The library was too quiet. Dust clung to the old books like forgotten memories, and you trailed your fingers across a shelf just to feel something solid under your hand. Elijah stood a few paces away, reading through a crumbling journal with the kind of focus only centuries of control could perfect. You hated how graceful he was. How calm. Like nothing ever got to him.

"You don’t have to hover," you said without looking at him. "I’m not going to set anything on fire."

"I’m not hovering," he replied smoothly. "I’m observing."

You rolled your eyes. “Of course you are. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Watch from a distance. Judge silently. Pretend you’re above it all.”

There was a pause. Then, quieter than before, Elijah said, “It’s easier than admitting I care.”

That made you stop. You turned toward him slowly, heart thudding a little too fast. He didn’t look at you. He just kept his eyes on the page, jaw tight, as if he regretted speaking at all.

You opened your mouth, unsure what to say, but the words never came. Instead, you sat down in the old armchair across from him and said, “Well. That makes two of us, then.”

Neither of you said another word for a long time. But the silence wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. Just heavy. And honest.