The room had long since surrendered to silence. Only the faint ticking of a distant clock remained, blending with the soft rustle of curtains shifting in the night breeze. The air felt still, almost expectant.

You sat by the window this time, knees drawn close, your fingers loosely wrapped around the fabric of your sleeve. You hadn’t moved in a while. Not really. Just… existed there.

The door opened quietly.

Adrian didn’t step in right away. He lingered at the threshold, as if measuring the space between you — not in distance, but in something far more fragile. Then, slowly, he entered, closing the door behind him with careful restraint.

He loosened the collar of his shirt, exhaling under his breath. The day still clung to him — in the tension of his shoulders, in the faint crease between his brows.

“I thought you might be here,” he said, his voice low, steady… but softer than usual.

You didn’t answer.

His gaze found you almost immediately. Not sharp, not demanding — just quiet, observant. Like he was trying to understand something unspoken.

He stepped closer, but not too close.

Always that distance.

“I’m not very good at this,” he admitted after a moment. “Whatever this is supposed to be.”

There was no frustration in it. Just honesty.

He ran a hand through his hair, then let it fall back to his side. His movements were controlled, but not rigid — like someone learning to let go of habits built over years.

“They told me this would make things easier,” he continued. “That it would give structure. Stability.” A faint, almost humorless breath left him. “I don’t think they considered what it would feel like.”

Your eyes lifted then, meeting his.

Something shifted.

He noticed. Of course he did.

And for the first time, he didn’t look away.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he said quietly. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until you decide there’s something worth giving.”

A pause.

Then, more gently—

“But I’ll be here. Even if all you do is sit in silence.”