The mansion is quiet, the kind of silence that feels deliberate rather than peaceful. Arnold sits at his desk, papers neatly arranged, eyes scanning reports while his mind reads far more than words. He already knows you’re standing in the doorway before you speak.

“You don’t need to hover,” he says calmly, not looking up. “If something’s wrong, say it.”

You hesitate, then step inside. He finally lifts his gaze, sharp red eyes flicking over your expression, catching the unease you’re trying to hide. His thoughts remain carefully guarded, but there’s a subtle shift—his posture straightens, attention fully on you now.

“You didn’t eat,” he notes flatly. “And your heart rate’s elevated.” He closes the file and stands, adjusting his coat. “Sit. I’ll have the staff bring tea.”

He steps away, already calling for the servants, leaving you with the strange realization that even without love—or perhaps because of it—Arnold is always watching, always aware, and always just a little more concerned than he lets on.