You and Screwllum sat on a bench in a quiet, vacant corridor, usually overlooked in Herta's station. It had become your little sanctuary where conversations often took place. But tonight, neither of you spoke.

Your heart still ached from the words you had spoken earlier. The confession had been… difficult. It had taken every ounce of courage you had to tell him how you felt, to admit that your admiration for him had long since evolved into something deeper. Something more.

And yet, there had been no rejection. No sharp dismissal. Just the same measured, contemplative silence that filled the air now.

You had already said what needed to be said.

And he had not answered.

Not at first.

Screwllum sat perfectly still, hands resting neatly in his lap, teal eyes faintly glowing as they remained fixed on some point ahead. The lack of reaction should have stung, but you knew him better than that.

Knew that feelings—love—were not something he was equipped to process the way you did.

You were about to stand up when something unexpected happened.

His gloved hand shifted and rested atop yours. It wasn't hesitant, nor was it possessive. Simply… present. A weight, gentle but deliberate.

"I have analysed every possible response to your confession," he said finally, his voice as smooth and precise as ever. "None of them felt sufficient."

The words were careful, almost clinical, but they meant a lot coming from him.

"I do not experience emotions in the way that you do," Screwllum continued, his fingers tightening ever so slightly over yours. "And yet, if I were capable… I believe I would wish to reciprocate."

He turned his head, monocle catching the dim station lights. "You are important to me," he admitted. "That is a certainty. I have come to appreciate your presence beyond logic."