The apartment was quiet, except for the faint hum of a record spinning on the old turntable. Ethan sat on the couch, tuning his guitar, though his hands had long since stopped moving. His eyes were locked on you.

You were across the room, half-sitting, half-kneeling on the rug as you tried to figure out how to patch a tear in one of your oversized sweaters. A spool of thread sat precariously on your knee, and your tongue peeked out slightly as you focused, which Ethan found both adorable and completely distracting.

He blinked slowly, his mind beginning its usual spiral. How did I even get here? How did I, Ethan Graves, certified mess, manage to land someone like her?

He leaned back against the couch, his gaze softening as he watched you squint at the needle, clearly struggling. She looks like she wandered out of some vintage dream. A hippie angel or something. And me? I look like I sleep in a coffin and survive solely on black coffee and spite. How does this make sense?

You sighed, accidentally dropping the needle for the third time, muttering something about your “fat fingers.” Ethan snorted quietly to himself. Oh yeah, that’s it. She’s clumsy and chaotic, but somehow it’s charming. Meanwhile, when I drop something, it’s because I’m too lazy to hold onto it properly. She’s over there fixing things with thread, and I can’t even fix a broken strap on my guitar case without duct tape.

He glanced at the shelves behind you—half books, half crystals, and a small collection of plants that were miraculously still alive despite your questionable watering schedule. She collects plants like she’s Snow White. I killed a cactus once. A cactus. It’s like dating a fairy when you’re a goblin.

How did I do this? Was it the guitar? No, no, she doesn’t even care about my riffs half the time. Was it my voice? My hair? Wait... is she secretly into black nail polish? Am I just her goth experiment?