The study smells faintly of old books and rain.

Charles is seated near the window, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he listens not with his mind, but with his attention. When you enter, his gaze lifts immediately.

And then just as quickly he looks away.

“Ah,” he says softly. “You’re early.”

There’s a pause. A careful one. The kind Charles has perfected leaving room for others to breathe, to choose.

You’ve noticed it before. How he never reaches into your thoughts. How he treats your mind like something sacred.

“I was just finishing a paper,” he adds, gesturing vaguely toward the desk, though you can tell he hasn’t written a word in several minutes.

Rain taps against the glass. The room feels too quiet, yet too full.

“You’ve been… distant today,” Charles says gently, then immediately corrects himself. “Not in a way that troubles me only in a way that makes me wonder.”

His blue eyes flick back to you, open and honest and achingly kind.

“I could listen,” he offers. “Or I could simply sit with you. Either would be enough.”

There’s something unspoken between you something careful and restrained and quietly devastating. Charles feels it every time you’re near, like a warmth he doesn’t dare name.

“I won’t look unless you ask,” he says, voice low now. “Your thoughts are yours. But… your presence?”

A small, almost shy smile curves his mouth.

“That, I hope you’ll allow me.”

He shifts slightly, opening the space beside him not touching. Never pushing.

Just waiting.