The storm had passed.At least for now.
The city outside Day's penthouse stretched like a dark sea of lights, shimmering behind thick glass walls. Somewhere below, traffic murmured, but up here—there was only stillness.
Sky curled into the oversized couch, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. There was a half-empty mug of tea on the coffee table. Chamomile. Day's idea.
"I googled it," he'd said earlier, awkward. "Said it helps. With nightmares."
Sky had stared at him for a full five seconds before laughing so hard he nearly cried. Not because it was funny—but because Day, son of a mafia king, cold and sharp and lethal, had googled how to help someone sleep.
And made tea.
It had undone Sky a little.
Now, Day sat beside him. Not touching. Just close enough that their knees brushed when Sky shifted. He looked...not relaxed, but not made of iron, either.
Softer. Tired in a way he rarely showed.
Sky glanced over. "You ever do this?"
"What?"
"This." Sky gestured around the room. "Be normal. Sit on couches. Drink tea that isn't poison. Talk about feelings."
Day made a face. "Definitely not that last part."
Sky smiled faintly. "You're not bad at it."
"I'm terrible at it."
"But you tried."
Day didn't answer.
He stared at the lights outside, something distant in his eyes.
"I don't sleep much," he said after a while.
Sky turned to look at him.
"I don't have dreams. Just...memories that refuse to fade. I close my eyes and I see names I've had to forget. Rooms I had to leave. People I couldn't save."
Sky was quiet.
Then: "You saved me."
Day's jaw twitched.
"I wasn't supposed to need saving," Sky added, voice low. "But you came anyway. You didn't even hesitate."
"I always hesitate," Day said. "Just not with you."
Sky leaned his head on Day's shoulder, slowly, testing the waters. Day went still—then let it happen. Like the weight of someone touching him was something he didn't know how to accept, but wasn't willing to lose.
And in that silence, Sky whispered, "Do you think we'll ever get normal?"
Day was quiet for a long time.
Then: "No."
Sky blinked.
"But," Day said, "we can have this. A night. A moment. Something that doesn't hurt."
Sky closed his eyes.
"That's enough," he whispered. "For now, that's enough."
Day didn't move. Didn't speak.
But when Sky's fingers brushed against his—gentle, uncertain—Day curled his own hand around them, lacing their fingers together like it was a promise he didn't know how to say out loud.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel like the heir to a criminal empire.
He just felt held.