Three Months Later
The days spilled into weeks.
Calls became daily rituals. Video calls started as late-night check-ins but evolved into breakfast chats, mid-laundry conversations, even companionable silences while one of them worked. There was no structure. Just a constant orbit.
One night, Ares was on the floor of his studio, chin propped on a pillow, eyes half-lidded but awake only for her.
"You know," he said, "sometimes I look at your name on my screen and I still get a full-body reaction."
"Oh? Like a rash?"
"Like a sonnet."
Eira laughed, flopping back onto her own bed. "You're insufferable."
"You're in love with it."
She didn't deny it.
They shared everything.
Embarrassing childhood stories. The way Eira once got stuck in a dryer trying to rescue a sock. Ares admitting he once accidentally texted a verse meant for his ex to his mother.
She learned that Ares hated when people chewed with their mouths open, loved pistachio ice cream, and always turned his phone on silent but never missed her messages.
He learned Eira couldn't sleep if her closet door was open, wrote poems she never showed anyone, and always cried at animated movie endings — even the happy ones.
They flirted shamelessly, yes — but they also talked about nothing.
And that, somehow, was the most intimate thing of all.
One rainy evening, she was brushing her hair on camera while Ares was folding laundry on his end.
"Is it weird that I feel closer to you now than I do to most people I see every day?" she asked, eyes flicking to the screen.
Ares paused, a shirt half-folded in his hands. "No. Because I feel the same. You've seen more of my life than half my friends."
She nodded. "Still feels unreal."
"Wanna make it real?" he asked casually.
Eira blinked. "What?"
Ares smiled, not teasing, not rushed. Just calm. Certain.
"I was thinking. Maybe it's time. For real-real."
A silence. The kind with edges. The kind that stretched because it held weight.
"You mean—?"
"I'm coming to Bled," he said simply. "If you still want that."
Her heart cracked open in the best way. "Are you serious?"
"Deadly."
"Like… ticket-booked serious?"
"Tomorrow morning. I'll send you the flight details."
She sat up, her mouth halfway to a smile, halfway to disbelief. "You're actually doing it."
She sat up, her mouth halfway to a smile, halfway to disbelief. "You're actually doing it."
He nodded, gaze soft. "I need to see you. Not just on this little rectangle. I want to know how tall you are without guessing. I want to hear you laugh without a filter. I want to see if your hand fits into mine the way I think it does."
Eira swallowed past the lump in her throat. "It will."
"I hope so."
"You're going to make me explode."
"Not before I get there, please," he said. "I'd like to meet you while you're still alive."
She giggled, wiping her eyes. "God, I'm already nervous."
"I'm already planning outfits. Jun says I'm being dramatic."
Eira blinked. "Your assistant! you told him?"
"He gave me a look like I was walking into a fairytale and said, 'Hope she's worth the poetry.'"
"And what did you say?"
Ares smiled at her, warm and unwavering.
"She is."
That night, they stayed on call again — not for hours of deep conversation, but for the quiet.
For the sound of each other breathing. The occasional sigh. The tap of a keyboard. The warmth of screenlight on sleepy faces.
The last thing he said before they both dozed off was whispered so softly she almost missed it.
"I think the version of me that lives in your eyes might be my favorite one."
She didn't reply right away. But her smile told him everything.
And across two countries, under the hush of moonlight, love pressed gently at the edge of something more.
Something real.