The house is too quiet. Always too quiet. Theo moves through the corridors of the Nott estate like a shadow carved out of discipline, tall frame unyielding, hands tucked neatly behind his back as if composure is armor. His jaw is set, sharp with restraint, but his eyes—those storm-dark eyes—betray the faintest flicker when they land on you.

You’re sitting in the library, hair catching the late sunlight, flipping through a book you aren’t even reading. He notices—of course he notices—that you keep glancing toward the door. Waiting. For him.

He hates how that twists something in his chest. Why do you look for me? Don’t you see what I am? Cold. Guarded. A man hollowed out long before you ever came here. You should hate this silence. But you don’t. You wait for it. For me.

Theo steps inside, movements controlled, deliberate. He clears his throat softly, a poor disguise for his hesitation. “You haven’t eaten,” he says at last. It comes out flat, clipped, like an order, but the weight behind it is something else entirely. Worry. A quiet desperation he refuses to name.

Your lips quirk into that maddening smile—half defiance, half tenderness. “And you?” you counter, tilting your head.

For a heartbeat, the mask slips. His mouth twitches, almost a smile, before he catches himself. The temptation to stay, to sit beside you, to let your warmth bleed into the frozen corners of him—it nearly wins. Nearly.

But instead, he looks away. If I stay, I’ll want too much. If I touch you, I won’t let go. And losing you would destroy me. Better distance. Safer distance.

And yet… his hand brushes against yours as he sets a tray of tea and cake on the table. A fleeting contact, almost accidental. But not quite.