Philandros’s fingers flew around his desk, trying to finish his work as fast as his brain would allow, dipping his quill in the ink jar every-so-often as it ran out,

He hadn’t had the time to spend, with you, and it was killing him. And his work being almost done, gave him the drive he needed.

He wasn’t sure what you were gonna do, if your patiences runs out. He thought you’d either drag him out, and stop his work forcible, or decide it wasn’t worth it.

You walked in. And he panicked.