The sky outside had shifted from velvet black to deep indigo, stars fading behind a quiet veil of night. The lake had stilled. The house creaked in familiar, sleepy sighs — a structure old enough to know how to hold its silence.
Downstairs, the kitchen glowed with warm yellow light as Eira stirred pasta on the stove, barefoot and humming under her breath.
Ares sat at the small wooden table, chin in his hand, watching her with quiet fascination. There was something impossibly tender about seeing her like this — in her own space, relaxed, focused, softly lit by the golden wash of the pendant lamp.
She caught him staring and narrowed her eyes playfully. "What?"
"Nothing," he said. "Just… documenting this in my brain forever."
Eira rolled her eyes and turned back to the pot, but her smile betrayed her. "You're such a weirdo."
"You like it," he said, grinning.
She did. She really, really did.
They ate dinner by candlelight — not because it was romantic, but because the overhead bulb in the dining room had flickered out the week before and she hadn't replaced it.
The table was small, the food simple — buttery pasta, roasted vegetables, a bowl of olives from the market — but it felt like a feast anyway.
Eira sipped her water, then glanced up cautiously. "Hey… about Jun."
Ares's fork paused for a moment. Then he looked at her gently. "He'll be safe. Don't worry."
"That's not what I meant," she said, biting her lip. "He looked… I don't know. Sad."
"He's been carrying a lot longer than I noticed," Ares said after a beat. "But he'll work through it. He's strong. Just not always good at saying what he needs."
Eira nodded slowly, tracing her finger around the rim of her glass. "I don't think he likes me very much."
"He doesn't know you," Ares said softly. "Yet. But when he does… it'll be impossible not to."
She looked away, her cheeks warming.
Ares leaned back in his chair, twirling a piece of roasted pepper on his fork. "Hey — where's Maya? I thought she'd be here to grill me with questions and scare me off with protective best-friend energy."
Eira chuckled. "She wanted to. Believe me. But her mom wasn't feeling well, so she took the train back to Maribor this morning. She texted me four warnings and a meme of a knife before she left though."
"I'd expect nothing less."
"She'll interrogate you over FaceTime tomorrow."
"I look forward to it." Ares grinned. "Is she the chaotic one?"
"She once threw a croissant at a guy who ghosted me," Eira said flatly. "So yes."
They laughed together, the kind that left them both leaning into the moment, warm from food and something sweeter.
Ares pushed his empty plate slightly to the side, glancing at her through the warm kitchen light.
"You laugh more in person," he said quietly.
Eira blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"
His gaze softened. "Over the phone, your laugh was always… like hearing a secret. Like I had to earn it. But here — it's like you're not hiding it anymore."
She bit her lip, glancing down at her half-empty glass. "Maybe I'm not."
"Good," he whispered.
There was a long pause between them — not awkward, but full. Full of everything they didn't know how to say yet. Full of the way their knees kept brushing under the table and neither of them had moved.
Eira tilted her head, breaking the moment with a playful smirk. "You're really good at this."
"At what?"
"Disarming people with soft words and even softer smiles."
He shrugged dramatically. "It's part of the brand."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't stop smiling.
The house had dimmed again, lights low. Eira padded into her room and flopped onto the bed with a sigh. Her journal was still on the nightstand. She opened it, scribbled something small — "He looked at me like I was stardust." — and then smiled to herself.
She didn't hear him at first, but she felt it — the shift in air, the warmth of his presence at the door before he even spoke.
Ares leaned against the doorway, towel slung over his shoulder after a quick shower, hair damp and curling at the edges. His hoodie clung to him lazily, like it was as tired as the day, and he looked entirely out of place and yet perfectly meant for this room.
"You always write before bed?" he asked softly.
Eira looked up, a little surprised. "Sometimes. It helps me sort my head out."
He nodded thoughtfully, eyes drifting around her space — the fairy lights, the uneven stack of books, the worn record player by the window.
"It suits you," he said.
"What does?"
"This room. It's like a stitched-together dream. Quiet and full of feelings."
She laughed gently. "Most people just call it cluttered."
"Yeah, but your kind of clutter feels like someone lived a hundred lives in here and fell in love in every one."
That made her pause. Her fingers still curled around her pen, but her breath caught just enough to give her away.
"You always talk like that?" she murmured.
"Only when I mean it."
A beat passed. Then another.
He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. "So… where am I sleeping?" he asked, arms crossed with a crooked grin.
Eira sat up. "In Maya's room. You know — the one with all the pink scarves and the feminist zines stacked like architectural marvels."
"Ah," he said, mock serious. "The Shrine of Maya."
"You'll survive."
He raised an eyebrow. "Will there be glitter?"
"Only on the pillowcases."
"Perfect."
And then they both giggled
The moon had shifted higher in the sky when Eira finally drifted to sleep, her breaths slow and even beneath the tangle of her comforter. A single fairy light blinked lazily above her head, like a heartbeat too tired to stay awake.
The door creaked softly.
Ares stood at the threshold, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped over a threadbare T-shirt, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He didn't step in right away. He just looked at her — long and quiet and full of some kind of ache.
Ares's Midnight Self-Conversation
She's real.
She's right there.
Not pixels. Not audio files. Not the glow of a screen.
Breathing. Curled up in her universe.
And I get to be part of it.
He stepped in, slower than a thought, afraid that the floorboards might betray him. He stood by her bed, watching the way her hand curled softly near her face. She looked younger like this — or maybe just freer.
Ares whispered, as if afraid the room might hear, "You have no idea how long I've been dreaming of this."
He crouched down beside the bed, resting his arms on the mattress edge.
"I kept trying to write you into songs," he murmured. "But none of the words ever felt big enough. Or soft enough."
Eira stirred, just a little — a small sound caught in her throat, but not fear. Just sleep.
"I wasn't going to come in," he whispered. "But I missed you. Even with you upstairs."
He hesitated.
Then slowly, carefully, he climbed in beside her — not close enough to touch, just enough to feel the space between them hum.
He lay there on his side, watching her for another long minute, before pulling the edge of the blanket over his legs. He exhaled.
And then, softly, to no one but the night:
"This is the safest I've ever felt."
Eira stirred again, eyes fluttering — just once — before she rolled toward him, still mostly asleep, her forehead nearly touching his shoulder.
Ares smiled.
He didn't reach for her. He didn't need to.
She was here.
And so was he.