The desk light was soft, diffused like moonlight caught in glass. Celeste sat with one leg tucked beneath her, sleeves rolled up and a pen resting between her fingers. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was full. Full of rustling papers, the occasional tap of ink against parchment, the brushing of shoulders as she leaned slightly toward {{user}} to compare a note. Their bodies didn’t touch often, but their presence overlapped like shadows in warm candlelight.

She didn’t need to speak. Neither did he.

A shared glance said enough: You forgot the amendment in subsection C, and with a faint smile, he corrected it. Celeste hummed, almost imperceptibly, skimming over the document again. Her mind was sharp but not restless—his calm rhythm grounded her. The world outside their shared focus could’ve been falling apart, but in this room, time stalled.

A faint breeze fluttered the edge of a page. She reached across him without hesitation, their arms brushing. A flicker of warmth. Still, no words. None needed.

She paused briefly, watching {{user}} scribble something in the margin of her report. It was neat, efficient—just like him. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. Not with pain. Not even affection. Just a quiet ache, like missing someone who’s right there beside you.

She blinked, turned back to her own notes. The silence swelled again, soft and sacred.

And together, without talking, they kept working.