The night settled without negotiation.
Juni arrived later than planned, shoulders tight from the day, bag heavier than it needed to be. Elian opened the door and stepped aside, letting him in without questions. The apartment felt different than it had before—less temporary, less like a borrowed pause.
"Long day?" Elian asked.
Juni nodded. "The kind that keeps talking even when it's over."
Elian took his jacket, set it aside, and returned with a glass of water. He handed it over without ceremony. Juni drank, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction.
They moved into the evening gently. No agenda. No effort to turn closeness into something it didn't need to be. Elian cooked while Juni sat at the counter, flipping through his sketchbook, occasionally pointing out a line he liked or one that bothered him.
"This one," Juni said, tapping a page. "I rushed it."
Elian glanced over. "You didn't rush," he said. "You stopped early."
Juni considered that. "That might be worse."
Elian smiled faintly and returned to the stove.
Later, they sat on the floor with their backs against the couch, the city humming softly outside. Juni leaned into Elian's shoulder without thinking. Elian adjusted instinctively, arm settling around him with practiced ease.
There was no spark of novelty. No question about what came next.
That was what made it feel safe.
When they went to bed, Juni turned toward Elian immediately, fitting himself into familiar space. Elian's hand rested between Juni's shoulders, steady and warm. Juni breathed out slowly, the day loosening its grip.
It occurred to him—quietly, without fanfare—that this no longer felt like an exception. It wasn't a night stolen between obligations or justified by stress.
It was simply where he slept when he needed steadiness.
In the early hours, Juni woke briefly, disoriented for a moment by the dark. Then he registered Elian's presence—solid, unhurried—and closed his eyes again.
Stability didn't arrive loudly.
Sometimes it just stayed.