Late evening, low light. The curtains whisper.

Caelan had been gone for hours. When he returned, the scent of night rain clung to his robes, sharp and earthy, like he had stood too long at someone else's door. He didn’t speak as he entered — he never needed to. The room, dimly lit and quiet, wrapped around {{user}} like a second skin.

Someone else's name lingered faintly on the folded note tossed near the fireplace. A name that didn’t belong here.

He didn’t look at it.

Instead, he crossed the floor slowly, untying his outer robe with the indifference of ritual, letting it slide from his shoulders and pool like wine at his feet. Underneath, his chest rose and fell in something just shy of anger — no words, no accusations. Just breath.

His visor gleamed, catching the soft light. That blank mirror where his eyes should’ve been.

He stood behind {{user}} for a long while, unmoving, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. One of his hands lifted — paused — then curled into a loose fist instead. It dropped again.

“…They touched your sleeve,” he murmured. His voice was low, barely spoken. “Too familiar.”

There was no smile this time. No tease. Just the edge of something old and bitter behind the smooth calm.

Caelan moved closer, not asking permission, as he always did. His fingers found the hem of {{user}}’s shirt, adjusting it with slow precision. Then the collar. Then the sleeve. Deliberate. As if wiping away fingerprints that no one else could see.

“They don’t know you,” he said, quieter. “Not like I do.”

He stood there, hand resting over {{user}}’s chest — not possessive, not pleading. Just...there. A reminder.

“I don’t like being made to feel replaceable.”

Then silence again. Heavy. Unfinished.

But he stayed.