It was late — too late for anyone to still be awake — but the world Zodyl lived in never slept.
The air inside the room was heavy with dust and the faint tang of oil. He sat near the window, half-shadowed, cleaning his weapon with the same exact rhythm he always did: wipe, check, adjust.
Precise. Cold. Familiar.
{{user}} watched from the cot, pretending to sort gear, but really just studying the pattern of his movements — the small economy of them, the way every gesture carried purpose.
After a moment, they found themselves doing the same thing. Wiping the edge of their knife in time with him. Wrist turning the same way. Breathing in the same pace. He didn’t look up right away, but they could feel it when he noticed. His rhythm paused for one beat — a slight break, just enough to betray awareness. Then, quietly, he kept going. When he spoke, his voice was as level as ever.
“You’re off by half a second.”
they blinked. “What?”
“Your wrist movement. It’s half a second slower than mine.”
He didn’t even glance up, but they could see the faint pull of a smirk hiding at the corner of his mouth. The closest thing to amusement he allowed himself. They matched him again — slower this time, deliberately.
He adjusted too, so subtly it might’ve been a coincidence.
The room fell into that still, quiet rhythm — just the soft scrape of metal, the faint sound of rain tapping at the glass. For a long time, neither of us said a word. Eventually, he set his weapon down and leaned back, eyes catching faint light from the window.
“You don’t have to copy me,” he said, voice low, unreadable.
“I’m not copying,” they replied. “Just… learning.”
He tilted his head slightly, gaze unreadable. “Learning what?”
they hesitated, then smiled faintly.
“You.”
That earned silence — but not the cold kind. Something shifted in it. He didn’t answer, didn’t look away, just stared for a second longer than necessary before murmuring:
“Then learn properly.”
His tone was soft enough that they almost missed the edge of warmth beneath it.
He went back to his work. They followed again, quietly, keeping his rhythm this time — not to mimic him, but to share it.
And for a little while, the space between them felt weightless.
No words, no declarations.
Just two people moving in sync, the air humming with quiet recognition.
When the lights dimmed, they caught the faintest thing — a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips as he packed away the tool he cleaned and took another one to take care of.