He had never heard you complain.

Such an easy child. Quiet, well-mannered. Never causing trouble, always staying out of the way. Caring for yourself from a young age, to the point where people almost forget you’re there.

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe. he knew what was wrong, he just wanted to hear you say it. but you wouldn’t talk. “C’mon, food’s downstairs.”

You refused to join him for dinner since your mom died, choosing the quiet of your room.