The night was unusually still. The storm that had rolled through the city earlier had left the air heavy and clean, the faint scent of rain lingering through the open windows. Inside the Cleaner headquarters, the lamps burned low — only a few pools of soft light flickering over the workshop tables and the uneven floor.

Most of the others had long since gone to sleep. You stayed behind to finish sorting the supplies, though your movements were slow, aimless. The silence was comfortable but a little too deep, the kind that makes you aware of your own breathing.

You didn’t hear Arkha come in at first. He moved too quietly, boots hardly making a sound on the floor. When you looked up, he was already standing in the doorway — his jacket half undone, dark hair slightly damp, the faintest trace of exhaustion in his eyes.

“Still awake?” he asked, voice low, smooth as ever. You gave a small shrug, stacking another crate. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He crossed the room and stopped beside the desk, watching you work. He didn’t say anything more — didn’t need to. The silence between you had always been its own kind of language, comfortable and steady. But tonight it carried something else, something quieter and more tender.

Your fingers brushed as you passed him a file. Just a small touch, but it lingered. The air shifted — the faint hum of tension, soft and electric.

Then, somewhere outside, a song was playing for a while— faint, muffled, probably from a nearby building. A slow, old tune carried by the wind. It was just…coming louder to you now. Maybe because your senses were at their peak?

You felt his gaze on you before you looked up. Arkha’s voice came quietly, almost uncertain.

“Do you dance?”

You blinked, surprised. “What, now?”

“Why not?” he said, the corner of his mouth curving ever so slightly.

He stepped closer, and before you could answer, his hand extended — gloved fingers waiting, steady and open. You hesitated, heart beating fast, then placed your hand in his. His grip was firm but gentle, his palm warm against yours.

Without another word, he guided you to the open space between the tables. The song outside drifted faintly through the night air — just enough rhythm to move by. His other hand settled lightly at your waist, his touch careful, almost reverent, as if afraid to break the fragile quiet that surrounded you both.

You moved slowly at first. The steps weren’t graceful, not really — your boots scuffed against the floor, and you almost stepped on him once. But Arkha didn’t laugh. He only murmured, “Easy,” his voice low, calm, guiding. He adjusted your hands, your rhythm, until you found a steady pace together.

The sound of your breathing mingled with the rain outside. The lamps cast long shadows that swayed with your movements, like ghosts of past battles fading into something softer.

Arkha’s expression softened as you moved closer. The faint lines of weariness around his eyes eased. You realized this was probably one of the few times he’d ever let himself just be — no commands, no duty, no weight on his shoulders. Just stillness, and the rhythm of two people breathing in sync.

“You’re better at this than I expected,” you teased quietly.

“I learn fast,” he replied, his lips ghosting into a brief smile.

When the music finally faded, he didn’t step back right away. He stood there, holding you close in the hush that followed — the world reduced to his heartbeat against your chest, slow and steady. His forehead brushed yours, a barely-there touch that spoke louder than words.

then the music outside changed. Still something appropriate for a slow dance, yet…also a bit more catchy.

will you keep dancing?