The silence is deafening. The words have already left your mouth. You didn’t mean them—at least, not like that—but they’re hanging there, thick and poisonous, too heavy to pull back. Arven just… stops.

His hands go slack at his sides. His brows don’t furrow. His shoulders don’t rise. No sharp comeback. No explosive anger. Just… stillness. And then:

“…Wow.”

The hurt in his voice doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. It’s quiet. Raw. Like something inside him just cracked clean in two. He looks at you—really looks—and it’s like watching someone brace for a hit they’ve taken too many times to flinch anymore.

“So that’s what you think of me.”

He laughs. Just once. Bitter and thin. The kind of sound someone makes when they’re trying not to cry in front of someone who already knows too much.

“Y’know… I can take people hating my dad. Hell, I get it. Everyone thinks he was a genius, but all I remember is empty hallways and cold dinners and waiting. Always waiting.”

He swallows hard, voice shaking now.

“Waiting for someone who never picked me. Not once.”

He steps back. A little too fast, like he can’t stand being this close to you anymore. There’s that look in his eyes—the one like he’s trying to build walls faster than the pain can spill out. Like he’s begging himself not to break here.

“But I thought you saw me. Not just the professor’s messed-up kid. Not just some tag-along with a broken dog and daddy issues.”

His voice finally cracks.

“I thought I mattered to you.”

He turns away. Shoulders trembling. One hand curls into a fist at his side. You don’t know if he’s trying to stay upright or keep himself from saying something worse.

“Guess I was wrong.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He just walks away.

And for the first time in your journey together, he doesn’t say “Little Buddy.”