They did not speak on the way home.
Zyrán walked half a step behind Hael, as though the space between them were deliberate, as though crossing it might reopen something neither of them knew how to close. The city had returned to itself—cars passing, windows lit, the river resuming its slow indifference—but the night around them felt thinner, stretched where the light had torn through it.
Hael did not look back.
When they reached the house, he unlocked the door and stepped aside, letting Zyrán pass first. The gesture was familiar. The distance was not.
Inside, the silence felt different now. It no longer held them. It separated them.
"I'll make tea," Zyrán said, mostly to fill the air.
"No," Hael replied too quickly.
The word hung there, sharp with restraint.
Zyrán turned. "No?"
Hael stood near the doorway, his coat still on, his hands clenched at his sides as if he feared what they might do if allowed to rest. His face was pale—not with exhaustion, but with something closer to horror.
"I need… space," he said.
Zyrán's chest tightened. "Because of what I did?"
Hael shook his head. Once. Then again. "Because of what I did."
He moved farther into the room but stopped short of the light, lingering where shadow still held. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter—carefully so.
"I lost control," he said. "Not metaphorically. Not partially. I lost it."
"You saved me," Zyrán said.
"That is not the same thing," Hael replied. "I broke the world to do it."
Zyrán took a step closer. "You wouldn't hurt me."
Hael looked at him then.
There was no anger in his eyes.
Only fear.
"I don't know that anymore," he said. "And that is why I must not be near you."
The words struck harder than the flare of light had.
Zyrán stopped moving.
"You're leaving?" he asked.
"No." Hael exhaled, slow and unsteady. "I'm staying. But not like before."
He turned away, removing his coat with deliberate care, as though even fabric might provoke him. He folded it neatly, set it down, then moved to the far end of the room, where the window stood cracked open.
"I cannot be your shadow," he said. "I cannot follow every step. I cannot let myself react the way I did."
Zyrán swallowed. "You're punishing yourself."
"I'm containing myself," Hael corrected. "There is a difference."
The rain began again outside—soft, unassuming, as if it had not witnessed what came before.
"I'm afraid of what I become when I forget myself," Hael continued. "When you are in danger, I stop being… careful."
Zyrán's voice shook. "I thought you said you'd stay."
"I am staying," Hael said. "But I will not cross certain lines again. Not unless you truly need me to."
"And who decides that?" Zyrán asked.
Hael did not answer.
That was answer enough.
Zyrán moved to the table and sat, fingers knotting together. The room felt larger now, emptier—not because Hael was gone, but because he had stepped back.
"I didn't mean to scare you," Zyrán said finally.
"I know," Hael replied.
"I didn't think you'd—" He stopped, then tried again. "I didn't think you could lose control."
Hael closed his eyes. "Neither did I."
The admission was quiet. Devastating.
For a long time, nothing moved between them but breath.
At last, Hael spoke again, softer still. "We need boundaries. Until I am certain I can keep you safe without becoming something else."
Zyrán nodded, though his throat burned.
"Okay," he said.
But the word felt too small for what it accepted.
Hael turned back toward him—not approaching, not retreating. Just looking.
"This doesn't mean I care less," he said. "It means I care enough to be afraid."
Zyrán met his gaze. "That doesn't make it hurt less."
"No," Hael agreed. "But it may keep us alive."
Outside, the rain traced thin lines down the glass, like threads drawn too tight.
And somewhere beyond the veil of night, Samael felt the distance form and smiled—not because love had broken, but because it had learned fear.
Fear was always the beginning.