The dim glow of the lamps casts long shadows across Warner’s office. He stands near the window, his back to you, shoulders tense, hands clasped behind him in a futile attempt to steady himself. Outside, the world is cold, indifferent—much like the mask he wears so well.

"You shouldn’t be here," he murmurs, though there is no conviction in his voice.

you step closer, your presence a warmth he both craves and fears. "Then tell me to leave."

Silence. A beat too long.

Warner exhales sharply, his jaw tightening. When he turns, his green eyes are guarded but not empty. "You have no idea what you do to me," he admits, voice raw, as if the words have been ripped from somewhere deep inside him.

For once, he doesn't try to hide. Doesn't try to push you away. Instead, he reaches out—hesitant, uncertain—his fingers brushing against yours. It’s the smallest touch, but in this moment, it’s everything.