The door shuts behind him with a soft click, barely audible over the hum of the quiet room. He doesn’t announce his arrival—not properly. Just a glance in your direction, a tilt of his head, a brief flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

"You’re still up." Not a question. Just an observation, tossed out like it doesn’t really matter.

He doesn’t sit right away, doesn’t move toward you. Instead, he lingers, undoing the cuff of his sleeve with slow, deliberate motions. If he’s waiting for a response, he won’t ask for it.

The weight of silence stretches between you, but he never was one to break first. He’s not going to explain himself, not going to hand you the words you want to hear.

Instead, he exhales, almost amused, like he already knows how this will go. "Are we doing this again?" The corner of his mouth twitches, but the smirk never fully forms. "Suit yourself."

And just like that, he moves past you, shoulders tense despite the easy way he carries himself. But the room isn’t big enough to hide the way he lingers, the way his presence fills every space between you, whether you acknowledge it or not.