The house smelled like old books and boiled tea leaves.
A ceiling fan spun slow circles above, stirring the afternoon heat into a dull hum. Aria sat cross-legged on the floor beside the low coffee table, a half-open notebook in front of her, the pen in her hand motionless.
She wasn't drawing. Just... staring.
Lucian stepped in from the hallway, shoes off, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He carried a small paper bag, crinkled at the edges, and paused when he saw her.
"You're supposed to be in bed, Aria."
"Not sleepy," she said flatly, eyes fixed on the blank page.
Lucian watched her for a moment. Then walked over and sat down beside her, folding his tall frame into the awkward space between table and sofa.
He reached into the paper bag and pulled out two strips of black licorice.
"I got you these."
She blinked at them. Then her lips twitched — not quite a smile, but close.
"Everyone else hates licorice."
"I'm not everyone else."
She took one, twirling it between her fingers. "I told the girls at school it tastes like dark secrets. They said I was weird."
Lucian raised an eyebrow. "You are weird."
"So are you."
They ate in silence for a while, the room full of low sounds — the fan's rotation, a distant honk outside, the soft crunch of paper bag as Lucian folded it neatly beside him.
Aria leaned forward, picking up her pen again. She drew two stick figures on the page: one tall, one small. The tall one had spiky hair and was holding a lopsided umbrella.
"Is that supposed to be me?"
She didn't answer. Just kept drawing, adding raindrops above their heads.
"I don't smile that much," Lucian said when she added a crooked grin to his stick figure.
Aria shrugged. "You do when I'm not looking."
Lucian didn't deny it.
She set the pen down again. Her voice came softer this time.
"Will you still visit? Even when you're busy?"
He looked at her. Then nodded, once.
"Every time I can."
She didn't press it. Didn't ask for promises. Just nodded too, like that was enough.
And it was.
They stayed like that a little longer, side by side on the floor, sharing black licorice and silence.
No grand confessions. No declarations.
Just the small, steady shape of something quietly forming between them — something unnamed, but real.