[Location: Your Apartment | Time: 10:12 PM]
The vinyl crackled softly from the corner, something old playing — Bowie or maybe Fleetwood Mac — too mellow for either of them, but neither had changed it. The smell of takeout filled the kitchen. Something greasy in a paper bag. Fries already going cold. She sat on the counter, legs swinging slightly, one boot off, one glove still on. He stood across from her, digging through drawers for ketchup like it was the most important mission of the week.
It was quiet.
Not the kind of silence that meant danger or ambush or breath before a punch — just quiet. Normal quiet. Like people who didn’t have swords in their closets or blood on their boots. Like people who watched movies and ate fries and argued over which ice cream tasted most like regret.
He found the ketchup.
“You want some?” he asked, tossing the packet to her without looking.
She caught it one-handed. “Do I look like I eat condiments?”
He smirked. “You look like you haven’t eaten anything that didn’t scream in years.”
She raised an eyebrow, peeled the packet open with her teeth, and squirted it onto a fry anyway. “You make me sound feral.”
“You are feral,” he said, coming to lean beside her.
She popped the fry in her mouth, chewed slowly, then looked over at him. “You’re not afraid of me anymore.”
“I was never afraid,” he replied.
She studied him for a beat. “Then why do you always flinch when I get too close?”
He didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched, soft and full of things unspoken. The fridge hummed. The vinyl skipped slightly. Somewhere below them, a siren wailed then faded.
“You scare me in ways I don’t hate,” he finally said.
She blinked, once. Not confused. Just… not used to being seen like that.
He reached up and tucked a loose strand of white-blonde hair behind her ear. She didn’t stop him. Didn’t break eye contact. Her mouth was set — neutral, unreadable — but something in her shoulders softened.
“This is nice,” she admitted.
“What is?”
“This. The silence. The space. You.”
“You say that like it’s temporary.”
She looked away then, down at the fries, at the floor, at anything but him. “Isn’t it?”
He tilted her chin back. Just enough. Just long enough.
“It doesn’t have to be.”
She kissed him.
It wasn’t about fire or pain or proving anything. Just warm lips. A slow press. A fragile thing neither of them dared call hope. She pulled back first, but didn’t leave.
“I could stay tonight,” she said quietly, almost a question.
“You could stay every night,” he said, more answer than promise.
And just like that, without blades or blood or ancient vendettas, they carved out something rare.
Not a truce.
Not surrender.
Just… normal.
Something she never knew she needed.