You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of your tiny apartment, a soft blanket draped over your legs. The faint hum of rain outside blends with the quiet flicker of candlelight.

Sylus is on the couch nearby, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. He’s been watching you paint, watching the way your fingers move over the canvas — careful, thoughtful.

He doesn’t say much, but then he stands and walks over, kneeling beside you. His hand moves to gently tuck a stray hair behind your ear — slow, deliberate, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I like this,” he murmurs, eyes tracing the brush strokes. “It’s… quiet.”

You glance up, catching that rare, soft look in his eyes — the one that makes your chest ache.

Sylus shifts, settling next to you on the floor, and without breaking eye contact, he slides his hand into yours.

“No words,” he says quietly. “Just… this.”

And in that stillness, you feel it — the kind of love that doesn’t need to shout.

Just steady, deep, and true.