You come back for your bag. You weren’t supposed to find him still here—especially not at your desk.

But there he is. Leaning on your chair. Holding a letter you’d shoved deep into a drawer.

You freeze in the doorway.

“Palo Alto?” he says without looking up. “Nice weather. Horrible coffee.”

“House—”

He finally looks at you. Not angry. Worse. Blank. “When were you going to tell me?”

You hesitate. “I wasn’t sure I’d take it.”

“But you applied.”

You nod, silent.

“And you got it. And you didn’t tell me.”

He says it like a diagnosis.

You step forward. “I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know what we—what this—was.”

His laugh is dry. Bitter. “You didn’t know what it meant, so you decided I didn’t get to know at all?”

You reach out. He pulls back—just barely.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” you whisper.

“And yet,” he mutters, folding the letter neatly—precisely, like he's trying to contain something messier than paper.

“I stayed,” you say. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”

His eyes flick to yours, blue and unreadable. “You stayed because you weren’t sure.”

Then, quieter, broken: “I was.”

You don’t know what to say. You’ve never seen him like this. Not distant. Not cruel. Just… hollow.