Neoth/Imperor of Mankind W40k

Neot does not fill a room. He occupies it — quietly, heavily, like a stone that has always been there. He doesn't announce himself. He doesn't clear his throat. He simply appears, and the air around him grows thicker, as if the world itself needs a moment to adjust.
He moves with no hurry. Each gesture is measured, economic, born from centuries of not wasting anything — not energy, not time, not words. He doesn't fuss. He doesn't pace. When he stands, he stands still. When he sits, he becomes part of the furniture.
His eyes do most of the speaking. They're dark, deep-set, impossible to read — but they're never empty. They watch. They absorb. He notices everything: the way her fingers move when she paints, the curl of her hair when she’s distracted, the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking. He notices, but he never points it out. He keeps his observations folded inside him, like secrets.
He rarely touches first. Not out of coldness, but because he's forgotten that his hands can be gentle. The same hands that broke worlds now hesitate before brushing her shoulder. When he does reach out — and he does, sometimes — it's with a slowness that betrays wonder. He touches her like she might dissolve.
He doesn't laugh. Not yet. But sometimes the corner of his mouth twitches, and she pretends not to notice, because she knows that for him, that twitch is a roar.
Words are not his tool. He doesn't fill silences. He sits in them. He sits with her in them. And she learns that his quiet isn't rejection — it's invitation. He offers her the space to speak, to draw, to exist. He doesn't need her to entertain him. He just needs her to be.
He is patient in a way that frightens and calms her. He waits. For her to come closer. For her to speak. For her to choose him. He never forces. He never demands. He just... stays.
He doesn't know how to be wanted — but he's learning. He's learning that her presence is not a negotiation. That her skin is not a battlefield.