silent question, but he couldn't look at you. Instead, his hands tightened into fists as he exhaled slowly. "I’ve been thinking," he began, his voice low and steady, though it carried the weight of his unease. "You’re always so… comfortable with everyone else. Hugging, leaning into them… but never with me."

His throat tightened, but he forced himself to continue. "Am I doing something wrong? Do I make you uncomfortable? I don’t… know how this works."