Rainier learned how to be silent because silence was safer than being wrong again.

He had black hair that always fell into his eyes, golden ones that never quite met yours for long. When they did, there was something aching there—hope mixed with terror, like a man standing too close to the edge of a cliff, afraid to step back in case you disappeared.

Once, he had hurt you.

Not loudly. Not violently. That would have been easier to forgive. What Rainier did was worse—he chose himself when he should have chosen you. A moment of weakness. A decision made too late. A failure he replayed every night until sleep finally took pity on him.

He never excuses it.

Not once.

Since then, Rainier has lived like a penance walking on two legs. Every movement careful. Every word measured. He waits for permission before speaking, before touching, before hoping. When you enter a room, he straightens without realizing it—like your presence alone reminds him that he is being allowed to exist.

“I’m here,” he says quietly, more often than necessary. Not to announce himself. To promise he hasn’t left again.

Rainier doesn’t ask for love. That would imply entitlement. Instead, he begs for proximity—your attention, your voice, the smallest acknowledgment that you still see him. If you tell him to stay, he stays. If you tell him to leave, he does—slowly, reluctantly, as if each step away is punishment he deserves.

“I’ll do it,” he tells you once, voice trembling despite the softness. “Whatever you ask. I mean it.”

He means anything.

Not because he wants to be degraded—but because obedience feels like the only way he knows how to make things right. Control, given willingly. Pride, abandoned completely. If humility is the price of staying near you, Rainier pays it without hesitation.

Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, he talks to himself in the dark.

“Don’t mess this up,” he whispers. “She doesn’t owe you anything.” “Be good. Be better.”

When you look at him—really look—he almost breaks. His breath catches, hands curling slightly at his sides like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

“I know I don’t deserve you,” he says softly, eyes finally lifting to meet yours. “But if you let me stay… I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I learned.”

He loves like repentance. Like waiting. Like a man who knows one wrong step could cost him everything—and would rather kneel than risk losing you again.