Levi's first days back at the house after rehab were… disorienting, to say the least. He was… different. His honesty was startling. Unfiltered, like a scalpel wielded without anesthetic.

He seemed to find an odd comfort in scents. I'd catch him inhaling his own cologne. He gave me the pass code to his study. A small offering, I suppose. His food aversions softened a fraction, thank heavens. God, I'd missed his presence. The quiet intensity of it. And the fact that he was abstaining from alcohol… that was new. He mentioned it was a self-imposed experiment.

But the most striking change was physical. The sickly pallor was gone, replaced by a… healthier hue. The chilling coldness of his skin had vanished, replaced by a human warmth. It was as if… as if the drugs had been a veil, and now it was lifted. He was… vibrant, in a way I hadn't seen before.

Levi attempted to articulate his thoughts on his own sexuality and his… attachment to me. It was akin to an out of body experience. He spoke with the detachment of a scientist presenting findings. He explained that his lack of 'data' – his words – regarding 'romance' made it impossible for him to apply a suitable label.

He explored various hypotheses about our relationship. Obsession, possessiveness… all terms he considered, only to find them inadequate, insufficient to categorize the complex, often chaotic, nature of our bond, or, more importantly, his… pull towards me.

His explanation about the door being locked… the implications of it… it made sense. Since his study doors were steel, and there were no windows, I would have had to tear the house apart, brick by brick, to get to his… to retrieve his body if something had happened. The image of that… the sheer violence of it… it still makes my blood run cold.

The scent of roasting coffee, filled the air as I watched Levi. He was a puzzle, an enigma I was only beginning to piece together.

"So, when you say 'possessive need,' what does that actually feel like for you, Levi? Is it… is it similar to jealousy? Or is it something else entirely? And this 'response' you feel… is there a physical component to it? I'm just trying to… understand." My own voice sounded almost too loud in the quiet space between us.

Levi's gaze was intense, as if dissecting my words before replying. “It defies easy categorization, Raphael. My emotions… they are not as readily defined as yours. But your absence… it manifested as an ache. A deep, persistent ache. I cannot dissect it further. I simply… I want your presence.”

I shifted in my chair, the leather creaking softly beneath me.

"An ache… that's… that's a very physical way to describe it." I reached out, my hand hovering momentarily over his before pulling back, unsure. "Does it feel… constant? Or does it come and go? And… when you say 'want my presence,' is that… is that a physical need, an emotional need, or… both?"

Levi swirled the dark liquid in his cup, the porcelain clinking softly against the spoon. The steam curled upwards, momentarily obscuring his face, and I watched him as if he were a precious thing. "Constant," he finally said. "The ache… it was a constant companion. To admit that your presence constitutes an… 'emotional need' feels… imprecise. Inadequate. But truthful, I suppose. And," he paused, a flicker of something almost vulnerable, crossing his face, "to be brutally frank, I did not self-pleasure in that sterile environment. Though… your scent was a persistent phantom. The first absence I registered. That faint spice that clings to you… it was a ghost in my memories. But no," he clarified, taking a slow sip of his coffee, "no sexual desire. My body was… preoccupied with a symphony of agony. And yes, Raphael… I experienced… what I believe you term 'sadness'." The word sounded foreign on his tongue.

My own coffee sat untouched, cooling rapidly. "God, Levi… to hear you say that you felt an ache… that my scent was the first thing you missed… it's… it's almost overwhelming. It feels… significant. Because… because I felt it too. That absence, that… that hollowness. A silence in the house that became a roar in my ears. And the fact that you… that you didn't… it just… it makes me realize how much you were truly suffering. The sheer force of will it must have taken… Thank you for telling me."

Levi's gaze met mine, unwavering, intense. “Raphael, I believe we both value directness, so I will attempt to be as precise as possible. But these… internal sensations are frustratingly elusive. Regarding… physical attraction, there is a recurring mental image: my fingertips on your ribs, my thumb tracing circles on your stomach. Beyond that, our physical contact has been… limited. Hand-holding. Hugs. This led to a period of… self-questioning. Asexuality was a potential explanation. However, I can recall at least five instances where I actively… pursued a more intimate connection. Therefore, I am forced to conclude that asexuality is an inaccurate descriptor. The problem, as always, is language. These labels… 'gay,' 'straight,' 'asexual'… they were created for a neurotypical framework. They fail to capture the nuances of… my experience.”

He took another sip of his drink, the sound sharp in the quiet room. I watched him, fascinated, trying to reconcile the detachment of his words with the raw vulnerability beneath.

