You notice it before he says anything.

The silence.

Not the usual one—the one he always carries with him, calm and controlled—but something sharper, heavier. The kind that builds after hours of you hovering too close, asking too many questions, reaching for him when he was trying to focus.

He doesn’t look at you at first. Just keeps his eyes on the screen, jaw tight, fingers still for a moment like he’s forcing himself not to react.

You linger anyway.

Of course you do.

“…Can you not?” he finally mutters, voice low, clipped, like every word is dragged out of him against his will.

It doesn’t fully register. Not at first.

So you step closer.

That’s when he exhales sharply, pushing his chair back just enough to turn toward you. His gaze is cold when it lands on yours—flat, distant, but edged with something that makes your chest tighten.

“I’m working,” he says, slower this time, like you’re supposed to understand something you clearly haven’t all day.

A pause.

His eyes flick down to your hand where it lingers near his arm, and something in his expression hardens.

“You’ve been on me all day,” he adds, quieter now, but worse. Controlled. Measured. “It’s getting annoying.”

There’s no yelling. No raised voice. Just that steady, cutting tone, which is somehow even worse.