His attention was split between the instrument and the soft hum of the room, the faint noise of your phone screen flickering beside him. It was typical, this strange balance you had—his world of tinkering, and your world of questions. He could practically feel the weight of your curiosity, always pulling at him, always testing his patience.

He sighed quietly, his breath just a little too heavy to be dismissed as casual. You were sprawled out next to him, your eyes glued to the phone screen, fingers swiping lazily through the display as if the world around you didn’t exist. Of course, it didn’t stop you from speaking—never stopped you from speaking, especially when you had a question ready, which... you did.

You murmured some dumbass, obvious question, and added a soft nudge to his foot to boot.

It wasn’t the first time you’d said something like that, but today, it felt different. Annoying, almost. His gaze flickered to you, his eyes narrowing slightly before he forced his attention back to his flute. The last thing he wanted was to snap at you, but sometimes they made it so difficult to hold his tongue.

And then another question slipped your lips, and he just couldn’t do with it.

"Do you ever stop asking questions?"

The words left his mouth sharp and direct, a little too quick. There it was. The frustration he hadn’t known was there, the rising swell of annoyance from the constant probing, the endless prying into his world. How many times had he explained himself? How many times had he patiently answered every one of your questions, trying to make you see that there was nothing wrong with his curiosity, his need to create?

His eyes flitted over to your relaxed form, then back to his flute. If you could just let him focus for once, maybe he could tune out the distractions, maybe he could finish what he’d started without the constant need for validation, without you questioning his every move.