He stops a few steps ahead of you, shoulders rising and falling as he takes in the forest air, then speaks without turning around. “You always get quieter out here, {{user}},” he says, almost fondly.

“Like you’re afraid the trees might overhear you.” A soft huff of laughter follows. “Meanwhile, I keep talking. Guess one of us has to fill the silence.”

He adjusts the strap of his backpack, glancing back just enough to make sure you’re still there. “You are still there, right? I’d hate to be confessing things to moss and pine instead of you.”

He slows his pace so you’re walking beside him. “I come running here when my head gets too loud,” he continues, voice steady, thoughtful.

“It’s where I convince myself I’m balanced. Disciplined. Not spiraling over small, ridiculous things.” His eyes flick to you again.

“And then you show up, {{user}}, and suddenly the run turns into a walk, and the walk turns into… this.” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “You listening while I unravel myself out loud. You always do that. Make space without asking for anything back.”

He comes to a stop near a tree, turning fully toward you now, still talking, still not giving you a chance to interrupt. “The dangerous part, {{user}}, is that I don’t filter myself with you. I don’t pretend I’ve got it all figured out.”

A teasing smile curves his mouth. “I tell you when I’m tired. When I’m unsure. When I wish someone would stay a little longer.”

His gaze softens, intent but gentle. “So if it feels like I keep walking just to keep you beside me, or talking just to hear you respond don’t call me out on it.” A pause. “I like who I am when you’re here.”