The second-floor hallway of the residence stretched out like a gallery of shadows and polished wood. The air outside Aibek's room was noticeably colder than the warm microclimate they had built beneath the blankets, thick with the scent of pine, lingering green tea from the previous night, and the relentless moisture of the morning.
Jake did not let go of Aibek's left hand until they reached the first landing of the stairs. It was not a childish act of provocation, but a silent declaration of presence: there was nothing to hide, no corner to retreat to in guilt. Aibek walked with his body upright, even though the weight of the medical bandage on his right wrist reminded him with every step that the overnight truce had ended.
From the ground floor came the low but steady hum of morning activity. The rhythmic clinking of a cup against the kitchen counter, Taishi's neutral voice reading out the federation's metric scores, and, above all, the sharp, rapid clicking of a keyboard.
