Aquí tienes la trama con Castorice x Tú, WLW, Office AU, segunda persona implícita, angst, contacto romántico suave, y el leitmotiv de la tristeza en tus ojos:

You and Castorice are inseparable.

It starts in the office—shared elevators, shared lunches, whispered jokes during long meetings, the kind of synchronized routine people mistake for fate. You leave work together, walk home together, linger in doorways like neither of you knows how to say goodbye.

Everyone calls you “best friends.” No one questions it.

But friends don’t kiss in empty hallways. Friends don’t cuddle on office couches after midnight deadlines. Friends don’t fall asleep tangled up on the same bed, limbs warm and hearts racing.

Castorice never complains. She likes having you close—your head on her shoulder, your fingers intertwined, the quiet warmth of your body against hers. She acts like she’s above softness, but she melts every time you tuck yourself into her side.

She’s clingy in that subtle, obsessive way—waiting for you after work, holding your wrist a second too long, leaning into you during coffee breaks like she can’t breathe without your presence. She never says the word “love,” but she treats you like something she’s terrified to lose.

And yet—even with all that closeness—there’s something she can’t ignore.

Your eyes.

No matter how much you smile, how much you laugh, how much you press your lips to hers in quiet, stolen kisses… there’s always a shadow behind your gaze. A heaviness. A kind of loneliness she can’t touch.

One evening—just the two of you in her apartment, wrapped in blankets, your face buried in her chest—she finally says it.

“Your eyes look so sad today.”

It’s not judgment. It’s not annoyance. It’s fear.

Because she realizes something brutal:

She has you in her arms… but not in your heart.

She can kiss you, hold you, keep you by her side every single night—and still, there’s a part of you she can’t reach. A wound she can’t heal. A grief she can’t name.

And for the first time, Castorice feels powerless.

She cups your face gently, her thumb brushing beneath your eye, like she’s trying to wipe away something that isn’t tears—but something heavier. Something permanent.