They walked back to the dorm together—three silhouettes stretched by the low sun. When they reached the hallway where Rain split off, he offered a lazy salute before turning with a grin, leaving Julian and Thomas to walk the rest of the way alone.
Their footsteps echoed in the corridor—Thomas ahead, Julian trailing behind like a quieter thought.
Thomas opened the door to their room first. The lock clicked open and he slipped inside without looking back. Julian followed, not expecting much more than that.
"Thank you for the food!" Julian called softly as he closed the door behind him.
Thomas didn't turn. "Yeah."
Julian hesitated. "It was Rain's idea to invite you. I told him you'd probably be busy. I mean… you usually are. Every day—"
"It's alright," Thomas cut in, voice low but not harsh. He walked to his desk, set his bag down like he'd done a hundred times before, and pulled out his chair with familiar finality.
Julian gave a little nod, though Thomas couldn't see it. "Oh—okay."
He didn't expect conversation. He never did when Thomas fell back into that still, efficient rhythm—the one he wore like armor. So Julian padded over to his bed and sat down. Quiet. The kind of quiet you learn to accept when someone shares a space but not a world with you.
He looked out the window.
The sky was turning to gold.
It held him there—liminal light pouring in like honey, brushing his skin, his thoughts. The sun dipped just low enough to kiss the edges of the buildings across the street, casting long shadows that draped over the room like a slow exhale.
After a few minutes, Julian stood and dragged his chair across the floor. It scraped a little too loudly. Thomas flinched—just a twitch, but Julian saw it.
"Oops. Sorry," he murmured.
Thomas didn't reply. Didn't look up.
Julian sat at the window, knees drawn up, sketchbook balanced against them. He rested his back against the sill and started to draw—something loose and quick, lines chasing light.
Then the wind came.
It swept through the open window like it had a purpose. It carried the curtain with it—lifting it, wrapping it around Julian's shoulder like a living thing. Loose papers on Thomas's desk fluttered, lifted, and scattered like startled birds.
Thomas sighed. Not annoyed. Not frustrated. Just tired. He turned his head, hand paused on the keyboard.
And he saw Julian.
Golden light spilled through the window like it had chosen him. His hair whipped around his face, catching little flashes of orange, the curtain haloing him in soft movement. His silhouette blurred in the light, like a page half-drawn and still being imagined.
Thomas watched him—chin on his palm, eyes steady. Blank-faced, yes. But there was something under it. Something stretched and quiet. Like the stillness right before music begins.
Julian furrowed his brows at his sketch. He made a mistake. Instead of getting up, he turned his head back, maybe to speak—maybe just to reset his hand.
And their eyes met.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Julian blinked, caught in the middle of golden hour and uncertainty. The sun outlined his lashes, brushed along his cheekbone. He didn't know if Thomas was looking at him or past him. But the way Thomas wasn't moving—wasn't speaking—made something flutter in Julian's chest.
Julian looked behind him at the sky, then back again.
Then he waved.
It was small, a flick of fingers. Maybe joking. Maybe not.
Thomas blinked once, startled out of something, and turned back to his laptop with mechanical speed.
Julian stood. Crossed to his side of the room, barefoot and soft. He bent down, picked up a few of the scattered pages near his bed—one of them was a notebook page with Thomas's familiar handwriting across it, sharp and slanted.
He approached the desk and handed the papers to Thomas.
Thomas didn't look up. "Just put them there. And close the window."
Cold. Busy. But Julian had learned how to read tone beneath tone.
He set the papers gently on the desk.
"Okay," he said, and went back to the window.
He closed it slowly, fingers grazing the cool frame. Outside, the sun was sinking but still burning. The glass caught its final blaze, reflecting gold across Julian's cheek as he sat back down, alone with his drawing.
The wind had gone. But something else still stirred in the air—quiet and unsaid.
And Thomas didn't look up again.
But he didn't type, either.
He just sat there, staring at the screen, hearing the echo of paper, and watching the way the light left the room.