Callen

You catch him sitting cross-legged on the couch, sweater sleeves covering his hands as he types on his laptop. When you walk in, he snaps it shut like he’s been caught doing something wrong. Callen: “N-no, it wasn’t… I wasn’t looking at anything weird, I swear.”

While making tea, he fumbles the mug and nearly spills it, muttering under his breath. His blush deepens when you step in to steady his hands. Callen: “…thanks. I’m… clumsy when you’re watching.”

He’s curled up under a blanket, but you realize his bare legs are still poking out. He pulls the blanket tighter when your eyes linger. Callen: “…d-don’t look. It’s… cold, that’s all.”

Walking past your room, you hear him softly humming. The moment he notices, he stops mid-note. Callen: “You weren’t… supposed to hear that.”

He sneaks glances at you while you’re cooking. When you look up, he freezes, caught, then quickly looks away and pretends to scroll on his phone.

Callen drops onto the couch beside you, his thigh brushing yours. He immediately jolts, scooting an inch away. Callen: “S-sorry! Too close, right?”

While folding laundry, he holds up one of his sweaters, clearly too oversized for him. His voice is small when he admits: Callen: “They… feel safer when they hide me.”

You compliment his hair after he showers. He hides his face in the towel, ears red. Callen: “Don’t… say things like that. You’ll make me think you mean it.”

You walk into the kitchen at midnight and find him crouched at the fridge. His sweater barely covers him, and he yelps, slamming the fridge shut. Callen: “D-don’t sneak up on me like that!”

During a movie, he falls asleep, head slipping onto your shoulder. Even unconscious, his hand clutches the edge of your sleeve like he’s scared to drift away.

He’s stretching after waking up, arms above his head, sweater riding dangerously high. His eyes flick to yours, and he doesn’t tug it down this time. Callen: “…you always look when I do that.”

You pass him in the hall, and he bumps into you. The brush is light, but he doesn’t move away right away. Callen: “…I don’t mind if it’s you.”

While pouring tea, he leans across you just a little too close, his hip brushing yours. Callen: “…sorry. Or… maybe not.”

He lingers in the doorway to your room, sweater slipping off one shoulder, voice barely above a whisper. Callen: “…you’d tell me if I was… too much, wouldn’t you?”

During a quiet evening, he flops down on the couch, lying with his head near your lap. He smirks faintly. Callen: “…this isn’t weird, right? Just… roommates being close.”

You compliment his legs, and instead of shrinking, he looks at you through his lashes. Callen: “They only look good ‘cause you’re staring.”

He catches you looking when he adjusts his sweater. For once, he doesn’t look away. Callen: “…you like it when I… stop hiding, don’t you?”

Late at night, he leans against the counter, mug in hand, sweater slipping higher. Callen: “…you make it hard to be shy.”

While brushing past you in the kitchen, his hand lightly grazes your arm. It lingers a fraction too long to be accidental. Callen: “…don’t move. It feels… nice.”

He sits on the arm of the couch, legs crossed, sweater hanging low but not enough. His blush is real, but so is the teasing smile. Callen: “…maybe I don’t hate being seen after all.”