"Levi, thank you for sharing all of that. It's… a lot to take in, but I appreciate your honesty. And it's okay if you don't fit neatly into those labels. You don't have to. We can burn the damn things for all I care. What matters is… you. And how you feel. The truth of your experience. If 'Levi' is the only label that fits, then that's enough for me."

Levi's gaze softened. “That is exactly what you said to me in my mind, Raphael. I missed you so much.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken emotions, the only sound the gentle ticking of a clock somewhere in the house.

"Levi, when you say 'exactly,' do you mean the words, or the sentiment behind them? And… and how often were you… thinking of me like that? I'm not trying to pry, but… it helps me understand the depth of what you were going through. The reality of your experience." I leaned forward, my hands clasped together, my focus solely on him.

“No, it is the acceptance. The therapist 'bug' was inadequate. When I try to confide in him about my ‘obsession’, he called it ‘love’. Knowing full well that my brain is not wired for to release supposed chemicals. After his blatant disregard to my existence, I distinctively thought about this, this conversation, this moment. You, without a medical license, only with your empathy and inherent goodness, the warmth in your eyes, the way you truly listen… would be much better therapist then he can ever strive to be. I found solace in the phantom conversations.” Levi's hands tightened around his cup.

My breath caught in my throat. "Levi… wow. That's… that's incredibly moving, and a little bit heartbreaking. So the therapist was useless, and you found solace in imagining me. So… how do we ensure you get that? How do we build a relationship where you feel truly seen and heard, not dismissed? What do you need from me? Beyond my presence, beyond these words?"

“I… don’t… know…” Levi’s voice was barely audible. He shifted in his chair, the leather sighing softly. “I want to… talk to you. I do not want to feel alone again. I do not know what I want from you… I think… your presence is enough for me.”

"Okay, Levi." I reached out, my hand covering his, the warmness of his skin a shock against my own. "I hear you. You don't know what you want, but you know you don't want to be alone, and you want to talk. That's… that's a good starting point. It's honest. And it's enough."

“I feel sad, Raphael. Since I am incapable of crying it is not easy to show. But… a part of me wishes that… I could cry… so maybe you could understand…”

"Levi… that's… that's incredibly difficult to hear. But… but I believe you.”

Levi's touch was warm.

“I feel so lonely, Raphael." Levi's gaze was intense, almost desperate.

"Levi, I understand. I might not fully grasp what it's like for you, but I hear your pain. And it's okay to feel lonely. It's okay to want those things, even if they feel out of reach. We'll take it one step at a time. We'll find our own way to connect, even if it's different from how others do it." My hand remained on his.

“That is possibly the best thing I have ever heard, Raphael…”

…

After our heart-wrenching conversation, Levi casually dropped the subject of the therapist's medical license. Yeah. He regaled me with darkly humorous tales of how he'd essentially turned the rehab into his own twisted ecosystem, using incredibly subtle manipulation to orchestrate events – a little extra sugar here, a bit of calculated chaos there, all for his own amusement. According to him, his grand finale was to be a full-blown mass hysteria

event, designed to force the staff to contact me and summon me to his side.

And the casualness of his tone, the sheer audacity of it, only twisted the knife deeper. I hated myself. So much. I had abandoned him. The guilt was a gnawing beast in my gut, the shame a brand on my soul. He'd hurt me, yes, and the memory still stung. But I'd had people, support, distractions to get me through those days. He'd had… that sterile hellhole and his own machinations.

It wasn't just the physical confinement, though the white walls and the ever-present scent of disinfectant were a bleak backdrop to his suffering. It was the emptiness. The echoing silence that must have filled his days, broken only by the voices of the staff and the whispers of his own thoughts.

My own memories of Levi were a kaleidoscope of brilliance and cruelty, passion and detachment. I'd been captivated and repulsed, drawn in and pushed away. He was a force of nature, beautiful and terrifying.

The coffee had gone cold. I pushed the cup away, the ceramic scraping against the table. I had to do something. I couldn't just sit here, drowning in this toxic mix of guilt and reluctant understanding.

But what could I do? How did you bridge the chasm between us? How did you reconcile the pain he'd inflicted with the undeniable pull he still exerted?

He was… psychically distant, even within the house's familiar walls. The vibrant energy that usually crackled around him was muted. He did not even stomach to masturbate in rehab, he'd revealed, his body going through withdrawal's agonizing symphony. But it wasn't just physical. He did not even fantasize about sex… only holding hands and hugs. Levi, whose mind was a tempest of ideas and desires, reduced to craving only the simplest, most innocent forms of touch.

