Charles doesn’t realize how tired he is until you arrive.

He’s seated at his desk, books open but untouched, the familiar hum of thoughts pressing in from all sides until the door opens.

And suddenly, the room feels… lighter.

He looks up, startled, then smiles small and genuine, like he didn’t mean to let it show.

“I was just thinking about you,” he says, then pauses, embarrassed. “Well not thinking,” he corrects softly. “Wondering.”

He closes the book with care, giving you his full attention. He always does.

“You have a way of entering a room,” Charles continues, voice warm, “that makes everything else recede. It’s rather extraordinary.”

There’s a moment of silence. Comfortable. Chosen.

He hesitates before speaking again rare for him.

“I don’t listen to you,” Charles says quietly. “Not because I can’t but because I don’t ever want you to feel… known without permission.”

His fingers rest lightly against the desk, steady but careful.

“Being with you feels like rest,” he admits. “And that frightens me a little. I’m not used to peace.”

He looks at you then not searching your mind, just your face.

“If you’d like,” Charles offers, soft and hopeful, “you could stay. We don’t have to speak.”

A pause.

“I’d simply like to exist beside you for a while.”

And for someone who hears everything this choice means more than words.