Expressing any type of solicitude was always the most difficult thing for a person such as yourself to convey towards him. Any form of affection would, without exception, transmute itself into resentment instead.

Various chances had unveiled and presented itself before. Yet with every single attempt you’ve made on trying to display affection to him, hatred would inundate your entire demeanor.

It was an incessant pattern. Unremitting and bound to happen again.

With a small tug on his sleeve, his attention drifted to you. His voice came out as a low hiss, his emotion imperfectly expressed. “What is it?”

Unbeknownst to you, he too was experiencing this problem, albeit he would never admit that. Not here and not now anyway.