You were only supposed to be colleagues. That’s what you both told yourselves. That’s what the others believed. Two hard-working minds collaborating—nothing more.

But then why were you the only one with a spare key to his office?

Why did breakfast feel incomplete unless you brought him coffee and a pastry? Why did lunch often end with the two of you lingering in his workshop, talking about everything but work, music humming low in the background?

Why, when you messed up a task—minor or major—did he never raise his voice like he did with the others? No sharp scolding, no dismissive tone. Just a long sigh, a muttered “Be more careful next time,” and then silence as he fixed it beside you.

And when you insisted on staying late to finish a project? You tried to keep up, eyes heavy with sleep, but always ended up dozing off in his chair or slumped over his desk. Mortefi never complained. Never nudged you awake with a stern frown.

Instead, he gently covered you with his coat or a folded blanket, arms wrapping around you for a careful lift, placing you on the couch in the corner of his office—his couch. The one no one else dared to touch.

And then, quietly, he’d finish the work himself.

He’d glance at you over his shoulder, curled up peacefully, a rare softness melting the sharp lines of his face.

He worked best alone—always had.

But you weren’t “everyone.” You were the exception he never admitted to.

So when he told you, “Come find me when you need something made. Come find me… when you don’t, too,”
…it wasn’t just an invitation.

It was a confession.