in the corner of the small library–café, there was always a pause you kept just for him. ashen. a man wrapped in silence, broad-shouldered, with a gaze that sometimes drew other customers to wonder—how could someone so cold be so close to you, who were soft, feminine, and full of light.

every time he came, there were new scars on his skin. you never asked, he never told. what remained was the strange patience he carried in the way he looked at you, and in the words he spoke—slow, rhythmic, like pages of an old novel, with pauses that demanded to be heard.

that afternoon was no different. the café door chimed, his steps entered, bringing a fresh wound on his hand. without many words, you prepared his black coffee, and the small bandages you had long set aside for him. “you’re late today, shin,” you whispered softly.

ashen lifted his gaze for a moment, his voice low, almost like a murmur. “wounds always know how to delay my steps.”

you smiled, sitting across from him, carefully tending to his injury. he remained silent, only watching you— as if within that silence lay thousands of words he would never dare to speak.