The sun hadn't quite risen when Eira stirred.
Her room was a mess of moonlight and tangled blankets. The phone, still cradled beside her on the pillow, buzzed gently against her ear—a soft crackle of breath on the other end.
Ares hadn't hung up.
Her heart fluttered, slow and unsure, like a bird learning the shape of sky.
She didn't say anything right away. Just listened. To the rise and fall of his breathing. The occasional shift, like fabric brushing skin. The hum of stillness that somehow didn't feel lonely.
Then, a rustle. A sleepy murmur.
"…Eira?"
She smiled, sleep-clumsy. "Still here."
Ares exhaled like relief had been holding him hostage all night. "Good."
There was a quiet laugh between them—like something sacred.
"I thought I dreamed you," she whispered.
"You didn't."
"Are you still in bed?"
"No. I'm on my couch. Sun's just coming up. You?"
"Still wrapped like a burrito."
"I respect that."
They shared a sleepy silence.
Then Ares added, "I think… I like the sound of your morning voice."
"Oh God." She hid her face in the blanket. "Strike that from the record."
"Never," he teased. "You sound like a secret."
Eira's cheeks warmed. "You always say things like that?"
"Only when they feel true."
They didn't talk much after that.
They didn't have to.
He brushed his teeth while she made coffee. She spilled some and cursed under her breath, and he laughed through the receiver like she'd given him a gift.
She tried not to think about the absurdity of it—falling for a voice and a laugh and a quiet understanding, all through a screen.
But it didn't feel absurd.
It felt inevitable.
Like gravity.
Later that day, a message lit up her phone.
Ares: Today feels strange without your voice in it. Would it be too much to call again tonight?
She stared at the text like it was a stone tossed into still water.
Then typed back.
Eira: Only if you sing me your 'miss universe' song.
Ares: Deal. But this time, with a surprise.
Eira: Oh, what surprise?
Ares: Will tell you...
The day passed like it had something to hide.
Eira tried to read. To write. To do anything except replay the sound of his voice—soft, midnight-wrapped, the way it had said her name like it belonged somewhere quiet and safe.
She kept checking the clock.
1:02 a.m.
1:17.
Her heart was already leaning toward him before the phone rang.
And when it did—exactly 1:26—she smiled like the stars were in on it.
She picked up, a little breathless.
"Hi."
His voice came through, warm with something unspoken.
"Hi, you."
Eira laughed, soft and surprised. "Me?"
"I don't know. It just felt right."
She could hear him smiling. That little pause before his next breath. She leaned back into her pillow, the world shrinking to the shape of this call.
"I've been thinking about you all day," Ares admitted, so simply it made her pulse skip. "Is that… weird?"
"No," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "It's not weird. Or maybe it is. But if it is, then we're both weird."
He chuckled, and it sent something tender spiraling down her spine.
"What were you thinking?" she asked, a little nervous to know.
Ares exhaled slowly. "Mostly about how someone I've never sat next to feels more familiar than people I've known for years."
Her heart ached—in that sweet, aching way that good music does.
"Yeah," she said. "Me too."
They drifted into stories again.
Softer this time. Not hurried. Like unwrapping something delicate.
He told her about how he used to write songs under his blanket as a kid with a flashlight between his teeth. How the first girl he ever liked had braces and laughed like a trumpet.
"How old were you?" she asked, smiling into her pillow.
"Ten. I gave her a cassette tape with a love song I wrote."
"Oh no," Eira gasped. "Did she love it?"
"She said it was 'fine.'"
Eira giggled, biting her lip. "Brutal."
"I know. I never recovered."
"You obviously did," she teased. "You turned into a man who sounds like poetry and wears heartbreak like cologne."
Ares laughed—a full, low, beautiful sound that made her toes curl.
"God, you're dangerous."
"No, I'm just observant."
There was a silence, the kind that doesn't beg to be filled.
Just a breath, maybe two.
Then— Ares: 'EIRA'
"I complete the song Miss Universe" he said softly.
"The one from last live?"
"Yeah."
Eira sat up slowly. "You weren't kidding?"
Ares: 'I wrote the rest this morning. While you were asleep.'
Her heart beat in ink and melody.
Eira: 'You wrote me a song?'
Ares: 'Maybe. Or maybe I just wrote what it feels like to fall and not be afraid of the landing.'
She didn't respond right away.
"Would you like to hear it?"
Her chest tightened with something she wasn't ready to name.
"Yes. Please."
A quiet rustle. A faint chord strummed.
Then his voice—low, intimate, meant only for the space between them.
I've been on stages built on silence, smiled through every lie,
Sold my soul in verses just to keep the world alive.
Crowds scream my name, but no one really knows the curse —
How fame can feel like dying slow, behind rehearsed rehearses.
Then you walked in, no makeup, no disguise… just truth that hurts,
And for the first time, I could breathe — you are my Miss Universe.
Eira held her breath.
The next line came slower. He wasn't performing—he was offering.
And now the noise is fading, I don't need the stage to speak,
You hear the notes I never sing, the flaws beneath the sleek.
I'd trade the fame, the fake, the gold — for just your steady gaze,
The kind that sees right through the mess, and chooses me anyway.
I don't need the world to want me, let the cameras disperse,
I only want the one who stayed… you are my Miss Universe.
When he stopped, there was a hush so complete, she could hear the thrum of her own heartbeat.
She didn't say anything for a long moment.
Then—
"That was beautiful," she said quietly.
Ares cleared his throat. "You don't think it's too much?"
"No." Her voice cracked just a little. "I think… it's honest. And that's rare."
Another long pause. He was quiet. Maybe waiting for her to say more.
So she did.
"I think you scare me in the best way," she murmured.
Ares was gentle in his reply. "Tell me why."
"Because it feels like I'm standing at the edge of something soft. And I'm not sure if I'm supposed to step in or run."
"…Do you want to step in?"
"I think I already have," she admitted, cheeks warm.
He was quiet again.
But not distant.
Just… careful. Like he knew how much this mattered.
"I don't want to rush you," he said finally. "I just want to… stay. If you'll let me."
Eira's throat tightened.
She glanced toward the space beside her, empty but somehow not alone.
"What would you do," she asked softly, "if we were side by side again? Right now?"
A beat.
Then his voice, lower than before. Slower.
"I'd look at you first. Not say anything. Just… see you. Let the silence hold us for a bit."
Eira closed her eyes.
He went on.
"Then maybe… I'd brush your hair out of your face. Lightly. Like I wasn't sure I was allowed, but wanted to anyway."
She smiled, heart thudding.
"And then?"
"I'd hold your gaze," he said. "Wait for your eyes to say yes. Then maybe—I'd lean close enough that your breath could find mine. Not a kiss, not yet. Just the promise of one."
She swallowed.
"You're not real."
"I'm very real," he whispered. "More real with you than I've ever been."
Eira opened her eyes slowly.
And whispered the words she hadn't planned to say.
"I think you're what I wrote poems for. Even when I didn't know who I was writing to."
He didn't respond right away.
But she felt him smile again.
Felt it like a warmth blooming in her chest.
"I think," he said gently, "I was always trying to become the kind of man worthy of those poems."
They didn't say goodnight.
They let sleep find them mid-conversation, lullabies made of laughter and pauses and quiet breathing.
When Eira drifted off, the last thing she heard was his voice, soft as a secret:
"I'll be here when you wake."
And in the stillness, she believed him.
For once, she didn't feel like she was falling.
She felt like she was arriving.