Hael did not knock.
He also did not enter.
He waited.
Morning light had begun to thin the shadows in the hall when Zyrán opened his door and found Hael seated on the floor opposite it, back against the wall, knees drawn up loosely, hands resting open on his thighs.
Not guarding.
Not blocking.
Waiting.
Zyrán froze. "How long have you been there?"
Hael lifted his head. His expression was softer than Zyrán expected—tired, but calm. "Long enough to know I didn't want to be somewhere else."
The words were chosen carefully.
Zyrán leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, uncertain. "You didn't come in."
"I didn't want to decide that for you," Hael said.
That landed differently than anything else he could have said.
Silence followed—not the brittle kind, not the weighted kind. Just space.
Zyrán exhaled. "You disappeared."
"I stepped back," Hael replied. "And I realized that distance can be its own kind of pressure."
Zyrán studied him. "You read something, didn't you?"
Hael's mouth curved faintly. "Yes."
"About me."
"About what happens around you," Hael corrected. "And around me."
Zyrán hesitated, then stepped out into the hall. He sat down opposite Hael, mirroring him without quite realizing it. The symmetry felt accidental—and intimate.
"You're not touching me," Zyrán said quietly.
Hael nodded. "I'm asking permission without words."
Zyrán's gaze flicked to Hael's hands. Open. Empty. Not reaching.
"Why now?" Zyrán asked.
"Because I learned something important," Hael said. "You don't need to be protected from the world. You need to be protected from being alone with it."
Zyrán swallowed. "Those feel the same."
"They're not," Hael said gently. "One is control. The other is companionship."
The hallway brightened as the sun rose higher, light catching in Hael's hair, softening the sharp edges Zyrán had grown used to.
"I won't hover," Hael continued. "I won't pull you back from every edge. And I won't pretend I know what's best for you simply because I'm older than time."
Zyrán huffed a quiet laugh. "That's a strange thing for an angel to say."
"I'm not speaking as one," Hael replied. "I'm speaking as someone who cares what you choose."
Zyrán's fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve. "And if I choose wrong?"
Hael did not answer immediately.
Then: "Then I'll be here to ask you why."
Not to stop him.
Not to punish him.
To listen.
The answer loosened something in Zyrán's chest.
"You don't trust yourself," Zyrán said.
Hael met his gaze steadily. "I'm learning how."
They sat there, the space between them no longer a boundary but a shared decision.
After a moment, Zyrán shifted closer—just a few inches. Enough to test.
Hael stayed still.
"Is this okay?" Zyrán asked.
"Yes," Hael said, and meant it without fear.
Zyrán leaned back against the wall beside him, their shoulders nearly touching. Not quite. The almost was important.
"I don't want you gone," Zyrán said quietly.
"I'm not," Hael replied. "I just won't take up all the air anymore."
Zyrán nodded, resting his head briefly against the wall, eyes closing. "That helps."
They stayed like that as the house fully woke around them—no declarations, no vows renewed.
Just presence.
And somewhere far away, Samael felt the resonance falter—not break, but blur—and frowned.
Because control could be tempting.
But choice, freely offered and gently held, was harder to steal.
And for the first time since he turned his attention toward Zyrán, Samael wondered if patience alone would be enough.