Chapter Text
Alhaitham would bring a very... passionate story to the table, as in he has this thick and tall wall built around him so even your kind words would be nearly meaningless. You'd end up going on an adventure with him, get acquainted along the way, and before he knew it, he was already glancing your way every now and then.
He was a handsome young man and you couldn't deny that, but for the sake of saving yourself from embarrassment due to improper acts or words, you made it your goal to remain professional all throughout your time with the Scribe. Overtime, he learns to respect that about you. It's why he would watch you now and then, to look at your serious and focused expression as you read through ancient texts.
When at first he would be indifferent to physical closeness (caused by other people or things), now he'd acknowledge it AND not move away. In fact, he might even draw himself closer, like when you try to reach a book on a bookshelf. He would acknowledge his actions as he leans into you, his chest nearly pressing against your back while he reaches for the book to hand it to you. It's almost like he welcomed this closeness.
After a long day at work, he would lay down with his back pressed against a thick pillow leaning against his headboard with a book in his hand for a bit of reading before going to sleep. Whether it's the drowsiness induced by the book or the weariness from the day, his mind refused to focus on the words on those flimsy pages, and instead drifted off to that memory of his closeness with you, and how warm it felt. Not even his blanket could replicate it. He's just tired, surely.
He's stubborn. He'd refuse to admit to anything, let alone mention any change within him. He needs a push, and he gets one eventually.
Because of his denial, he wouldn't notice the tension that would build up in him. There would be moments when that cool and composed behavior of his would break into sudden outbursts. When you proposed to go inside the ruins on your own for the sake of research, he broke out of his usual character to tell you just how bad of an idea that was. Though, inexplicably to you, he found it necessary to raise his voice to get his point across.
However, he hadn't expected this to get worse. Your gentleness leaked out from your professional composure when you offered to tend to a wound he got from a falling rock on his back. The delicate touch of your fingertips rubbing the ointment on his warm skin certainly didn't help him with controlling his newly developped temper. If anything, it only fueled it.
Eventually, all the emotions he had bottled up in a large jar—not bottle, but jar—would spill out through a sizeable crack, like water from a dam. When such a time comes, you are demanded to pay attention to him until all you see, all you hear, all you feel is Alhaitham. The painful desire to hold you and press your body against his own plagues his mind. He wouldn't know what to do then but to act on instinct if it means this damn ache would finally dull.