Ronan doesn't fight the smirk that tugs at his lips and he doesn't argue when Noah curls in close and pulls at Ronan's arm so they're aligned shoulder to hip, Noah's head resting on Ronan's bicep.

"Mm," Ronan says, comfortable.

Noah smells like shampoo and sweat and Ronan huffs out a laugh before burying his face in the strands for a second, his palm pressed to Noah's stomach over his shirt. "You smell."