The stars are still there when I look up again. Somewhere along the way, hours passed.

We’ve been lying here shoulder to shoulder on a mattress that smells of dew, grass, and linen dried in mountain air. I haven’t noticed the time passing. Haven’t felt the minutes crawl.

The sky swallowed them whole, and I let it. That’s the thing about silence like this. It doesn’t just empty the world.

It empties you too.

And for a while—for the first time in longer than I can remember—the hollow inside my chest didn’t feel like a wound.

It just felt like space.

But the cold is changing now.

It started as a whisper against my skin—barely there, easy to ignore. Now it’s sharper. More insistent. I can feel the dew gathering at my throat, cold against my skin. Like the sky itself is leaning down to kiss me there.

I turn my head.

Silas is still looking up.

His face is tilted toward the stars, his profile cut sharp against the silver light. His lips are parted slightly, his breath leaving his mouth in slow white clouds. His lashes don’t move.

He looks like he could lie here forever. Like he’s always belonged to places like this.

How is he not tired?

We drove for hours. Climbed for hours. Lay here in the cold for hours.

And his face is still fresh. Untouched. Like exhaustion simply forgot him.

But his eyes—

I notice them now. Really notice them. In daylight, his eyes are brown. Warm. Soft. The kind that doesn’t demand attention but somehow never lets you look away.

But here, under this sky, in this light—

They’re different.

The stars have bled into them, silver and pale, turning the brown into something deeper. Something older. Like looking into water at dusk, when the sun has gone but the light hasn’t decided to leave.

There’s a color there I don’t have a name for. A shade I’ve never seen before. It catches the starlight and holds it, like his eyes aren’t just seeing the sky but drinking it.

Brown with silver. Brown with something burning underneath.

I blink. Look away.

Since when do I do color theories on anyone’s eyes?

I am Ellis Roselle. SS-Class Alpha. The man who reads minds like other people read headlines. The man who doesn’t wonder about anything because he never has to—he just knows.

Except when it comes to him.

Then I know nothing.

Then I’m standing in a room with no windows, reaching for a light that won’t turn on.

And then I feel it.

His fingers. Still wrapped around mine. His hand rests against mine, fingers still laced through mine like they had been there the entire night.

We’d been holding hands for hours, and I never even noticed.

But why.... his hand is cold.

Not the cold of someone who’s been lying in the dew for hours. Something else. Something deeper. Like his blood runs cooler than it should. Like his warmth is a secret his body doesn’t know how to keep.

Is he okay?

The question arrives before I can stop it.

"Are you okay?"

The words come out quieter than I meant them to. Softer. Almost gentle.

He blinks. Turns his head toward me.

The soft smile spreads across his lips—slow, automatic, like breathing. Like smiling at me is something his body does without asking permission.

He nods. Quickly. Too quickly.

I look down at our joined hands. At his fingers curled around mine, pale against the dark.

I pull back. Calmly. Slowly. His fingers slip from mine like water through a crack in a dam. One by one, they fall away.

I sit up. The mattress shifts beneath me. The sheets whisper softly beneath me as I move.

Maybe I’m thinking too much.

"Let’s go back." I don’t look at him when I say it. My voice comes out flat.

Silas sits up too. The mattress dips on his side, and I feel the careful shift of his weight—like he’s trying not to disturb the air between us.

He nods. Slower this time. His soft smile fades. Only a little. Only at the edges.

I look around again. At the fairy lights still glowing in the trees—gold and soft, flickering like they’re trying to remember something important.

"How did you find this place?" My voice comes out quieter than I meant it to. I glance at him. "You don’t even belong to this country."

He takes out his notebook. The pencil moves smoothly across the page between his fingers. He writes. Tears the page free. Then hands it to me.

I searched for it online. I was certain you would like it.

My brow lifts.

He was certain I would like it?

I look at him. "How could you be so certain? What if I didn’t like it?"

He writes again. Tears another page free.

Because I feel like you enjoy quiet places. Peaceful places. You don’t like noise or crowds.

The pencil pauses for a moment.

Then he adds:

And you love mountains.

I stare at him.

I love mountains?

"How could you possibly know that?"

Another note.

From Tale of Nine Flowers. You once talked about the old woman’s home—the one high in the hills overlooking the valley. The way you spoke about it... it felt like you loved places like that.

I blink.

From the book. He noticed. He listened. He remembered.

My voice comes out flat—but softer than I intended. "You’re talking very confidently." A pause. "But I don’t like mountains. Understand?"

He blinks. Confusion flickers across his face. He writes again.

But earlier you said you liked it here. Don’t take back your words.

My expression shifts. Just a little. "That was the stars. I like the stars." Another pause. "And don’t be so certain you understand someone. You barely know me."

He looks down at his lap. The pencil rests motionless in his fingers. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares at the blank page, thinking. Then he writes again.

You liked the stars. So... can I have a reward?

I stare at him for a moment.

"You want a reward?"

He nods. Eager. Hopeful.

"What do you want?"

He writes quickly—as if he’s been waiting for this question, as if the answer has been sitting on the tip of his pencil all along.

Please let me sleep on the bed with you. There’s only one bed. And the couch is cold. I don’t want to sleep there.

A sharp smirk spreads across my lips. Amused. "Who told you to book only one room?"

I stand up, dusting off my clothes. Just to keep my hands busy. "Sleep on the couch. I’m not sharing the bed."

Before he can write another word, I turn.

"I’m heading back."

Behind me, I hear him scramble to his feet. His footsteps follow immediately—urgent, quick, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear into the darkness and leave him here.

His hand catches my sleeve. Just the fabric. Light enough that I could pull away if I wanted.

I stop. Turn.

That pout returns immediately—lips pushed out, brows drawn together, eyes wide and pleading.

He looks down at his fingers, twisting the fabric of my sleeve like a child who doesn’t want his mother to leave.

I free my sleeve from his grasp.

"Not a chance."

I walk faster now, my steps quick against the wet grass. The stone path stretches below, glowing faintly with fairy lights.

He follows.

"No matter what you do," I call over my shoulder, "I won’t let you sleep on the bed."

The cold air burns my lungs as my pace quickens. My breath fogs in front of me. I can still hear him behind me—his footsteps lighter than mine, quicker against the path.

Then I glance back. He’s running too. Not with determination— with joy.

His face is flushed from the cold, his hair disheveled, his eyes bright. He looks like a child chasing after something precious.

A soft smile spreads across my lips before I can stop it.

"If you catch me before I reach the room," I say, slowing just enough for him to hear, "I’ll let you sleep on the bed."

He blinks. Then the soft smile spreads across his lips—wide now, bright enough to light his whole face. He nods. Quick.

"Then let’s see who wins."

I turn.

And run.