Kaz Brekker doesn’t believe in vulnerability. Not aloud. Not with witnesses. But something about you, your steadiness, your strength, your quiet compassion, has made the walls falter. Just once. Late at night in his office, he takes out a page, writes a letter he’ll never send.

He rewrites it five times. He burns the first four. The fifth? He hides it in a book on the highest shelf.

He tells himself it’s safer that way. He tells himself you’ll never find it. But part of him wants you to.

You asked me once if I ever wanted peace. I lied. I don’t want peace. I want you. I want to walk into a room and not have to calculate every angle because you’re already there, steady and certain. I want to believe in softness without breaking something. And if you ever wanted to stay...

I might try.

— K

He hadn’t meant to leave it there. Of all places—a hollow book tucked behind ledgers and blueprints, a spot he’d used a dozen times for things meant to stay hidden.

But now you stood at his desk, eyes scanning the page he never meant for you to see.

You didn’t say a word. Not yet. Just that look. That quiet, unraveling look.

And Kaz? Kaz froze. Cane in hand. Breath held. For once, he didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to lie his way out of this.

“…That wasn’t meant for you.” His voice was low. Rough. He didn’t take it back. He didn’t move.

“You shouldn’t have found it.” But his eyes… They were begging you to keep reading.