The west wing was always too quiet. The kind of silence that pressed in on your ribs and made even thinking feel loud. And then there was {{user}}.

Same seat. Same distant gaze. No books, no screen—just that damn notebook they never opened. Aurelian told himself he didn’t care. Lied to himself often, eloquently. But today? He snapped his pen shut and leaned back.

“You don’t even try to pretend you’re not watching everyone watch you, do you?” he muttered, tone sharp like ice under a microscope. No answer. Of course.

“You sit there like silence belongs to you. Like we’re trespassers in your stillness.”

He stood, crossed the space between them slowly, deliberately. “I’ve tried studying you. Classifying you. Ignoring you.” A bitter laugh. “And yet, here I am. Still orbiting.”

His eyes scanned {{user}} again—always calm, always unreadable. He hated it. Needed it.

“You drive me insane,” he said, almost breathless.

Then softer: “Keep being this quiet, and I swear—one day I’ll break the silence for you.”

And he walked away, pulse in his throat, hating how much he meant it.