They worked silently, papers spread between them like a fragile truce. Ciro kept his head down, pen scribbling neatly. Csepel bounced between pages, tabs, and occasional sideways glances.
"Do you always write this neat?" Csepel asked, breaking the quiet. "It's like… aggressive penmanship."
Ciro didn't look up. "You're messy."
"Stylishly chaotic," Csepel corrected, grinning.
No response.
Csepel leaned back against the couch cushions, arms behind his head. "You always like this?"
Ciro paused mid-sentence.
"Like what?"
"You know. Closed off. Tense. Like I might bite you or something."
"I've met your dog," Ciro said without looking up. "You're the one who bites."
Csepel laughed—sharp, surprised.
It was a small crack in the tension. But Ciro didn't smile. Not really.
Minutes passed. The pages thinned, and the silence thickened.
At one point, Csepel shifted to grab a new notebook from his bag. His elbow brushed against Ciro's arm, pushing his sleeve up slightly.
Csepel froze.
Just beneath the hem—bare skin. A glimpse of black ink. A tattoo. Chinese characters. And under it, a faded, rough scar. Thin, but unmistakable.
Csepel didn't say anything at first. Just looked.
Then, too soft: "What's that say?"
Ciro's posture changed instantly. Like a door slamming shut.
"Don't."
"I wasn't—"
"You were."
Ciro stood up, sleeve yanked down like the air had turned cold.
"I should go."
Csepel stood too, confused. "Wait, what—why? I didn't mean—"
"You always mean it," Ciro said quietly, eyes avoiding his.
"I didn't know—"
"Exactly."
And somehow, that was worse.
Ciro moved toward the door. Csepel didn't follow.
He just stood there, surrounded by notebooks and grape juice and a heavy silence.
The door shut with a soft thud.
And Csepel was alone.
Again.