[ his voice is level, but cold - his face neutral except for the kink in his brow that denotes a focused scowl. the scribe doesn't stop what he's doing, but he'd be lying if he said that the tone change in kaveh's voice didn't give him pause and he loathes that he, alhaitham, the acting grand sage had somehow become so easily manipulated by the stray he'd taken in.

coming back for the second round of books to be dumped in the trunk, he finds kaveh decidedly in the way of him doing so now, positioned directly between him and the box. frowning down at the other, he finds himself at an impasse - it's not exactly like he can move kaveh out of the way while he's holding several thick, extremely heavy tomes on structural design, but something's also nagging in the back of his mind that the longer he looks into those fiery eyes, the more he'd lose his resolve. ]

Just because you have nowhere else to go isn't a sound enough reason to stay.

[ the taller man says flatly, tone low. ]

This is just your last resort, not your home.

[ which is more a statement from his perspective - like kaveh living here in the first place was some dirty little secret to be kept hidden; like he was simply some sort of capitalist landlord rather than anything else. he had no need for either of these things, not when it left him feeling so aggravatingly hollow.

the books he's holding get set heavily down on the floor next to the trunk as the stalemate continues, the thud echoing around the otherwise silent room. ]

Moreover - [ he turns his head, looking around to try and spot other books, items, anything to aggregate - anything that's not looking at the hurt on kaveh's face. ] - I'm not a wondrous machine that dispenses what you need whenever you need it, much less one that's happy to have it thrown back at them like some petulant child.