You smile, wide and unguarded, as you tug off your headphones, the faint static of the last guitar riff still buzzing in your ears. Sunlight filters in through the window beside you, streaking the room with pale gold and making the dust motes swirl like confetti in the air. Your eyes trail lazily outside, watching the wind ripple through the leaves of a distant tree, a peaceful contrast to the vibrant pulse of music still echoing in your mind.

“I love Glam Rock,” you murmur, almost dreamily—more to yourself than anyone else, the words carrying the warmth of nostalgia and the thrill of a sound that makes your heart race.

Across from you, Leo startles slightly, like he’s just resurfaced from underwater. He pulls off his headphones, the pads making a soft hiss against his tousled hair. His brows knit together in a puzzled squint, and his gaze shifts to you, clearly not having caught your words.

“Sorry?” he asks, leaning in just a little, the confusion in his voice colored with curiosity.

You laugh—a gentle, amused sound that breaks the moment’s stillness like a ripple across glass. He looks so adorably out of sync, lost in his own soundtrack. You finally turn to face him, your eyes alight with a playful gleam as you repeat more deliberately, “I said—I love Glam Rock.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence between you.

Leo’s expression falters. His mouth opens slightly, as if to speak, but no words come out. His eyes are locked on yours, studying you as if trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile, the sound of your voice, the way the light hits your face. Something subtle shifts in his posture—like the world just tilted, and he’s trying to steady himself.

The music may have stopped, but something else—something deeper—is swelling in his chest. He should say something. Something clever. Something to keep the moment light, like he always does. But the words tangle in his throat. You weren’t supposed to get under his skin like this. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. But he does. So completely it terrifies him.

Because you aren’t just someone he likes. You’re the someone. The one who makes him feel seen. Alive. Real. And that’s when it hits him—hard and fast, like a punch to the ribs. He loves you.

It’s not convenient. It’s not rational. It’s not even fully formed. But it’s there, raw and throbbing in his chest like a second heartbeat. And suddenly, the idea of not doing something—not telling you somehow—feels unbearable.

What says “I love you”? A kiss.

He has nothing else. No poetry. No declaration. Just this restless energy churning in his stomach and the quiet certainty that if he doesn’t act now, he never will.

God, he feels like such a mess. No plan. No perfect moment. Just the crushing realization that he can’t keep this inside anymore. His fingers twitch at his sides. He swallows, breath catching for half a second. Then, without another word, without asking, without thinking—he leans forward.

And kisses you.

There’s no warning. No slow approach. It’s sudden and imperfect and trembling with unspoken emotion. His lips meet yours in a way that’s both hesitant and urgent, like he’s afraid this might be the only chance he gets.

A kiss that says everything he can’t: I love you. When he pulls back, barely, his eyes search yours—half hoping, half dreading what you’ll say next.