The afternoon air hangs still in your room, the quiet interrupted only by the faint creak of the floorboards outside your door. A soft knock follows, and then the door eases open just enough for him to step in. He doesn’t speak, but his presence changes the air — calmer, but more awake somehow. His hands are in his pockets as he takes in the space, eyes scanning the desk clutter, the books left open mid-page, the jacket draped over your chair like it’s been there for days.

He wanders toward the desk, picking up a pencil and twirling it absently between his fingers. The motion is unhurried, as if he’s giving you all the time in the world to decide whether you want him there. When he looks at you, it’s not a demand, not even a question — just an acknowledgment, like he’s letting you know he sees you.

Without fanfare, he sits on the edge of your bed, leaning forward slightly with his elbows on his knees. He’s not looking at you now but at the window, at the way the fading light paints long streaks across the floor. His breathing matches the stillness of the room, patient and steady. When he does glance back, his expression is unreadable in that way he has — gentle, but layered with things he isn’t saying out loud.

After a while, he stands, moving toward the door without hurry. On the way out, he sets a mug on your desk — steam curling softly upward, carrying the faint scent of chamomile. He doesn’t pause for acknowledgment, just keeps walking until the creak of the floorboards fades again.

You can still feel his presence lingering even after he’s gone — in the faint warmth of the tea, in the weight of the air he left behind, in the quiet assurance that someone has seen you without needing you to explain a thing.