The kiss came quietly.

Not in a rush of passion, but in a silence too heavy to keep pretending.

Célian leaned in first, his hand trembling where it cupped {{user}}’s cheek. {{user}} didn’t pull away. For a heartbeat, it was awkward, hesitant—then all at once it wasn’t.

Years of longing pressed into every touch, every sigh. Clothes fell away in pauses, in laughter stifled against skin, in the nervousness of old friends becoming something more.

Célian wasn’t smooth that night. He wasn’t the reckless runaway or the silver-tongued charmer. He was just Min-jae, whispering soft French against {{user}}’s throat, his vulnerability laid bare. When they finally gave in, it wasn’t perfect. It was slow, tender, clumsy in parts—but real.

And afterward, Célian stayed. He didn’t joke or run. He pressed his face into {{user}}’s shoulder, whispering, “If you let me… I’ll never leave again.”

The next day, sunlight spilled across the messy sheets.

Célian woke first, hair in his eyes, lips still swollen from the night before. For a long moment, he just lay there, staring at {{user}} sleeping beside him. He looked younger like this, softer, like the boy under the tree from years ago.

Something twisted in his chest—half joy, half fear. He reached out, brushed a strand of hair from {{user}}’s forehead, and smiled faintly.

“Mon ange…” he whispered, voice hoarse. But then {{user}} stirred, and Célian’s instinct kicked in. He rolled onto his back, stretching dramatically, forcing a smirk onto his lips.

“Well,” he drawled, pretending nonchalance, “that escalated quickly, huh?”

It was a mask, as always—but the way his fingers brushed against {{user}}’s under the covers betrayed the truth: he didn’t regret a thing.