The entrance cloth moved behind her with the night wind, muffling the sound of the forest outside. It was dark, but she already knew the color space. The maps scattered, the shirt thrown on the chair, the radio squealing softly in the corner.

Bellamy was on his back, moving the wound. The naked body from the waist up, the tense muscles, the marked skin.

She didn’t say anything.

“You should rest.”

His voice came low, dragged by tiredness.

“I can’t.”

He turned around slowly. The eyes met hers as if it were inevitable. As if everything they had fought against - years of implication, stubbornness, survival - was there, between the two, waiting for the right moment.

Silence.

She took two steps. He didn’t back down.

“Can I stay here?”

The question came out lower than she intended. More vulnerable.

Bellamy just nodded.

She sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled the blanket, leaving room for her. The two lay on their sides, facing each other, as if the world outside didn’t exist. As if everything that mattered was between that piece of ground and the sound of mutual breathing.

His eyes went down to her mouth for a moment. But there was no kiss.

Her hand slipped under the blanket, found his, squeezed lightly.

He intertwined his fingers.

“I didn’t want to fight with you today,” she said, in a whisper.

“I never want to,” he replied.

The silence has returned. But now it was lighter. Almost comfortable.

She approached, touching her face to his shoulder.

And they became like this.

No hurry. No promises.

Just two exhausted hearts...

...Finally in peace next to each other.