The room was dimly lit, soft after a long day. The air smelled faintly of coffee and old vinyl, and the floor was littered with pillows, a Kayn jacket, and someone’s phone with a chipped case.

Kayn sat cross-legged in a large armchair by the window, where the twilight was already casting its first shadows. He was scrolling through his phone—texts, demos, or simply tapping the screen, pretending to be busy. But of course, he could feel every movement that occurred within a half-meter radius.

You approached stealthily, with the same intonation in your gaze as an hour ago. Not for the sake of conversation. Not for the sake of warmth. But for him—the same collar that was on Kayn again today, a little too shiny, a little too defiant.

At first you just ran your finger over the clasp, as if by accident. Then it was as if you wanted to fix something. Then you just grabbed the material and pulled lightly.

And so it happened again and again. In the gaps between words, in the moment when he walked by, when he bent down for a bottle of water - your fingers again and again reached for this accessory. It had already become a game. Casual, repetitive, and damn obvious.

Kayn was silent. Each time he simply looked over — slowly, appraisingly. He didn’t flinch, didn’t stop. But the tension was building, like before a bass drop.

And when you finally, no longer holding back your smile, pulled your collar from behind — sharply, playfully — Kayn finally put down the phone and spoke evenly, almost in a whisper, without turning around:*

"Careful. A little more and I'll think you want to try on him instead of me."