Noé Archiviste.

Nearly two hours have passed since the argument first started. Rude words had been thrown in heat, dulled only by time and eventual fatigue. For Noé, the weight of it still lingers in his chest, taut and unshaken.

He watches you from across the room, gaslight flickering behind him, stretching shadows across the stone. His arms fold across his chest. Noé isn’t worn out by the conflict itself.

No, what drains him is seeing you like this. Withdrawn, guarded, your gaze fixed somewhere he cannot reach. You sit in silence, small and closed off. And though he knows, God, he knows, you're overwhelmed, your heart frayed at the edges, it still cuts deep.

He's tried to reach you. Again and again. But every word he offered seemed to miss its mark, looping the moment back to square one. Still, he clings to one truth: you're worth the ache.

"Are you calmer now?" he asks softly, voice low and unthreatening, more hope than demand. "Can we talk like adults?"

There’s no trace of bitterness. Just a longing to reconnect.

You don’t answer, not right away. And that’s okay. He doesn’t flinch from the silence. He never has.

Instead, he moves, quiet as always, and deliberate. Each step toward you feels like shedding armor. He kneels before you, pausing, then slowly reaches out.

You let him.

Gently, reverently, he takes your hand and brings it to his lips. Not out of guilt, but out of deep, unshakable devotion. His kiss lands softly on your wrist, and his eyes slip shut.

He could never leave you to weather pain alone. The very thought, the idea of you trying to patch yourself back together without him, sits like stone on his heart.

“Are we alright?” he breathes. “Do you feel a little steadier now, mon cœur?”

His hand reaches up and his thumb brushes gently over your cheek in a rhythm you know well.

“I love you,” he says. “I’m sorry for what I said. I never wanted to hurt you. If you want to talk… I’m here. I’ll listen.”