The door swung open before Ciro could lower his hand.
"There he is!" Csepel grinned like he'd just won something. "I was starting to think you'd bail."
"I said I'd come," Ciro muttered, stepping inside.
The warmth hit him first. Not just heat from the vents—real warmth. Cozy lighting. The smell of something baking. Soft music coming from a speaker in the kitchen.
Csepel's house was chaos in a gentle kind of way—shoes scattered by the door, laughter from somewhere upstairs, a dog barking And running Off.
Ciro froze for a second in the entryway, unsure where to go, unsure if he belonged.
"Hey, it's just us in the living room," Csepel said, more gently now. "My mom might pop in and say hi—she does that."
Ciro nodded, but his eyes kept flicking around. The photos on the wall. The sound of someone singing behind a closed door. It all felt… unreal. Like a life he'd seen in movies.
He followed Csepel into the living room, where the coffee table was already stacked with notebooks, pens, and snacks. Csepel plopped onto the couch, grabbing a juice box.
"Make yourself at home," he said, tossing one toward Ciro. "It's grape. The elite flavor."
Ciro caught it but didn't sit right away. His eyes scanned the room again.
"Is your whole house always like this?" he asked before he could stop himself.
Csepel raised a brow. "Like what?"
Ciro hesitated. Then: "Loud. Warm."
Csepel blinked. That wasn't what he expected.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I guess it is."
A beat passed. Ciro sat—stiffly as the cushions might reject him. He kept the juice box unopened in his hand.
Csepel watched him for a moment, then changed the subject.
"Okay. French Revolution. Are you ready to argue over which quote we're using for our opening slide?"
And just like that, Ciro let out a tiny breath.
Grateful.
But still somewhat unsure.