Sleep refused them both.
The house lay quiet beneath the waterfall's endless murmur, its warmth steady and comforting, yet two rooms remained awake—lights off, minds restless.
Lunaria lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
Every time he closed his eyes, it happened again.
Ash's voice.
Ash's hands.
Ash's lips.
He pressed the back of his wrist against his mouth as if that might cool the lingering warmth there. His heart refused to slow, beating too loudly in his chest, as though afraid the night might hear it.
Why did I run?
The thought circled endlessly.
He had faced abominations that shattered cities without flinching. He had stood before death with calm resolve. Yet a single kiss—warm, deliberate, filled with intent—had undone him more thoroughly than any battlefield ever could.
His face heated again at the memory.
Ash's words echoed relentlessly.
I want you.
You've been driving me insane.
Lunaria turned onto his side, silver hair spilling across the pillow, fingers clutching the fabric beneath him. His chest felt tight—not with fear, but with something dangerously close to yearning.
He hadn't pushed Ash away.
That realization struck harder than anything else.
He had answered.
Somewhere down the hall, Ash lay awake too.
He stared at the dark, one arm draped over his eyes, jaw clenched as if holding himself together by force alone. The warmth of the valley did nothing to calm the storm in his chest.
I shouldn't have done that, he thought.
And then—
I'd do it again.
The moment replayed vividly. The way Lunaria's breath hitched. The way his hands had trembled before gripping Ash's shoulders. The way his composure shattered so beautifully when words finally failed him.
Ash exhaled slowly.
He'd meant every word. That was the problem.
He'd crossed a line he could never pretend didn't exist, and now the silence that followed felt louder than any battle they'd fought. What if Lunaria regretted it? What if he thought Ash had gone too far?
Ash dragged a hand down his face.
What if I scared him?
The thought twisted painfully.
Morning came gently.
Sunlight crept into the valley, spilling gold across the cliffs and the quiet house. Birds called softly. The waterfall sang its endless song.
But two doors stayed closed.
At breakfast time, Juno noticed first.
"…They're not up?" she asked, glancing at the empty seats.
Kael frowned. "Lunaria's always up early."
Riven shrugged. "Ash too."
They knocked.
No answer.
Inside his room, Lunaria sat on the edge of his bed, fully dressed but unmoving, hair still loose, eyes fixed on nothing. Every time he thought about stepping outside, his chest tightened.
What do I say to him?
Across the hall, Ash leaned against his door, arms crossed, forehead resting lightly against the wood. He'd gotten dressed too—then stopped, unable to take the final step.
What if he won't even look at me?
The house went on without them.
Footsteps passed. Dishes clinked. The day unfolded.
And still, neither Lunaria nor Ash stepped out.
Because some battles left no wounds you could see—
only thoughts that refused to let you rest,
and feelings too heavy to face in daylight.