He Wears Silence Like a Suit

He wears silence like a suit—
tailored sharp, creased in charm,
with eyes that hold storms
he'd never let touch you.

A gentleman,
not in the “ladies first” way,
but in the “I’d kill for you quietly” way.
Polite hands. Still voice.
A mind that could unmake kingdoms,
but would rather trace the outline of your fingertips.

He walks like a man who owns every room,
but watches you like you’re the one with gravity.
Like the world could end
and he’d still be studying you
from across the noise, untouched.

He speaks rarely—
but when he does, you listen like it’s scripture.
His words land soft,
like petals on glass,
but each one makes you ache
in the space between your ribs.

He looks cold—
pressed collar, quiet stare,
cheekbones like they were sculpted to punish.
But his warmth lives in small things.

The way he lingers when you laugh.
How he remembers the things you forget you told him.
Your coffee order. The scent you hate.
The song that made you cry when you were twelve.

You fell,
not because he smiled—
but because he didn’t smile for anyone else.

And when his hand brushed yours,
you swear
you heard the stars
whisper,
“finally.”