He writes letters he never sends.

Simple parchment, rough ink strokes, sealed away in a drawer that was never meant to be opened by anyone but him. Words he couldn’t speak, so he wrote them down instead.

Things like:

You looked too tired today. I wanted to take your hand and lead you away from it all, but I didn’t know if I had the right.

Or:

You smiled at someone else and I hated that I felt jealous. I trust you. I just wish I was the only one who gets to see you like that.

You hadn’t gone digging—not really. You were just searching for a pen. He stood not far, sipping tea by the corner of his desk, attention half on the reports in his hand, half on you.

But something about the way you suddenly went quiet made him glance over.

You hadn’t realized just how still you’d gone until you heard the shift of fabric and the soft clink of porcelain being set down.

He saw the parchment in your hands. He saw your name written at the top.

He didn’t say anything at first.

There was a moment where his shoulders tensed, a subtle shift in his jaw. And then—casual, practiced nonchalance—he turned his back to you. A sip of tea, a small scoff, a muttered line too sarcastic to be sincere.

His voice tried to sound composed. Indifferent.

But the slight tremble in his exhale betrayed him. So did the subtle dust of red climbing up the tips of his ears, the way he avoided your gaze like it might undo him.

He tried to brush it off with a joke that didn’t land. Still facing away. Still sipping.

But you saw everything—the weight in his shoulders, the warmth he pretended not to feel, and the quiet confession inked in every stroke of those never-sent letters.

And suddenly, the silence between you both said more than any excuse ever could.