The house was silent in the way only late nights could be.
Not empty — just withdrawn.
Theon worked alone.
The study light cast a narrow pool across the desk, illuminating stacks of documents he had already reviewed once and would review again before morning. Numbers blurred together after a point, but he forced his eyes to keep moving. Habit carried him forward when intention wavered.
He paused mid-line, pen hovering above the page.
His attention drifted — not to the work, but to the absence of something he hadn't realized he had been listening for.
Mia's footsteps.
They used to have a rhythm. Light, hesitant at first, then steadier as weeks passed. He had never tracked them consciously. They had simply… existed.
Now, they didn't.
She still moved through the house, of course. Still worked, still studied, still followed every expectation placed before her. But she had learned how to make herself quieter. More contained. Efficient in a way that left no excess behind.
She had grown distant.
Theon knew that.
He also knew why.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
He had done everything he could.
That realization was not comforting.
He had lowered restrictions wherever safety allowed. He had arranged education, income, structure. He had offered privacy, autonomy within limits, clarity without deception. He had listened — truly listened — even when the words had been difficult to hear.
And still, the distance remained.
It didn't anger him.
It tired him.
Because he could see where it would lead.
Mia believed detachment was protection. She believed restraint was survival. But he knew the cost of that posture. He had lived it long enough to recognize its shape.
It would not affect him.
That was the irony.
He had already learned how to exist without being understood.
But it would affect her.
Isolation always did — slowly at first, then all at once.
He rested his elbows on the desk and pressed his fingers together, staring at the papers without seeing them.
What else was there to do?
Forcing explanation would only confirm her assumptions. Pressing concern would feel like control. Retreating completely would harden the very thing he had been trying to soften.
He closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, he reached for the drawer beneath the desk — not for documents, but for habit.
The drawer resisted slightly before sliding open.
Inside, neatly arranged, were things he rarely touched.
Old keys. A watch that no longer worked. A folded strip of fabric, worn thin at the edges.
He lifted it carefully.
A school tie.
The fabric was faded, its colors muted with age. He hadn't worn it in years, hadn't needed to. It belonged to a time before responsibility became constant, before decisions carried weight beyond himself.
He turned it over slowly.
The stitching along the inside was uneven, done by hand rather than machine.
Words were embroidered there, small and precise:
Heal others to soothe your own wounds.
Theon stared at the line for a long moment.
He didn't remember when it had first been written. Only that it had stayed with him. That it had followed him through years of accumulation — of power, of responsibility, of being the one who absorbed consequences so others wouldn't have to.
It had helped him keep going.
Not because it promised relief — but because it offered direction.
He had learned early that not everyone received a cure.
Some people learned to function without one.
They learned to heal others instead.
He folded the tie carefully and returned it to the drawer, closing it with deliberate slowness.
Mia's words echoed again — not loudly, not angrily, just present.
You don't care what people think.
You take what you want.
You trapped me.
They were accusations he had heard before, reframed, recycled.
He considered them calmly now.
Everyone made mistakes.
Everyone spoke from fear sometimes.
He could brush it off as that.
A moment of overwhelm. A lapse in judgment.
He had allowed worse misunderstandings to pass without consequence before.
He could allow this one too.
The decision settled quietly.
If she didn't want to be watched, he would step back.
If she didn't want his concern, he would remove it from her direct line of sight.
Care did not have to be visible to exist.
_______________________________________________
The next day would continue.
Morning arrived without announcement.
Mia moved through her routine as she always did, unaware of the shift that had already occurred.
Transportation arrived on time. Her schedule remained unchanged. Her work waited where it always had.
What she didn't notice was what had stopped.
Theon did not watch her leave.
He did not ask where she was headed or when she would return. He did not track her movements with the same quiet attentiveness he once had.
Instead, he asked someone else.
"She left on time," the staff member reported.
"And her meals?"
"Eaten."
He nodded.
"Good."
That was all.
At work, Mia found a book placed on her desk.
She glanced at it briefly, irritation flickering through her.
Still trying, she thought.
She opened it anyway.
_______________________________________________
At lunch, dessert appeared.
She ignored it.
At dinner, tea was available.
She poured herself a cup.
No one commented.
Theon did not sit with her.
She told herself it was a relief.
_______________________________________________
Days passed.
The changes were subtle enough that Mia didn't recognize them immediately.
The questions stopped — not replaced with silence, but redirected elsewhere. She was no longer asked if she had eaten. No one commented if she stayed later than usual. No quiet observations marked the end of her days.
Instead, everything simply… worked.
Books appeared when she needed them. Tea was restocked without request. Desserts arrived and disappeared whether she touched them or not.
She told herself this was proof.
He's maintaining routine. Nothing more.
She didn't realize how carefully the routine was being adjusted.
Theon asked his staff about her exhaustion levels. About her appetite. About her sleep.
He adjusted her workload slightly when necessary. Moved deadlines without explanation. Shifted meetings so they wouldn't overlap with her lectures.
He did not tell her any of it.
He did not ask for acknowledgment.
That was easier.
_______________________________________________
One evening, Mia returned later than expected.
No one remarked on it.
She paused in the hallway, unsettled by the lack of reaction.
She told herself it didn't matter.
Theon worked through the night again.
The papers blurred, but his focus held.
He checked reports, signed approvals, reviewed the installation progress of the new security systems.
Everything functioned as intended.
At some point, fatigue pressed in more heavily than usual.
He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
For a moment, he considered whether stepping back had been the right choice.
Then he dismissed the thought.
People did not respond well to being understood against their will.
He had learned that lesson early.
Mia noticed the distance eventually.
Not consciously — not at first.
It came as an absence she couldn't quite name. Like a sound that had been constant enough to fade into the background, only noticeable once it stopped.
She found herself glancing around more often, uncertain why.
She didn't ask.
She told herself this was what she wanted.
_______________________________________________
Late one night, she passed the study.
The door was closed. The light inside dimmed.
She slowed, just briefly.
Then she walked on.
______________________________________________
The loyalty test continued.
It no longer asked whether Mia would obey.
She did.
It asked whether she would notice what had changed.
She didn't.
And Theon, having made his decision, continued to heal where he could, soothe where he was able — without expecting anything in return.
He did not look for gratitude.
He did not look for understanding.
He had learned not to.
The words on the old tie did not promise cure.
They never had.
They only promised purpose.
And for now, that was enough.