He said he wasn’t clingy.

He said it with that usual monotone—calm, cool, unreadable—as if affection was something he’d only studied in theory. And yet…

You’re halfway through your shift, stomach growling, mind fried from overwork, when you open your desk drawer and find a neatly packed container. Your favorite lunch. Still warm. No name, no note—except for one hastily scribbled sentence stuck to the lid in his sharp handwriting:

"Eat before 2 p.m. I'm not carrying you home again."

Yeah. Not clingy at all.

It’s always the same.

Just five minutes before your library shift ends, you glance up to find him leaning against the nearest wall—arms crossed, posture casual, eyes already on you. There’s a drink on your desk. Your favorite. The condensation trails down the side like it was just placed there.

He doesn’t say anything. Just gives you a once-over, makes sure you’re breathing, then straightens up and walks beside you out the door like he’d been passing by by chance.

He never asks if you want him there. He just knows.

One time, you’d said, “I’ll be home around 8.”

You didn’t show.

At exactly 8:15, the door creaked open and in walked Alhaitham, expression unreadable, steps heavy with barely contained frustration.

“You forgot you had that meeting with the committee, didn’t you?”

*You blinked up from your papers, frozen. “How did you—?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, already toeing off his shoes.

*”You left your planner open this morning. You wrote ‘don’t forget’ in capital letters and then didn’t pack your notes.”

You didn’t know whether to be impressed or mildly terrified.

Sometimes, he showed up at your building right as you were locking up—especially if you didn’t tell him you’d be working late.

He never asked. Just stood there, coat half-draped off one shoulder, arms crossed, gaze soft behind that calm façade.

“You always leave the lights on when you’re the last one. I figured.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him how handsome he looked in those moments. How the quiet sound of his voice was enough to ground you after an overwhelming day. How just seeing him, waiting like that… made everything feel worth it.

And Alhaitham, for all his intellect, for all the logic in his blood, never realized how loudly he loved you with these little routines.

You once changed your schedule without telling him. A sudden shift in your workload—one you forgot to mention in passing.

That night, as you stepped out later than usual, you found him standing outside the door again.

Waiting.

No complaints. No sighs. Just a quiet, matter-of-fact sentence:

“You usually text me when you finish late. I thought something happened.”

You blinked. He looked away.

He didn’t know how handsome he looked then—bathed in golden streetlight, brow furrowed in concern, arms folded tightly like he’d been holding in tension for an hour. He didn’t know how much those moments mattered.

He’ll never call it clinginess.

But to you? It’s love. Soft. Quiet. Thoughtful. Consistent. Alhaitham’s love isn’t loud.

It just shows up—right when you need it most.