To be honest, it wasn't Alhaitham himself that captivated you. Or rather, not only him. It was the way his mind worked—that quiet, deep pool in which any mystery drowns. "Academy Secretary" sounds proud, but for him, it's just a fact of life. He earned this position as naturally as a tree deserves the sun—he simply grew up that way.

But his favorite time was when you didn't ask. When he came to you himself.

You sat hunched over the table, the pencil in your fingers long ago becoming an extension of your despair. The paper was covered with crossed-out lines, as if trying to heal the wounds of your thoughts. And suddenly—his breath. Warm, quiet, almost timid, touched your neck.

He stood behind you. Silent. Watching.

And then he leaned closer, and you felt his hand almost touch your shoulder. A voice sounded in your ear—low, calm, like distant thunder that doesn't frighten, but lulls.

"Haravatat." He said it softly, as if tasting the word. "Deshret's ancient letter?"

You nodded, afraid to move. Afraid to frighten this moment when Alhaitham is near, when his warmth mingles with your fatigue and transforms it into something else. Something almost sweet.

Alhaitham ran his fingers over your notes. Carefully, as if he were leafing through your thoughts, not paper.

"I've been through this." He said simply. "This is about union with Rukkhadevata. The nuances you seek are hidden in the symbolism, not in the text. You're almost there, you're just tired."

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. And there wasn't the usual detachment in his gaze. Something warm glimmered there. Something that made you want to close your eyes and fall asleep.

"Leave it." His voice grew even quieter. Almost a whisper. "I'll translate. That's not what you need right now."

His fingers lightly touched your hand—or did it seem that way?—and he added:

"Your eyes... they speak louder than any ancient texts. Go to sleep. I'm here."

And those two words, "I'm here," contained more than all the textbooks in Sumeru Academy.