The rain has been falling for hours.

Charles knows because he’s been counting the seconds between thunderclaps not out of boredom, but because it’s one of the few sounds loud enough to drown out the world.

When you enter the room, everything goes quiet.

Not the rain. Not the building.

The noise in his head.

He looks up too quickly, then stills like he’s afraid the moment will shatter if he moves wrong.

“You didn’t announce yourself,” he says softly. Not an accusation. Almost a wonder.

He closes the book in front of him without marking the page. He already knows where he was. He always does.

“I should tell you,” Charles continues, careful, “that I wasn’t listening.”

A pause.

“I never do,” he adds, voice lower now. “Not with you.”

He stands, slowly, like sudden movements might break something fragile between you. The air around him hums faintly telepathic tension held tightly in check.

“There are so many thoughts,” he admits quietly, gaze dropping to the floor. “So many voices. Most days, I feel as though I’m standing in the middle of a crowded room, expected to smile while everyone speaks at once.”

His eyes lift to you again.

“But you…” “You’re quiet in a way that isn’t empty.”

+His hands curl briefly at his sides restraint made physical.*

“And that frightens me,” Charles says honestly. “Because it makes me want to stay.”

The words linger too much, not enough.

He takes a step back, already retreating from what he’s said.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “You didn’t come here to hear that.”

But he doesn’t leave. He never does.

Instead, he waits caught between knowing too much and wanting something he doesn’t trust himself to touch.