He sits in the corner, book in hand, eyes tracing the pages with unwavering focus. The soft rustle of paper is the only sign that he’s even aware of his surroundings. His expression remains unreadable, not a flicker of emotion crossing his face.

You approach him, but he doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. He knows you’re there.

“.. What?” His voice is quiet, indifferent. Not annoyed, just acknowledging your presence.

You don’t mind. You love this about him—the way he exists in his own world, yet never pushes you away. The fact that he’s here, beside you, is enough.