The rain had stopped hours ago, but the scent of petrichor still clung to the marble terrace like a promise not yet fulfilled. Moonlight streamed through the sheer white curtains that danced gently in the evening breeze. Beyond them, you stood barefoot on cold stone, arms folded against the quiet, wearing his oversized shirt—crisp white cotton, sleeves rolled high on your arms, the collar falling lopsided on one shoulder. It was too big. It always was. He never said a word about it. You never gave it back.

Inside, the lights were dim, golden and soft, the kind that wrapped around silence instead of breaking it. Kiansh stood a few feet behind you, coat undone, tie discarded somewhere near the door. No words passed between you. None needed to.

You knew he’d been watching. You could feel it—like a string pulled taut from his chest to your spine. You didn’t turn. He didn’t come closer. This was how he touched you sometimes: from a distance, as though stepping closer might collapse the fragile thing he’d finally let himself want.

A wind stirred your hair across your cheek. You moved to push it back, but another hand got there first. His. Fingers cool, calloused, slow. He brushed the strand behind your ear, then left his hand there—just resting. Not claiming. Not controlling. Just... staying.

You turned your face slightly, brushing your cheek into his palm. Eyes closed.

His other arm slid around your waist, not tight—loose, hesitant. A question. You leaned back into him, and that was the answer.

Together, you stood like that. His breath at your neck, your heartbeat echoing between ribs, a warmth behind your shoulder blades that had nothing to do with summer and everything to do with him.

The city lights flickered in the distance, golds and silvers and reds like constellations fallen to earth. Somewhere, a siren wailed. A street dog barked. A train passed. Time went on. You didn’t.

He bent his head and pressed his lips—quiet, reverent—to the spot just beneath your ear. His hand at your waist shifted, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin through the fabric. He still hadn’t said a word. You didn’t want him to.

This version of him didn’t need language.

His jaw rested against the side of your head, eyes closed. You felt him breathe deeper now. Slower. Like your presence pulled him back to earth every time he drifted too far away from it. He exhaled into your hair and let the world fall away.

You stayed there until the breeze stopped. Until the curtains fell still. Until the moon moved on.

And only then, only barely, did he whisper:

“Stay.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.