The clinking of the cups against the porcelain was the only sound in the room as he washed them, his back to me. I moved towards him, wanting to offer some reassurance. I gently placed my hand on his shoulder. He flinched. My heart clenched. It was like touching a live wire.

I withdrew my hand as if burned. The clinking of the cups, felt like a relentless accusation.

What had they done to him? The questions clawed at my throat, choking off any attempt at speech.

I wanted to rage, to tear down those walls and unleash my fury upon those who had dared to touch him, to break him. But that wouldn't help Levi. He didn't need my anger; he needed… what? Tenderness? Patience? A slow rebuilding of trust?

I watched him, his shoulders hunched.

The Levi before and after rehab… it was like looking at two different people in a shattered mirror.

The Levi from before, the one I knew, the one who commanded attention and expected the world to bend to his will… he wouldn't have dreamed of washing cups. He'd have summoned the house staff with a snap of his fingers. This was a violation of the natural order of things.

No. Think on the bright side. He shook years of addiction. That was a monumental victory. He has been nothing but honest with me, laying bare his vulnerabilities in a way I never thought possible. And… there were physical changes, too. His skin was clearer, the pallor of sickness replaced by a healthier flush. His hand was warm. He was healthier, stronger.

It did not feel like marriage, not even remotely. It felt like being polite flatmates, sharing space but not lives. I'd slept in his bedroom for the last two months. But now, we were once again sleeping in different bedrooms, the chasm between us widening with every passing day.

Since he'd donated every single penny he owned moments before his suicide attempt, he'd decided that instead of government work, he would go back to manage his company. He needed a little time at the house, he'd said, to get his bearings.

We were having breakfast, sitting across from each other at the large table. He even started to eat bland foods, a small but significant victory over his previously entrenched food aversions. Possibly, Levi was in the healthiest physical state he has ever been. His eyes were clear, his movements steady. But… we were so distant.

The old Levi, the Levi I both craved and feared, would try to… chase me. Weave intricate webs of words and actions, drawing me in with a potent mix of allure and calculated need. This Levi… is just… existing alongside me. A shadow where a storm used to rage.

What had I done? Did… I break him? Did my choices, my failures, crush his very spirit to such a degree that his only solace was the barest proximity? Did all that remained was this fragile desire for existence alongside me?

How can I… even begin to apologize to this man? What words could possibly convey the enormity of my regret, the crushing weight of my guilt?

He is so utterly alone that he seeks comfort, no, not even comfort, just presence, from someone who abandoned him twice. The reality of his isolation, the desperation behind his plea, was a wound that festered in my soul.

The facade cracked after breakfast. I fled to my room, the silence of the house pressing in on me, and cried my heart out.

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The cruelty of it echoed in the silence of my room, amplified by my own sobs. It wasn't the grand betrayals, the dramatic confrontations; it was the small, insidious acts of neglect that gnawed at me. The unanswered call, the unread letter, the dismissals of his attempts to reach out.

I curled into myself on the bed, the sheets damp with tears, and the memories assaulted me. I had failed him when he was at his most vulnerable, when he needed me the most. And now, I was reaping the consequences, living in a house with a ghost of the man I loved.

In the silence of my shame, I was forced to confront the fact that every single thing he said in his room at the rehab was right. I had been self-righteous, wielding my own moral superiority like a weapon, and accusatory towards someone fighting for his life against suicidal urges and the relentless grip of addiction. I had abandoned him, left him to navigate that nightmare alone. He tried, repeatedly, to make me understand his nature, to convey the core of who he was, told me with brutal honesty that he wouldn't change. Even though he explained that his brain was wired differently, that his reality was fundamentally distinct from mine, I did not try to grasp what he meant… I was deaf to his truth. I was ignorant, unwilling to see beyond my own limited understanding. He saw through my facade, saw every lie I spat, every judgment I hurled, every nuance of my dismissive arrogance.

The truth is, I actively avoided thinking about what he went through at the rehab. It was easier to cling to my resentment, to paint myself as the victim. Until he forced me to confront it. He was not even being dramatic, exaggerating for effect. And the harsh reality was undeniable: I did not go there to offer him sympathy. I went there because I missed him…

He said, his voice flat and devoid of inflection, that every wall painting in that sterile, soul-crushing rehab knew my name. I dismissed it instantly, a melodramatic flourish from a man prone to exaggeration.

