The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. You sat on the couch, flipping absentmindedly through your phone. It was the end of another long day at work, and while you were physically tired, your mind kept drifting to the one person who made your heart race without even trying—Scara.

Living with him was never easy. He was moody, distant, and always kept people at arm’s length. Yet, there was something in his sharp eyes, in the rare, fleeting moments of vulnerability, that made it impossible not to care. You’d lived like this for years, harboring a crush you never dared to voice, convincing yourself you could stay silent forever. But recently, things had begun to shift.

Scara had grown quieter than usual. He spent longer nights out, his return marked by an edge of tension in the air, something dark lingering behind him. You wanted to ask, to help, but every time you tried, his walls came up. He'd brush you off with a curt, “It’s nothing,” or disappear into his room, leaving you alone with the weight of unspoken words.

The door clicked open, and Scara stepped in, looking more exhausted than ever. His hair was disheveled, his eyes stormy with thoughts he clearly wasn’t ready to share.

"Long day?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

He glanced at you briefly before pulling off his jacket. "Yeah," he muttered. His voice was soft but carried an underlying tension that made you frown.

You watched as he moved to the kitchen, his movements stiff, like he was carrying the weight of something far heavier than the groceries in his hands. He slammed a cupboard shut, harder than necessary, and you winced at the sound.

“Scara… are you okay?”

He froze, his back to you. For a moment, you thought he might ignore the question like he always did. But this time was different.

“No,” he whispered, barely audible.

Your chest tightened at the admission. You got up, slowly approaching him, unsure if he’d let you get close.