You sat beside him again, unable to sleep, drawn in by that soft, rhythmic sound of his fountain pen gliding across the page. It was always the same—the way he held it, balanced between those broad, squared fingers of his, the ink bleeding purpose onto paper like he was born to do it. You never understood how he could move both quickly and carefully at once, as if precision and urgency had found a truce in his hands.

The candlelight cast a warm halo on his skin, turning the pallor of his face into something luminous, almost otherworldly. Shadows danced quietly along his jaw, and you watched, drowsy, captivated. Beside him, a mug of coffee still steamed, and you found yourself wondering, not for the first time, when he’d even had the time to make it. He never seemed to move unless it was deliberate.

You didn’t ask. You never really had to. He let you sit beside him without a word, the space between you filled with silence that somehow spoke. His presence had become a lullaby you never outgrew. Watching him work—so relentless, so detached from the need for rest—it was comforting, and a little terrifying. He was tireless in a way you weren’t sure was entirely human. And still, you stayed.

“Tired yet?” he asked, voice roughened by long silence, the edge of weariness softening his tone. His glasses stayed perched on the bridge of his nose, blue eyes fixed on the translation he was piecing together, line by line—another ancient poem, probably Catullus, or Homer. Something timeless, like the moment itself.

And though your eyes burned with sleep, you shook your head, just barely. Not yet. Not when he looked like that.