Roommates

Part 14**

Thirty-thousand feet over somewhere in the Midwest, Shawn peered out from his yellow-tinted goggles to make sure you were still there. As predicted, he huffed a sigh of relief at the sight of you curled up in your seat, knees tucked into your chest as a matted mess of soft hair rested atop his shoulder.

You slept soundly, not usually one to relax on planes but something about being nuzzled up against Shawn's side had you out like a light.

He grinned at the sight, gently tugging your left wrist out from the kangaroo pouch of your 'YOUTH' hoodie to toy with your fingers, amazed at the way such a tiny hand could fit so perfectly in his massive one.

His thumb danced across your knuckles, the back of your hand satin smooth beneath his calloused fingertip. He rubbed a few circles on your ring finger, smiling softly to himself as he imagined the day he'd finally be able to adorn it with a ring. Not yet, but eventually. He knew.

And that's why he'd already texted Andrew before takeoff, letting him know the cat was about to come out of the bag. And though it wouldn't be pretty, it was something beautiful. For Shawn, anyway.

Carefully, Shawn fished his phone out from his left pocket as he cradled your left hand in his right, fumbling with the flash option before snapping a picture. He swiped through the filters, finally landing on a black and white one and adding some black hearts. It was time.

He pressed 'Send To,' then 'Your Story,' and it was done. Word was out.

Shawn Mendes was in love.

____________________

LA was warm. Not like, hot, but a lot fucking warmer than Toronto in February. Your long-sleeved t-shirt dress was perfect for the weather, but it didn't really matter at the moment. Shawn was cooped up in the studio with Scott and Teddy, both lovely as ever and unbothered by having you curled up in a wing chair, dozing off to the sounds of their determined chatter.

Shawn in the studio was a whole other person, and you were in awe. You'd never experienced him so focused and raw, really searching within himself for the right feelings to express. He was being careful not to reveal anything he'd written about you, using this time to throw a last-minute pop single together a few weeks before tour started.

Somewhere between finding the right baseline and doubling the bridge you fell asleep, waking up hours later to a much darker, much emptier music studio.

Scott and Teddy were nowhere to be found, probably gone home, you concluded, considering it was past nine o'clock. Shawn was one to stay late. Especially when he had a deadline.

Your eyes roamed the room, admiring the guitars hanging from the beige walls and the deep red Persian rugs lining the hardwood floor. Seated at the computer desk was a very tense Shawn Mendes, hair messy from the headphones clamped around his skull, t-shirt long-abandoned.

He was staring at some version of Ableton, layers upon layers of sound waves displayed on the busy screen.

Shawn chewed his nail as he struggled to line something up, ready to burst into tears at any second due to how long this tiny little adjustment had been taking him. Combing your tangled waves with your fingers, you rose from your little nook and sauntered over to him quietly, the soft carpet feeling cozy beneath your bare feet.

You could feel the heat radiating from Shawn's frame as you stood behind him, his angry flush coating the expanse of skin you could see. He could feel your presence, too frustrated to peel his eyes from the screen burning holes in his retinas to pay you any mind.

You carefully placed your small hands on his bare shoulders, kneading them the way he did for you every time a paper wasn't flowing the way you'd hoped. He leaned back a bit, pressing his mess of curls into your abdomen without halting his assault on the keyboard. You knew it would take a little more than this.