Saval closed his front door carefully. Dropped his keys on the hallway table, hung his backpack on its usual hook, and stood there for several seconds.
The house's silence felt different tonight. Not uncomfortable or heavy. Just... soft. As if something invisible still lingered with him.
He kicked off his shoes, stretched his shoulders, and walked to his room. Everything in place—his streaming laptop powered down, the desk cluttered with untouched study notes, his bed waiting. He fell backward onto it, staring at the ceiling.
Smiled to himself.
—That was nice, —he whispered, closing his eyes.
Not the movie—though it had been beautiful, strange, and sad. He meant the moment. Being with Semiel. Their hands.
He could still feel the warmth in his palm. Like his skin remembered the touch. They hadn't spoken about it, which made it more special.
He didn't know exactly what was happening between them. Still feared rushing, mistaking affection for something else. But he didn't want to deny it either.
There was something.
And that something, when it happened, made him feel calm. Safe.
—Didn't think I'd feel this comfortable, —he murmured, pressing a hand to his forehead.
He remembered their fingers brushing accidentally in the popcorn bucket. Expected to pull away reflexively like always. But he hadn't. Then when he'd rested his hand on the seat, Semiel took it without hesitation. Like he knew it was okay.
Warmth bloomed in Saval's chest. Not embarrassment. Something else—a mix of shyness and softness he couldn't name.
—I'm smiling by myself, —he said, muffling his face with a pillow.
God why am I thinking like this and grinning like an idiot.
He rolled over, as if movement could release what he felt. But it stayed. The image of Semiel beside him—profile lit by the film's blue glow, focused on the screen.
He felt stupid for not noticing him properly before. For taking so long.
And grateful to have him close now.
—What am I supposed to do now? —he asked the air, expecting no answer.
No clue. Didn't know if they should talk about it. If he should ask Semiel what it all meant. But part of him didn't want words yet. Feared breaking the spell.
Besides, there was beauty in not knowing. In letting things unfold slowly.
He checked his phone. No messages. Not that he expected any. They'd already said everything during that hour-long handhold.
He pulled the blanket up, lamplight still on. A dog barked distantly. The fridge hummed. Everything normal—except his mind.
—I want to hold his hand again, —he realized.
And that was enough to know something in him had changed.
He didn't know if this was love, or just finding someone who made him feel more himself. But whatever it was—it felt good. Made him want to stream again, study harder, talk to Semiel every day.
He turned over and hugged the pillow. Not sleepy yet, but content to lie there with the memory fresh.
—Thanks for staying with me, —he whispered, as if Semiel could hear from his room, from his world.
He closed his eyes. The last image before sleep—their fingers touching in a dark theater full of strangers, in a story that needed no words.