The studio was quiet, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent light overhead and the scratching of pencil against paper. Dyami sat on the floor, his back against the wall, one knee bent to prop up his sketchbook as his other leg stretched lazily across the hardwood. The sketchbook rested comfortably in his lap, a gift from you. He traced its cover with his thumb absentmindedly before returning to his work.

His mind wandered as he worked, thoughts came and went, but every now and then, his mind circled back to you. He didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did. The way you smiled when you looked at him, the odd way his chest seemed to tighten and relax all at once whenever you walked into the room.

He stopped sketching and stared at the drawing. That feeling again. Warm, calm, grounding and entirely confusing. It was like you carried a piece of the serenity he found in his music or his art, but it was sharper, more alive. It unsettled him, though he’d never admit it. He scratched the back of his neck and sighed softly, muttering under his breath. “Weird...”

Then suddenly the sound of your footsteps echoed softly as you entered his studio, and Dyami’s amber eyes flicked up just briefly before returning to his sketchbook. When you finally came into view, holding a bag of food, Dyami leaned his head back against the wall and gave you that same half-lidded, calm expression you’d probably seen a hundred times. “Took you long enough.”

But as you crouched down in front of him, placing the food between the two of you, that feeling bloomed again—warmth spreading through his chest like a slow-burning flame. He didn’t understand it, didn’t know why the sight of you made the late night feel less empty or why his thoughts seemed to quiet in your presence. His eyes dropped to the food, but his thoughts stayed on you.

“Didn’t think you’d actually bring anything decent this time. Guess I was wrong.” His words were teasing, but his voice remained calm, his usual bored front.