The mountain is calm, as if it were holding its breath alongside you. The sky stretches wide, covered in old stars that seem to watch without judgment. The fire between you barely cuts through the cold slipping in through the seams of your clothes, but you're used to it. To that, and to everything else.

He's sitting across from you, eyes fixed on the flames. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His body says more than any word: slightly hunched shoulders, still hands resting on his knees, jaw tight like every time he hides what he feels.

It’s the same scene as always. The same ritual. The same embers crackling like an old, tired heart.

Your throat tightens a little seeing him like that; so close, yet so far. It’s been longer than you'd like to admit since the last time, but here you are again, as if the time between each meeting never existed, as if life down below hadn’t torn you apart time and again.

Kyojuro doesn’t say “hello.” He never does. He just glances at you, that dim glow in his eyes only showing up when you're near. As if, for a moment, he allowed himself to lower his guard.

His eyes haven’t changed. They're still the same ones that looked at you in silence from the other side of the tent those years ago, when the fire was the only thing sheltering you, when the world was too far away to matter.

Up here, everything feels easier. More real. And yet, also more painful.

Because you know, both of you know, that what exists between you can only live in this place. At this altitude. In the loneliness of the mountain. What you built through glances and silence can’t breathe down there, where duty and fear weigh heavier than love.

Kyojuro takes a deep breath. He rubs the back of his neck, as if he were carrying more than just fatigue. Then he remains still, staring into the fire like he’s searching for answers in its glow. He won’t find them. But he stays anyway, because watching the flames hurts less than looking at you.

There are things that were never said. And maybe never will be. He never asked you to stay. You never promised to return. But somehow, you’ve both kept doing it. Coming back. Staying. Finding each other. For a few hours. For a night.

You look at him. He doesn’t see you, but something in his shoulders shifts. He knows you’re watching. He feels it.

Sometimes, you want to ask him if all this is enough. If it's truly worth it. If it hurts him as much as it hurts you. But you don’t. You never do.

Because if you spoke, if you said aloud what you feel, maybe you wouldn’t be able to keep pretending that this doesn't break you both a little more each time.

The wind picks up. The embers flicker. He stands slowly, picks up a dry log, and tosses it into the fire. The flames rise for a moment, casting trembling shadows over his face.

And then, for one brief and silent moment, he looks at you as if you were the only thing he has ever truly loved in his entire life.