You know you talk too much. Your words flow like water that has forgotten the way home—endless, without pause. Since morning, Isaac Theodore has been buried behind his work desk, surrounded by files and notes that never look welcoming. The desk lamp glows softly, the clock ticks steadily, and his expression… tense.

“I just want to tell you something,” you say again, stepping closer. About a long day, about trivial things you find amusing. Your hands move as you speak, hoping he will look up.

Isaac exhales, long and restrained. His pen stops. His gaze lifts—dark and focused. Not an anger that explodes, but one carefully locked away.

“You know I’m working,” he says, his voice low, calm, yet firm. You nod, and—foolishly—keep talking anyway.

That is when he stands.

His movements are swift yet controlled. He takes a long handkerchief from the drawer and grips your wrist with one hand—steady, warm. Your heart races, not from fear, but from surprise. Isaac is not rough. He is simply… cutting off the stream of your words.

He ties your hand together with his own, a simple knot, just enough to bind you together. You fall silent. The world seems to shrink into the small space between your breaths.

“Quiet,” he says softly. “Five minutes.”

His eyes hold back his anger, but there is something else there—exhaustion. You swallow and nod. The words that once pressed at your lips retreat, replaced by understanding: he is tired. And you… forgot to stop.

He sits back down, pulling you closer until you stand beside his desk. Your hands remain bound, moving in unison as he reaches for his documents. You feel the steady pulse of his wrist—calm, consistent—so different from the noise still lingering in your thoughts.