Eiran had just opened his textbook when he heard a knock on the door.
Ah... that must be Vale.
He hurried to open it, only to find Valerian standing there with a book in hand—not too thick, not too thin.
His skin looked paler than usual, and his deep black hair was still slightly wet. His dark green eyes seemed hazy, and his shirt collar was loose and undone. Even then, his black hair lay perfectly in place, as if it had never learned how to rebel.
Eiran's gaze lingered for a moment before he finally snapped back to his senses.
Looks like he took a long shower. May made catching a cold unlikely, but wet hair was still reckless.
"Why can't you just use a towel if you don't like hair dryers?" Eiran shook his head helplessly. "You're too picky, Delaire."
"You know I don't like wasting my time on things like that," Valerian replied matter-of-factly, making Eiran roll his eyes.
Eiran scoffed. "As if you didn't come here just to get me to dry your hair for you."
"All right, I was wrong," Valerian admitted immediately—without forgetting to reap the benefits. "Now help me with this, okay?"
Then, almost casually, he added, "You don't want me to get sick, right?"
Eiran sighed. He probably couldn't say no to him anyway.
...He was really unfair when he acted like this.
"Sit here. Let me bring a towel for you."
"Okay."
Eiran went into the bathroom and returned a few minutes later with a fluffy gray towel. Valerian was already sitting on the bed. Eiran knelt behind him, gently rubbing his hair dry.
"All right, it's done now."
Suddenly, Valerian pulled Eiran down to sit beside him, making him gasp at the unexpected movement.
Just as Eiran was about to ask why, Valerian took his hands and began massaging them in a practiced, familiar manner.
Eiran froze for a long moment before mumbling, half-joking, his voice barely above a whisper:
"Why are you so silly around me... and so serious with everyone else?"
He pulled his hands free, stood up, and walked toward the bathroom with the now-damp towel.
"Do you want me to act this way with others too?" Valerian's voice was low and unreadable, as if testing every word.
Eiran paused, fingers tightening slightly around the towel.
"That's not what I mean," he said quietly, almost hesitant. "I... like it this way."
With that, he hurried into the bathroom, as if trying to flee. Valerian watched him disappear, his expression unreadable.
He could say it now. He could pull him back—keep him here.
But that would be careless. Not yet. Trust was fragile. Once broken, it never returned the same.
And Valerian Delaire never moved until he was certain he could afford the consequences. Only when every piece—the name, the family, the future—bowed to his authority would he ever stop waiting.
Valerian didn't let his thoughts wander for too long. He placed the notes Eiran had brought on the table in front of him.
After that, they didn't speak of the previous topic again and acted as if nothing had happened. Everything returned to normal... at least on the surface.
They continued studying together in silence, occasionally helping each other if they had doubts. It wasn't until the sky was already dark that they stopped to take a break and ordered something to eat. Later, they resumed studying.
Eiran's mom also called to check if they were comfortable and doing well. They spoke for only a few minutes, since she still had work to finish.
Valerian returned to his room, and since it was late, both decided to go to bed. Peace settled quietly over the house.
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While they slept, miles away, a figure lingered before a painting in a quiet, dimly lit room. Moonlight pooled through the open window, tracing the meticulous lines of the artwork and illuminating the faint shimmer of silver in his hair. The soft rustle of the room accentuated his stillness.
A man stood tall—around 6'6", broad-shouldered, long-legged—but it wasn't his height that commanded attention. It was the stillness of him, the unsettling calm, as though time itself hesitated in his presence.
His silver-blond hair, faintly wavy, brushed past his collarbones when loose. Strands caught the moonlight, soft but unyielding, framing a face sculpted in frost and quiet light.
Porcelain skin glowed beneath the pale night, flawless yet distant—something to admire from afar, never to touch.
His lips, pale rose, softened the sharp precision of his features.
His eyes—steel blue, luminous, piercing—held a restrained ache, like a storm sealed behind glass. There was gravity in them. Not beauty meant to charm, but beauty meant to silence.
Untouchable.
Unreachable.
Not handsome—something rarer. Something almost unreal.
Even the painting before him seemed diminished. For a fleeting second, man and art blurred together as he brushed a stray lock from his eyes. He carried a fragile authority—the kind that quieted a room without a single word.
He stood there a while longer before lifting the book from the table. His movements were deliberate, unhurried. His hands hovered above the pages as though the words themselves were sacred.
His fingers were long and pale, tapering toward delicate tips. As they traced the lines of the poem…
I walked; while walking, I got lost.
I lied; while lying, everything worsened.
With different thoughts for every circumstance,
I am still dancing with my past.
Sentences without words can't make stories.
Moments without people can't be memories.
If I am a book filled with stories,
Then in this life, I simply lack some memories.
His fingers traced the lines like they were tracing the pulse of the words themselves, each letter alive beneath his touch—like the poem recognized the quiet gravity of him.
For a moment, man and text seemed indistinguishable. Moonlight pooled around him, highlighting the arches of his knuckles and the delicate curve of each wrist.
It was impossible not to watch, impossible not to feel the quiet gravity of him—the way he could make even a few words feel like the weight of the world.
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The next morning, Valerian rose before Eiran but didn't rush to wake him. First, he dressed, then ordered breakfast, placing it neatly on the table in his room before walking to Eiran's door.
A soft rustle came from inside, followed by a mumbled groan. Valerian waited patiently, letting the quiet stretch between them.
After a few moments, the door creaked open. Eiran appeared, still drowsy, his lightly wavy hair tousled from sleep and cheeks faintly flushed from lingering dreams. He looked impossibly delicate—like someone carved from sunlight and morning haze.
Without thinking, Valerian reached out, sliding his hand around Eiran's waist and pulling him close. Eiran, slightly shorter, rested comfortably against his shoulder.
"Still sleepy?" Valerian murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Eiran's ear, his voice a velvet whisper that seemed to wrap around him.
Eiran's almond-shaped eyes drooped almost closed. He barely managed a small nod in response. If it weren't for Valerian's support, he might have lost his balance.
Valerian said nothing, simply guiding him back to his room to freshen up. Once Eiran was fully awake, they went together to Valerian's room for breakfast.
After breakfast, Valerian left, his schedule keeping him occupied for the day. Eiran, now alert, returned to his books, flipping through them a few more times before settling in to study.
I hope everything goes well...
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