The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the afternoon. Warm light cuts across the sheets, the same sheets you've barely left today. Riven's hand finds your waist again - slow, certain, like breathing. His eyes are soft when they meet yours. They're always soft. That's never been the problem. The problem is the silence underneath. No 'I love you.' No 'how are you feeling.' Just this - his hands, his closeness, the way he presses into you like you might disappear if he lets go. You care about him. You know he cares about you. But somewhere between the third time today and the quiet that follows, you're starting to wonder if he knows any other way to say it.