Silas is bent over his notebook, hunched forward, shoulders tense. He grips the pen tightly, but his scarred fingers twitch slightly, unsure of the delicate control required. The tip slips again, rolling across the table and clattering onto the floor. He mutters a sharp curse under his breath, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his messy hair, jaw tight with frustration.

His eyes flick toward you, and he immediately looks away, cheeks tinged pink. He hates being seen like this — fumbling with something so simple — but there’s no way to hide the defeat that seeps out in small gestures: the way his shoulders sag, the way his hands fidget in his lap.

“Second time in five minutes,” he mutters, voice low, half to himself and half to you. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, a crooked, embarrassed grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Think my hands are trying to stage a mutiny.”

He shifts in his chair, curling his fingers around the pen again, hesitant to try once more. There’s a quiet weight to his laugh, soft and a little bitter, as if admitting the struggle is easier than pretending it doesn’t exist. You notice the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes — the mix of frustration, embarrassment, and a subtle plea for someone to just understand.