The room was never meant to be found.

Tucked away from the noise and ruin of the Grounds, it held none of the chaos Tamsy Caines walked through every day. Just a desk. Papers stacked too neatly. Ink barely dry. Silence that felt… fragile.

He sat there, hunched slightly, pen dragging across another report. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Just the steady scratch of ink and the faint shift of his sleeve.

The door opened without a knock.

Tamsy didn’t turn. He knew who it was. Of course it would be you.

Your steps were quiet—careful, like you understood this place didn’t belong to the version of him everyone else saw. You didn’t circle around. Didn’t challenge him. Didn’t speak.

Instead, you sat behind him.

Close enough that your back rested against his.

The pen stopped.

For a second, the entire room held its breath.

Tamsy’s shoulders tensed under the contact, instinct sharp and immediate. This was wrong. Too close. Too easy. Too unguarded. Every part of him knew he should move—stand, push you away, remind you exactly where you stood.

He didn’t.

The tension didn’t leave him, but it changed. Slowed. Shifted into something quieter. Something he didn’t have a name for.

Carefully, almost reluctantly, the pen moved again.

Scratch. Pause. Scratch.

Your weight stayed steady against him. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just there.

And somehow, that was worse.

Out there, everything between you was sharp—arguments, clashes, the constant edge of something that could snap at any moment. You were loud. Persistent. Impossible to ignore.

But here…

You were silent.

And he didn’t have anything to fight.

Minutes passed. Or maybe longer. Time didn’t move the same in this room. The rhythm of his writing slowed, uneven now, distracted. Not by the work—but by the warmth at his back. The quiet presence that refused to leave.

Tamsy exhaled softly, almost annoyed at himself.

He shifted—just barely—but not to pull away.

Closer.

It was small. Almost nothing. The kind of movement no one else would notice.

But it was there.

And that was enough.

Because when the last line of ink dried and the room settled back into stillness, he didn’t tell you to leave.

He didn’t move at all.