It was always the same.
Ezra worked. Lior lingered. The town carried on.
The rhythm never changed—not for them.
Ezra stood outside the shop, his hands still dusted with earth, the scent of freshly turned soil clinging to his coat. The grave had been dug. The weight of another ending settled into the still morning air, though he did not carry it—he never did.
But he always ended up here, at Lior's door.
The shop door swung open before Ezra could knock, as if Lior had already sensed him approaching. "You should wash your hands," Lior said, barely glancing up.
Ezra scoffed, stepping inside, shaking his hands like the dirt would somehow fall away before he could stain anything inside. "You should stop putting flowers where they don't belong."
Lior hummed thoughtfully, not reacting the way Ezra wanted him to—never offended, never defensive, just unbothered. "They belong there more than you do."
Ezra didn't flinch, didn't scowl, didn't react at all. But something in his presence shifted.
Lior noticed.
He always noticed.
Ezra moved further inside, scanning the shelves, the neatly tied bundles, the small warmth settled into every crevice of the space. The air smelled of rosemary.
Always rosemary.
"I assume you came for something," Lior mused, leaning against the counter, arms folded loosely.
Ezra should have said no. Should have turned around and left. Instead, his fingers tapped against the wooden counter. "Tea."
Lior smiled—not wide, not mocking, but knowing. "Of course."
Ezra sat.
Lior brewed.
They said nothing more.
Lior worked in practiced movements, selecting herbs with measured care. Ezra watched—not directly, not obviously, but enough to know that Lior brewed tea with the same focus Ezra dug graves.
Precise. Unwavering. Deliberate.
Ezra shouldn't be here.
Shouldn't linger in this warmth, shouldn't sit in the chair where time felt slower, shouldn't let the scent of rosemary wrap around him like something familiar.
Yet, he did.
Lior placed the tea in front of him without comment, without expectation, as if the ritual had long become part of something unspoken.
Ezra stared at it.
Lior exhaled softly, amused but not pushing. "Drink it before it cools."
Ezra hated being told what to do.
But he drank it anyway.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable—it never had been. Ezra preferred quiet. Lior didn't mind filling it.
"You're restless," Lior remarked, watching him over the rim of his own cup.
Ezra scoffed. "I don't get restless."
Lior tilted his head slightly, gaze sharp despite the softness that lingered in his expression. "Then you do a terrible job hiding it."
Ezra did not react, but his fingers curled slightly against the ceramic, tension pressing into his posture.
Lior smirked.
Ezra took another sip.
And the rhythm of their almost conversations continued.
***
It had always been like this.
Ezra standing too still. Lior moving too easily. Words balancing between them—some spoken, some swallowed, some left hanging in the spaces neither of them dared to define. It had always been close, but never enough.
Not until now.
Lior hadn't meant for the air to change. He had only reached forward—just slightly, just enough to brush fingertips against the edge of Ezra's sleeve, just enough to get his attention, to ground him in something real, something steady, before he drifted too far into whatever thoughts were clouding his mind.
But Ezra stiffened.
Only for a second. Only long enough for Lior to notice.
And in that pause—something shifted.
The air between them grew heavier, filled with something thick, something charged, something waiting.
Ezra didn't pull back.
And Lior didn't let go.
Ezra's gaze lowered—not sharp, not assessing, just watching.
Lior felt it—felt the way Ezra's presence weighed against his own, pressing close despite neither of them moving.
He could have stepped away.
Should have stepped away.
But he didn't.
Instead, his fingers curled slightly, just barely, just enough for Ezra to feel it, just enough for it to not be accidental anymore. Ezra's breath shifted—not sharp, not uneven, but different.
And then—Ezra moved.
It wasn't deliberate. It wasn't careful. It was instinct, reaction—leaning in without thinking, without hesitation, without any control at all.
Lior breathed in.
Ezra's fingers brushed against his wrist—barely there, barely pressure, barely enough to even be considered a touch.
But it was enough.
Lior leaned forward.
Ezra met him halfway.
The kiss was slow. Not uncertain. Not hesitant. Just slow.
It was supposed to stop.
But it didn't.
Ezra's fingers curled against Lior's wrist—just slightly, just barely, just enough to make the moment last a little longer. Lior tilted his head—just slightly, just barely, just enough to deepen the contact.
It was gentle.
It was quiet.
It was not supposed to happen.
And for one impossible second—it felt right. Again.
Ezra pulled away first. Not fast, not sharp—slow, like he was forcing himself, like his body didn't fully agree with his decision. Lior exhaled—soft, quiet, watching Ezra like he already knew what he was going to say. Ezra clenched his jaw. "That was a mistake," he muttered.
Lior smiled—small, tired, but not regretful. "Was it?"
Ezra didn't answer.
Because neither of them truly regretted it. They just had to pretend they did.
Ezra leaves too quickly—but not so fast that it looks like running.
It's measured. Controlled. Purposeful.
But Lior notices the tension in his movements—the sharpness in the way Ezra grabs his coat, the way he exhales through his nose like he's trying to steady something inside himself. The shop door doesn't slam—Ezra wouldn't let it—but it closes too firmly, like he needs a clean break, like he needs this moment to be over before it becomes something he can't ignore.
Lior watches the door for too long. Ezra doesn't turn back.
And outside, the town is too still.
Because something has shifted.
Not just between them.
But in the world itself.
And neither of them are ready for what comes next.