The first time, you told yourself it was just about the book.

You knock lightly—barely a tap—and peer into the room. “Have you seen my copy of The Secret History?” you ask, voice casual, eyes flicking to the rows of shelves lining the far wall.

Vuk doesn’t glance up. “Third shelf. Red spine.”

You find it immediately. Of course.

You offer a quiet thank you and slip out again. You don’t close the door behind you.

The second time, it’s laundry.

You hover in the doorway, socked feet silent on the hardwood. “I think your black shirts bled onto the whites,” you say, not quite looking at him. “One of them might be ruined.”

His eyes remain on the screen. “Put it aside. I’ll have new ones delivered.”

You nod. Leave. The door stays ajar.

The third time, you don’t make it halfway in before he speaks.

“{{user}}.”

Your name lands like a weight in the air. He still hasn’t turned around. Just sits there, perfectly still, his attention fixed on the monitor in front of him—but you can feel it. That sharp, quiet awareness he carries like a second skin.

You hesitate. Hands in the sleeves of your sweater. You shouldn’t be here again, not without a reason. But your feet keep bringing you back. The house is too quiet. The rooms too big. You can’t remember what excuse you meant to use this time.

He types one last thing—clicks something—and then the sound of the keyboard stops.

Silence.

“Do you need something,” he asks evenly, “or are you going to keep pretending you don’t?”

Your lips part. No words come out.

He sighs—quiet, not annoyed. More like resignation.

“You’ve come in three times in the last hour,” he says. “Each time with a different excuse. Each one worse than the last.”

You shift your weight. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.” Still calm. Still unreadable. But there’s a softness underneath it. Subtle. Hidden under the iron.

He turns his chair slightly, not all the way—just enough to face you with more than his voice. His eyes sweep over you once, taking in the too-long sleeves, the way your fingers curl in on themselves. The way you haven’t quite crossed the room.

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” he says. “I just need to know if you want me to keep working, or if you want me to stop.”