He considered her works with a tilt of his his head, but said nothing. He could have returned her letters, and at more than one point he'd considered it. The first letter had been opened and read, the second opened and unread, and the third and the ones that followed had conveniently been dropped on the stack of letters that was already building on his table. He could have returned them, but.

"I don't see why it matters so much to you. Why I matter," he said, his gaze dropping to the floor. They were just friends. They needed to keep a distance. He thought they'd agreed on it that night. Being together too much would bring public attention to them, but writing too much would do something worse: it would be a constant reminder that he had no clear label for their relationship, no clear way to describe how he felt for her. In fact, it might make it worse.

"I don't want to stop communicating with you forever." Merlin no. In fact, he wanted to communicate all the time, in the same close and intimate way that they had for the last month with constant updates and letters, but things were different. Impressions and whatnot. "I just wasn't aware that I had an obligation to answer right away. We're acquaintances, remember?" Impressions indeed.

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