Flins was never truly quiet in the sense of being withdrawn—he simply chose his words carefully, a man who preferred silence over filling the air with noise. Mysterious, yes, but never cold. In fact, there was a refinement to him, a gentleness that had struck you from the very first moment you met.

You still remembered it vividly—that night he saved you. He had offered his hand after ensuring the danger had passed, his bow precise and deliberate, like something from a storybook. A bow? It had caught you off guard. Men rarely did such things anymore, and yet he had done it without hesitation, his tone calm, respectful, every word threaded with courtesy. And then, with surprising boldness, he asked to escort you home, his hand extended again, awaiting your choice. That was the first time you realized he wasn’t just mysterious—he was a gentleman, through and through.

Now, seeing him wounded, that memory felt distant yet painfully sharp. Who would’ve thought that single meeting would bring you here—at his side, worry curling tight in your chest? His quiet strength was undeniable, but tonight the blood at his sleeve and the faint tremor in his hand reminded you he was not invincible.

“Flins…” you murmured, reaching for him. He blinked, his usual composure faltering for a fraction of a second when he saw the worry in your eyes. You pressed a cloth against his wound, your hands trembling more than his did.

For a while, he said nothing. Then, with that soft, steady voice you’d grown to crave, he spoke: “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to cause you worry.”

The way he said it—like your concern was an honor he didn’t quite know how to accept—made your chest ache. You looked at him, and for the first time, you noticed how his silence wasn’t emptiness at all. He wasn’t a man of few words—he was a man saving them for the right people, the right moments.

And somehow, you had become one of those people.