They don't talk about it when Juni returns.
He texts first—Can I come by?—and Elian answers immediately. Yes.
No explanations. No conditions.
Juni arrives late, shoulders tense, eyes tired. Elian lets him in without speaking. The apartment is quiet, lights low. Familiar, neutral ground.
They sit on opposite ends of the couch at first.
Minutes pass.
Then Juni shifts closer—not touching, just near enough to feel the shared warmth. Elian mirrors the movement. Still no words.
Eventually, Juni speaks—not about the argument. "I don't want to leave angry."
Elian nods. "Me neither."
That's all they say.
They move to the bedroom together, not as escalation, but as choice. The routine is gentle—brushing teeth side by side, the ordinary motions grounding them back into shared time.
In bed, Elian reaches out tentatively. Juni takes his hand.
The contact is simple. Steady.
They lie facing each other, knees brushing, breathing slowly syncing. Elian's thumb traces a small, absent circle against Juni's knuckles.
"I'm still upset," Juni says quietly.
"I know," Elian replies.
"I don't need you to fix it tonight."
"I won't try."
Juni exhales. "I just need to feel like we're not fracturing."
Elian shifts closer, pressing his forehead lightly to Juni's. "We're not."
They stay awake longer than usual, not talking, just existing in proximity. Elian's arm settles around Juni's shoulders. Juni tucks himself closer, the tension in his body easing by degrees.
There is no urgency. No attempt to soothe with desire.
Only presence.
At some point, Juni murmurs, "Thank you for not disappearing."
Elian tightens his hold slightly. "Thank you for coming back."
Sleep arrives slowly, then all at once.
The argument isn't resolved.
The system still presses.
But staying over becomes something else tonight—not habit, not comfort, but repair.
They don't promise solutions.
They promise continuity.
And in the quiet hours before morning, that is enough to hold them together.