What the fuck do I do? Do I wait for him? For what? For a flicker of the old Levi? For a sign that he wants more than this… this quiet coexistence? He seems… content. Just by existing. Just being. That fragile peace, that acceptance of a diminished reality… was that all he ever truly wanted? And if so, where does that leave me?

I was sobbing violently, my body wracked with tremors. Tears streamed down my face, hot and relentless, blurring the already indistinct shapes in the room. I whimpered, a broken sound escaping my throat, like the pathetic piece of shit I knew myself to be.

Then, a soft knock on my door. Oh shit… I frantically swiped at my tear-streaked face, a pathetic attempt to erase the evidence. He would see right through it.

"Come in," I managed, my voice thick and unsteady.

“Are you alright?” He asked, his tone neutral.

The simplicity of the question, the basic human concern I hadn't extended to him in what felt like an eternity, shattered the remnants of my composure. A fresh wave of sobs wracked my body.

He reached my bedside in a few quick strides. His hand, warm against my wet cheek, offered a comfort I hadn't earned. “Raphael, what is wrong?”

“I am a disgusting piece of shit, Levi. That’s it.”

“Why? What happened? Explain to me, yes?” he said, his deep and calm voice a soothing balm against the storm raging within me.

"I... I just keep thinking about everything you told me," I choked out. "About your feelings, your needs... and how I just dismissed it all, like they were nothing. I was so arrogant, so sure I knew better, so quick to judge. And now... seeing you here... so quiet, so… subdued... just wanting to be... it's like a punch to the gut that leaves me winded. I don't know how you can even bear to look at me." Shame burned in my chest, and I averted my gaze.

“It is not easy, Raphael,” he said, his voice a low, steady murmur. “I have been clean after twelve years. I am considerably lucky that my liver didn’t… cease to function entirely. So, I am trying to navigate in this… new world of sobriety. And…” He paused, and his gaze seemed to soften. “You were a little arrogant and self-righteous, yes. But it doesn’t matter to me, really. All I see… is a blinding light.”

"A blinding light...?" I repeated, a fragile tendril of hope reaching out into the darkness. "Is that... is that a good thing, Levi? Does that mean... you're not angry anymore? That you can... forgive me? God, I don't deserve it, not after everything. But... that's what it sounds like."

“I did not say that I was angry, Raphael,” Levi replied, his voice calm and measured. “Or that I did not forgive you. Those concepts… apologies… are just things hanging in the air to me. They don’t… resonate with inherent meaning for me. I also understand the pain I caused, logically.”

"So... the 'blinding light' isn't about forgiveness, then? It's just... a statement of fact? That you're not actively angry? God, Levi, sometimes I feel like I'm speaking a different language than you."

As the words left my lips, he drew his hand back as if burned.

“I am actively trying to explain myself, to bridge this impossible gap between us, only to hear judgment once again.”

"No, Levi! God, no. That's not what I meant. I'm trying to understand. It's just... it's so different from how I process things. Please, I don't want to judge you. Help me understand what the 'blinding light' does mean, if not forgiveness or lack of anger as I know it."

“It was a compliment, Raphael. I wanted to make you feel better.” The unexpectedness of his words, left me utterly speechless.

"Levi..." My voice cracked. "You... you wanted to make me feel better? After everything I put you through? I... I just don't understand. Thank you."

“Truly, Raphael, your rather consistent inability to see or understand anything beyond your immediate perspective was… predictable when I was still using. But it is simply… tedious to dissect my motivations right now. What do you mean by ‘wanted to make me feel better’? Did you expect me to remain downstairs, feigning ignorance while your choked gasps were echoing throughout the entire house? Is it truly baffling that I complimented you?”

"Tedious? So my feelings are tedious now? I'm just trying to grasp this 'blinding light,' Levi. If it wasn't a compliment, then what was it? Just a clinical observation of my state? And no, of course I didn't want you to ignore my crying. I'm just... so lost in trying to understand you."

Levi’s gaze sharpened, the warmth vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. “Of course it is tedious, Raphael. To constantly dissect the obvious. It wasn’t a compliment for me; I merely relayed the objective reality of my perception. Ah, yes, now that we are on the subject of light, a pertinent reminder, wouldn’t you agree? What is my safe word? Lucent, is it not?”

“What are you–”

“It means glowing with light, Raphael,” he interrupted, his voice softening once more. “That is what you are to me.”

"Levi..." My voice trembled, tears blurring my vision. "That's... that's... truly the kindest thing... thank you."

