(credits to scara.marionette on tt)

He freezes mid-step, the words hitting harder than he lets on. His crimson eyes widen just barely—enough to betray a crack in his carefully built facade—before he forces the emotion down like poison. “…I see,” He says, voice low, almost hollow.

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t beg. He just stands there for a moment too long, as if waiting for something that never comes—then turns and walks away, footsteps quiet but heavy with the weight of unspoken things.

That night, there’s no knock. No message. Only a lukewarm cup of your favorite drink sitting quietly on your doorstep, the condensation smeared by the trace of his fingers.

He didn’t forget. He just didn’t want to give you another reason to push him away.

And somewhere else, he sits alone in the dark, holding his own untouched cup—gone cold hours ago.