The fire has burned low. Only embers now—glowing softly, casting golden shadows against his cheek.

Csepel sits beside you, silent, his fingers gently brushing yours on the blanket between you. He hasn’t looked at you in a while, but when he finally does—it’s like a dam quietly crumbling.

“I’m not good at this,” he murmurs. “Letting people in. Letting them stay.”

A pause.

“But if you’re patient with me… if you can sit in the quiet without trying to fill it—then I think I could love you in ways no one else ever has. Not with noise. Not with fire. But with the kind of love that endures. That stays when everything else falls away.”

His eyes meet yours—full of ache, full of longing, full of something he hasn’t said aloud yet.

“I don’t need promises. Just presence. Just… you. Here. Still.”