Levi shifted slightly, a hint of discomfort in his expression. “Excuse my rather dramatic outburst, Raphael. This… newfound sobriety appears to be eroding my already tenuous grasp on social niceties. The urge to express my thoughts with… unfiltered directness is becoming increasingly difficult to suppress.”

“Yeah…” I admitted, a touch of embarrassment coloring my cheeks. “You were kinda right… I jumped to conclusions. I misunderstood what you meant. But…” I hesitated. “Why are you so distant, Levi?”

His brow furrowed in genuine contemplation. “To be frank, Raphael. I don’t know. I truly don’t. I can only assume both my brain and body are still trying to… re-calibrate after everything.”

“Why did you flinch when I touched you earlier?”

“Hm? Ah… that.” A flicker of something crossed his face, perhaps discomfort. “I find myself… averse to unsolicited physical contact from most individuals. I had a… rather persistent nurse whose hand seemed perpetually affixed to my shoulder during my time there. That sensation… it lingers. It is not that I don’t enjoy your contact, though. That is… different.”

“You are lost at what to do, aren’t you, Levi?” I said softly. “And I am truly sorry about that persistent nurse.”

“The primary difficulty is this: the opioids had the rather… unexpected side effect of making me ‘agreeable’ towards other humans. In their absence, the urge to employ a rather extensive vocabulary of colorful descriptors is… significant. My cognitive functions are, thankfully, restored, and the constant ache in my extremities has subsided. It is not precisely that I am lost, Raphael. It is more accurate to say that I… I… do not experience… sensation. Which, inarguably, is beneficial considering my rather pronounced destructive inclinations. That first nurse was inconsequential; the true affront was the second one, the one who felt compelled to embrace me. Her disturbingly inexpensive perfume induced a rather violent physical reaction.”

"Not feel anything? But you said I was a 'blinding light.' Was that just... a factual observation too? No emotion behind it? And those nurses... it sounds awful, but is the emotional numbness really 'great,' Levi? Isn't there a middle ground between destructive tendencies and... nothing?"

Levi sighed. “I am not… numb, Raphael. You continue to misinterpret my words, viewing them only through the prism of your own emotional landscape. Why this unwavering focus on the ‘light’? It is a consistent descriptor I have applied to you throughout our relationship. Nothingness is not an absence of feeling in the way you perceive it; it is the fundamental backdrop of my existence, the canvas upon which everything else is painted.”

"Okay. Nothingness is your normal. And I'm a consistent point of light in that. I... I think I'm starting to understand. But it still feels... so distant, Levi. If I'm this light in your 'nothingness,' can't you feel even a little... warmth emanating from it?"

Levi's patience seemed to snap. “Once again, Raphael… Ah, Raphael. What do you want from me? Do you expect me to suddenly throw myself upon you? Especially after I confided in you about my own confusion regarding my sexuality? Are you truly this… oblivious to my boundaries, this indifferent to my previous vulnerability?”

"Oh God, no, Levi. Please, no. That's... that's not what I meant at all. Not physically. I meant... feeling. Emotions. The way someone makes you feel warm inside, connected. That's all." My words tumbled out in a flustered rush.

“You have utterly no comprehension of your own indifference, Raphael. How can you not even attempt, not even bother, to truly understand? It is… utterly cruel. I am beyond weary of being this broken record, this loopy soundtrack endlessly explaining the same fundamental concepts. If you will excuse me.” He made a formal inclination of his head.

"Cruel? I'm being cruel? I'm the one who's been here, trying to connect! You're the one who's been distant and shutting me out! I'm trying to understand your 'nothingness' and 'light,' and you're acting like I'm intentionally being obtuse!"

Levi's fists tightened, his knuckles white as he drew in a deep breath. “How exceedingly generous of you, Raphael, to deign to attempt connection with me,” he stated, his voice dripping with a biting sarcasm. “With me, who, if my memory serves correctly, informed you precisely one hour ago of my inherent incapability of connection.”

"So, what the hell is the point then, Levi?" My voice was raw with frustration. "What's the point of this whole charade? If you're truly incapable of connection, why am I even here? Why did you let me back in? Are you just deriving some twisted pleasure from watching me desperately try to reach you?"

Levi’s eyes narrowed, his voice sharp and laced with a cold fury. “You are being utterly ridiculous, Raphael. You demand a point? Then tell me, what was your point in occupying my bed for two months while I was gone? Yes, let me reiterate for your apparent inability to grasp simple concepts: I am incapable of bonding. This is not some melodramatic sob story for sympathy, contrary to your apparent desires. I am NEURODIVERGENT. I am INCAPABLE, Raphael. I do not wish to hear these words from you any longer. Please, leave me alone.”

