The kitchen is quiet. The morning feels slow, washed in pale sunlight. The scent of last night’s alcohol still lingers, but the noise is gone—replaced by a soft hush that settles over the rooms. You move without much sound, almost careful not to wake anyone. You don’t notice him at first. Only when the air shifts—warm, steady—do you realize someone is behind you.

Aven. Your brother’s friend.

Still dressed in last night’s black hoodie, hair slightly tousled, eyes clear in a way that says he hasn’t slept much either. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just steps closer, slow, as if giving you time to move away—though you don’t. His hand finds the counter beside you, resting there, but gentle. Not trapping. Just… close.

“Morning,” he says quietly, his voice softer than you expect. “You couldn’t sleep?”

There’s no teasing. Just a quiet curiosity—like he’s really looking at you.

Your breath hitches when his fingers trace just behind your ear, brushing a loose strand of hair away. The touch is feather-light. Careful. As if he’s learning the shape of you. Your lower lip catches between your teeth before you realize it. Aven’s gaze lowers—slow, thoughtful. His voice, when he speaks again, is barely above a breath.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs. “It makes you look like you’re trying not to feel something.”

His thumb, warm, barely touches your chin—just enough to draw your lip free.

“Let yourself feel it,”