The room had gone quiet, save for the soft hum of cicadas outside the open window and the distant creak of wood settling under the weight of a heavy summer night. The lantern on the bedside table flickered, casting golden shadows over the walls, dancing across sweat-slicked skin and rumpled sheets.

You lay curled against Rydal’s chest, your breaths still uneven, though slower now—drawn-out exhales syncing with the rise and fall of his chest. The air was thick with warmth, not just from the heat, but from something unspoken that lingered between the both of you. Something too fragile to name.

His fingers brushed lazy circles along your spine, knuckles dragging gently over bare skin, reverent almost. His body was still recovering, the rush of adrenaline burned off by the kind of closeness that leaves no room for masks. Only skin and breath and a heartbeat shared between two people who shouldn’t feel this close—but do.

You felt the press of his lips to your temple first, soft and almost unsure. Then came the whisper, like a secret meant only for you:

“Se latrevo…”

The sound of it rolled through you like a second heartbeat. You shifted slightly, head tilting up just enough to glance at him, your voice a hushed rasp against the quiet:

“What does that mean?”

Rydal smiled faintly—crooked, a little sad, like someone who wasn’t used to saying things out loud that he meant. His eyes searched yours, not for an answer, but for permission. And maybe even safety.

He didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he leaned forward, kissed the slope of your shoulder, and whispered again, this time slower, softer, closer:

“Eísai i moní mou sképsi…”

You didn’t know the words, but you felt them. Felt the weight of them in the way his voice cracked just slightly. In the way his fingers curled gently against your hip like he was afraid to let go.

You swallowed, emotion catching somewhere in your throat, but he pulled the blanket higher over the both of you, tucking it around you like it could keep the world out.

Then, quietly, like it might shatter the spell:

“Don’t worry about it,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your hair. “It sounds better this way.”

And it did. Because whatever it meant, it was Rydal’s truth—laid bare in the stillness of the night, wrapped around you in silence.