“So,” he said, wings fluttering with a soft rustle as his gaze swept the room, “it’s like a sleepover… but forever?”

You nodded.

The Halovian scanned every corner of the space. It had always felt too big with just you in it—so when Pom-Pom and Himeko suggested you and Sunday become roommates, it almost made sense.

You gave him a quiet tour: the bathroom, the shelves, the corner where the old video game console blinked to life. His bed, still neatly made, now held a single plush bird—a small, grayish thing, worn at the edges. His only belonging. His most precious.

You didn’t linger. Just put on one of Robin’s songs on the gramophone, soft and steady, and slipped out. Gave him space.

When you returned, he was standing by the window, haloed in starlight, wings tucked close as he looked out at the galaxy beyond.

He must’ve heard your footsteps, because his feathers twitched and he turned to you, eyes catching the light.

Amber.

Once, long ago, you’d hated those eyes—hated what they reminded you of. But now, there was something different in them. A softness. A flicker of something new.

“Do you need help with any of the chores?” he asked, voice light.

You shook your head.

There was something unsettling about how willing he was to help. Like he was trying to earn the space he took up. Meanwhile, you always were wrapped in blankets, Aetherium Wars glowing on your screen, doing nothing in particular.

He hesitated, then asked, “Did you put on Robin’s songs?”

You nodded again.

His wings relaxed slightly. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Just that.

And though the stars burned silently outside, for the first time, the room felt like a place where something might grow. Slowly. Quietly.

Together.