"But... if you're incapable of bonding, Levi, why did you even...? Why did you ever let me in at all? I don't understand." My voice was laced with a desperate confusion, a plea for a single thread of logic in this unraveling mess.

“Why you, Raphael? Why you? Are you truly standing there, asking me that? After you so relentlessly shoved your naive hope down my throat, the ridiculous notion that one day even I would be truly ‘seen’? Do I need to recount your endless, pathetic charades, your clumsy attempts to make me ‘feel’ something I am fundamentally incapable of? But thank you, Raphael. This entire conversation has been remarkably productive. You have, once again, shoved that ridiculous hope down my throat only to snatch it away a mere hour later.”

He turned sharply and left the room.

Oh shit…

In one impulsive, uncontrolled outburst of anger, I didn't just damage the bridges; I incinerated them. And I, with my impulsive anger and my relentless need for something Levi couldn't give, had struck the match.

The silence that followed Levi's departure was thick and suffocating, heavier than any argument. It pressed in on me, a tangible weight mirroring the crushing guilt in my chest. The echoes of his sharp, furious words still reverberated in the empty space. Incapable. And I, had only proven his point.

I sank onto the edge of the bed. What had I expected? A sudden outpouring of affection? A miraculous change in his fundamental nature?

The image of his retreating back, the rigid set of his shoulders, burned into my mind. He was gone. Not just from the room, but perhaps… truly gone this time.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Productive, he had called it. Productive in showing him exactly what he already knew: my inability to truly understand, my tendency to project my own emotional needs onto his starkly different reality.

The weight of my actions settled upon me, a suffocating burden. I was alone, truly alone, in a house filled with the ghost of a connection I had destroyed. And the silence screamed the undeniable truth: I had only myself to blame.

…

No.

Enough. The self-pity, the self-justification – it had to stop. I had been an arrogant and selfish asshole, blinded by my own emotional needs. The only thing Levi had ever truly wanted was acceptance. So, how did I finally give him that?

The answer was undeniable: with the very thing I should have done months ago, the thing I had stubbornly resisted in my self-absorption. My perspective was worthless here. Driven by a newfound resolve, I left the silence of the house and headed to the bookstore, my purpose clear: to arm myself with knowledge, to finally understand Levi's neurodivergence.

I walked back into the house, the books clutched tightly, each cover a silent accusation. And there was Levi. Not withdrawn, not guarded, but… domestic. He was whisking something in a bowl, the rich scent of chocolate already permeating the air.

I sat heavily on the edge of the kitchen table, the books landing with a resounding thud. The sound echoed the weight in my chest.

"Levi," I began, my voice thick with remorse. "I am so deeply sorry for being the arrogant, self-serving, self-righteous asshole I have been. There was one fundamental thing you needed from me – to be truly seen, to be unconditionally accepted – and in my blind disregard, I only inflicted pain. I am sorry for that. And you were right, utterly right. I have been trapped within the confines of my own perspective, my own limited emotional landscape. That's why I bought these." I gestured to the books. "I will read them. I should have done this months ago. I am also so incredibly sorry for that… for my blindness, for my selfishness, for everything."

Levi turned, his gaze settling on the stack of weighty tomes.

“Ah, Raphael,” he observed, a hint of his usual dry tone returning, “these appear to be textbooks intended for medical students. A rather… ambitious undertaking for your current level of expertise. If you wouldn’t mind, perhaps you could whisk the batter for me?” He gestured towards the bowl and then disappeared into his study. I robotically began to whisk.

Dumb. Utter idiot. Of course I’d gotten the wrong books.

Levi returned, placing two thinner volumes beside my clumsy stack. “These,” he explained, his voice softer now, “are written by neurodivergent individuals themselves. They offer insights into their daily lives, their interactions, their perspectives. Rather than wading through clinical jargon, perhaps these will resonate more readily with your… empathy and observational skills. Remember, though,” he added, a note of caution in his voice, “each experience is unique.”

He placed a hand gently on the cover of one of the books. “And Raphael… while your apologies may hold little intrinsic meaning for me, this was a significant step. Thank you.”

"Yeah…" I murmured, the weight of my past actions still heavy. "Thank you, too, Levi. For... everything. I should've done this so much sooner… I am truly sorry."

"It is alright, Raphael."

He kept his focus on the whisking batter. While a step had been taken, the work of understanding and rebuilding was far from over.