The apartment was warm, the air heavy with the faint smell of coffee and paper. Juni stood by the counter, rinsing his mug, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into his eyes.
Elian watched him without meaning to.
It wasn't longing exactly. It was awareness—of closeness earned slowly, of comfort that no longer startled.
"You're staring," Juni said lightly, without turning around.
Elian looked away. "Thinking."
"That's worse," Juni replied, smiling.
Juni set the mug down and turned. He leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely, studying Elian with quiet curiosity.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
Elian hesitated. Then, honestly, "How easy this has become."
Juni's expression softened. "Easy isn't bad."
"I know." Elian stood, closing the distance between them—not rushing, just stepping closer. "It's just… different."
They stood inches apart. Juni tilted his head slightly, eyes searching Elian's face. The space between them felt charged—not urgent, not desperate. Just present.
Elian lifted a hand, fingers brushing Juni's wrist in a question rather than a claim. Juni didn't pull away.
For a moment, it felt like the next step was obvious.
Their faces were close enough that Elian could see the faint freckles along Juni's cheek. Juni's breath slowed, matching his.
Then Juni stilled.
"Not yet," he said quietly—not as refusal, but as choice.
Elian nodded immediately. "Okay."
They didn't step back. They stayed where they were, letting the moment settle into something gentler. Elian rested his forehead against Juni's, the contact brief but grounding.
"I like that we can stop," Juni said after a moment. "That it doesn't feel like loss."
Elian smiled faintly. "It feels like trust."
They moved apart naturally, the tension dissolving without regret. Juni picked up his jacket.
"I should head back," he said.
Elian walked him to the door. As Juni slipped on his shoes, he glanced up. "Same place tomorrow?"
Elian nodded. "Always."
When the door closed behind him, Elian leaned against it briefly, exhaling.
The almost lingered—but not as frustration.
As reassurance.
They weren't rushing toward something undefined. They were choosing each step with intention.
And that, Elian realized, might be the most intimate thing of all.