The city was asleep or at least, pretending to be.
Streetlights flickered against the darkened windows of the high-rise buildings, reflecting off the wet asphalt from an earlier rain.
It was late, past midnight, and the roads were empty enough that the sound of my boots clicking against the polished corridor floors echoed louder than I expected.
The condo door of my unit came into view.
Familiar.
Safe.
Silent.
Mine.
I reached for the key, and that's when I noticed him.
Calix.
Standing there.
Leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, jacket draped over one shoulder.
The casualness was there, yes, but beneath it… something more.
Concern.
Uncertainty.
A small flicker of irritation that I was late, yes, but worse: he had no idea where I had gone.
I paused, hand on the doorknob, and regarded him. "Good evening," I said flatly, calm, distant.
No warmth.
No guilt.
Just… fact.
He blinked. "Aurora." His voice was low, steady, but carried that subtle tension that only came from people unsure if they were about to be met with indifference or confrontation. "Where… were you?"
I didn't answer.
Not immediately.
I only opened the door and stepped inside, allowing him to remain outside.
He followed, quiet, taking the small steps behind me like a shadow that refused to disappear.
The unit smelled faintly of rain and old leather from my boots.
I kicked them off without ceremony, folding the coat neatly on the chair beside the door.
"You could've said something," he murmured, still standing near the threshold.
"I didn't think it was necessary," I said evenly, moving to the living area.
My movements were deliberate, precise, and unhurried.
The unit was quiet, almost untouched, like it had waited patiently for me.
For once, I appreciated the stillness.
He stepped closer, exhalation soft, measured. "You didn't tell me where you went. After lunch, after… errands. I didn't know if you were safe."
I didn't look at him.
I poured myself a glass of water from the kitchen, hands steady. "I'm always safe. I don't require supervision."
"That's not what I meant," he said, voice lower now, almost pleading. "I just… I didn't know."
I turned finally, just enough to meet his gaze. Cold. Distant. Detached. "You don't need to know."
He froze.
Not for long.
But long enough.
He took a step closer, hesitant, then paused again, as if measuring the distance not just in feet but in the invisible barriers I had so carefully erected. "Aurora…"
I drank from the glass, deliberately slow.
The taste of water was sharp, metallic, grounding.
I set it down on the counter with a soft clink. "I've told you before. My life is mine. I decide how to move through it. Where I go. Who I see. Don't mistake distance for disrespect. It's not."
He exhaled, tension rolling off his shoulders. "I know that," he said. "I just…" His voice faltered. Then steadied. "I don't want you alone if you don't have to be."
I let the silence linger between us, the weight of the words settling into the space I had made deliberately uninviting.
I didn't soften.
I didn't offer him reassurance.
I didn't even acknowledge the small flicker of concern that threatened to unsettle me.
Because I had learned long ago, leaning on anyone, letting them in, even slightly, was a vulnerability I refused to allow.
And yet… his presence lingered.
I walked past him toward the balcony, letting the cool night air brush against my face.
The city sprawled endlessly below, alive yet indifferent, lights twinkling like stars fallen to earth.
I rested my hands on the railing, inhaling, exhaling, letting the silence absorb the day, the lunch, the errands, the tensions, the endless expectations from both families.
He came to stand beside me.
Close, but not intrusive.
Quiet.
Watching.
Waiting.
"You didn't have to go to the stable tonight," he said softly.
"I did," I said simply. "It was… necessary."
He said nothing.
Just nodded once.
Respectfully.
Carefully.
That was enough for him.
And that, in turn, was enough for me.
We stood there for a long while in silence.
The city hummed below, the night thick with possibilities I didn't allow myself to consider.
I didn't look at him.
I didn't touch him.
I didn't acknowledge the subtle warmth of his presence, though it was unmistakable.
Finally, he spoke again. "Tomorrow… you should sleep. You've been pushing too hard."
"I'll sleep when I want," I said, still distant, still cold, still untouchable.
He exhaled slowly. "I see."
And for once, he said nothing more.
Just stayed.
Just existed in the periphery of my world, allowing me to remain sovereign in my space, even if that meant he was an uninvited shadow.
I turned toward the balcony railing again, looking down at the city, letting the wind tear through my braid, letting the quiet of the night wash over me.
The anger, the disappointment, the expectations, they all remained outside, dissolved in motion and silence.