They don't plan it.
That's what makes it feel safe.
The night begins quietly—shared dinner, shared silence, the hum of the apartment familiar now. Pressure hasn't lifted. Emails still wait unanswered. But neither of them is bracing.
They sit close on the bed, knees touching. Elian's thumb traces slow circles against Juni's hand, the touch absent-minded until it isn't.
Juni looks at him. "I want to," he says softly.
Elian doesn't move immediately. "Only if you're sure."
"I am," Juni replies. "And I want us to go slowly."
Elian nods. "We can stop anytime."
They kiss—deeper than before, unhurried, mouths learning rather than claiming. Hands explore carefully, checking in through touch as much as words. Clothes are shed gradually, not as urgency but as agreement.
There is no rush. No performance.
Only attention.
The world narrows to breath, warmth, closeness. Elian pauses more than once to ask. Juni answers each time without hesitation.
Later—after—the room is quiet again.
Juni lies against Elian's chest, listening to his heartbeat, grounded and real. On the nightstand, an empty condom wrapper catches the low light—undramatic, undeniable.
Elian brushes Juni's hair back gently. "How are you?"
Juni exhales, calm settling through him. "Safe."
They don't speak for a while.
Nothing has been solved. The system still watches. The stakes still stand.
But they chose anyway.
And in the quiet after, that choice feels less like defiance and more like truth—something steady enough to hold, even as everything else grows louder.