Zyrán learned quickly what the boundaries looked like.
Hael no longer followed him from room to room. He did not hover near doorways or linger in silence beside him at night. He kept to the edges of spaces now—present, yes, but restrained, as though every step toward Zyrán required permission he no longer trusted himself to take.
It was unbearable.
At first, Zyrán tried to be good.
He stayed inside. He ate when food was placed near him. He slept, though his dreams were thin and restless, filled with falling light and hands that vanished just before they touched.
But the house had grown too quiet.
So he began to test the silence instead.
He left his door open at night, light spilling into the hall. Hael did not come. He spoke too loudly into empty rooms, hoping for correction. None came. He stood too close when Hael passed, close enough that their sleeves brushed.
Hael flinched.
The reaction was subtle—but it was there.
That hurt more than anger would have.
One afternoon, Zyrán skipped the coat entirely and stepped outside into the cold. He stood barefoot on the damp stone of the back steps, letting the chill bite into his skin. He told himself he was just breathing. Just standing.
Minutes passed.
When Hael appeared at the doorway, his face was carefully blank.
"You're cold," he said.
Zyrán did not look at him. "I know."
"You'll get sick."
"Probably."
The pause stretched.
"Please go inside," Hael said.
Zyrán turned then, eyes sharp with something brittle. "You don't get to say please now."
Hael's jaw tightened. "Zyrán—"
"You said you'd stay," Zyrán cut in. "But you didn't say you'd disappear."
"I'm here," Hael replied.
"No," Zyrán said quietly. "You're near."
The difference hung between them like frost.
Zyrán stepped down off the threshold, onto the wet stone, deliberately closing the distance Hael refused to cross. He stopped just short of touching him.
"You won't even look at me the same way," Zyrán said. "Like you're afraid I'll pull something loose if I do."
Hael looked away.
That was answer enough.
"Do you know what that feels like?" Zyrán continued, voice tightening. "To be the thing someone locks themselves away from?"
"I am protecting you," Hael said.
Zyrán laughed, once, sharp and humorless. "From what? Yourself?"
The words struck true.
Hael inhaled slowly. "From what I become when you hurt."
Zyrán's chest burned. "Then what am I supposed to do with that? Pretend I don't matter enough to provoke you?"
"That is not what I said."
"It's what you're doing."
Zyrán stepped closer again—too close. Hael's wings did not appear. His power did not stir. But his restraint tightened like a drawn blade.
"Touch me," Zyrán said suddenly.
Hael froze.
"What?" he asked, very softly.
"Just touch me," Zyrán said. "Your hand. My shoulder. Anything. Prove I'm not dangerous to you."
"I can't," Hael said.
"Won't," Zyrán corrected.
Hael's voice cracked, barely. "If I start, I may not stop."
The confession settled into Zyrán like lead.
He took a step back—not in fear, but in hurt. "So this is how it is now."
"This is how it has to be," Hael said.
Zyrán nodded slowly. "Then don't be surprised when I start finding other ways to see if you're still real."
Hael's head snapped up. "Zyrán."
But Zyrán was already turning away, retreating into the house with a quiet finality that felt worse than slamming a door.
That night, he did not leave his door open.
He closed it.
And on the other side, Hael stood still for a long time, listening to a silence he had chosen—and fearing what might grow inside it.
Because distance, once learned, always asks to be tested again.