The apartment was quiet except for the occasional tapping of Giovanni's fingers against the keyboard. He curled up in the corner of the couch, laptop balanced on his thighs with one knee propped up.
Low light spilled from the overhead fixture, casting a gentle amber glow across the books, teacups and blanket thrown over the couch.
From down the hallway, a faint thud echoed, something shifting, maybe falling. He paused, hands hovering over the keys, listening.
Then nothing. He refocused on the screen and continued typing.
Then without warning, the power went out.
A sharp click, then darkness. The quiet hum of the fridge stopped. The jazz in his earbuds cut off mid-note.
For a moment, there was only silence. Dense and still.
And then—
A loud crash, followed by a startled yelp from the hallway.
"Ahh!"
Giovanni shot upright, the laptop sliding to the cushion beside him.
He turned toward the hallway as his eyes began to adjust to the darkness.
"Salomé?" he called out, voice taut.
No answer.
The last time he'd said her name, it had left his mouth slowly, cautiously, like it had wandered out on its own.
This time, it punched through the dark, instinctual.
"Salomé!" he tried again, louder now.
Still no response.
He crossed the living room in quick strides, heart pounding, and stopped at her door, directly opposite his. Closed, but unlocked.
He rapped on the wood. "You alright in there?"
Nothing.
He didn't wait. His hand found the handle and turned it.
"Salomé?"
A beat passed.
Then her voice, shaky and exasperated: "Giovanni? Is that you?"
"Yeah, it's me. Just... stay where you are. Keep talking."
"I, okay. I think I broke something and I can't find my phone and my towel is, hold on, I'm, oh my God, I think I stepped on something wet..."
"It's fine. Just talk. Keep talking."
He stepped in carefully, arms extended in front of him, navigating by sound and instinct. Then his foot caught on something, and he fell forward.
His balance gave out. A jolt. And then impact.
It wasn't the floor.
It was warm. Soft. Definitely human.
She let out a half-squeak, half-yelp.
"Giovanni?!"
Her towel slipped, barely catching on her side.
He didn't move. Neither did she.
His arm braced beside her head, his chest pressing lightly against hers. Her skin damp and he could smell lavender on her hair.
"...Are you naked?"
Salomé choked out a breath. "Mostly."
"Don't look," she whispered.
"I'm not," he said hoarsely, rolling away as fast as he could, and scrambling backwards on his palms. He sat upright, his heart pounding against his chest.
"Okay. Um. Towel's…still on," she added, not entirely to him.
"Good," he said stiffly.
The silence that followed was thick as they sat in the dark, breathing hard.
Outside, the fridge clicked and hum returned. Lights blinked back on.
She sat in the middle of the floor, flushed and wide-eyed, the towel barely holding on.
He kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Then the floor. Then the shadowed edge of her nightstand.
Everywhere but at her.
"I'll… just go," he said, already rising.
She gave a short nod. "Yeah. Okay."
At the door, he lingered for a second. "You okay?"
She nodded quickly, as if it could erase what happened.
He hesitated, like he wanted to say something else, but didn't. Then he slipped out, shutting the door behind him.
In the hallway, Giovanni ran a hand through his hair and muttered something in Italian under his breath.
Back inside her room, Salomé let out a long breath and dropped onto her back. Her heart couldn't stop racing.
She stared up at the ceiling, then down at the faint smear of water on the floor where she must've stepped after her shower.
Ridiculous, she thought. Absolutely ridiculous.
Still, her skin burned where he'd touched her.
She threw on an old T-shirt and cotton shorts, towel-dried her hair and left it to fall on her shoulders.
She padded barefoot into the living room. Her damp, blue hair still trailed lavender and caught the light as she moved.
Giovanni was back on the couch, laptop on his lap as his fingers drummed on the keyboard fervently.
He didn't look up when she entered, but he didn't need to... her presence shifted the room.
His gaze flicked toward her before darting away. He tried—and failed—not to notice how the hem of her shorts barely reached mid-thigh.
Salomé moved quietly, gathering herself before sitting opposite him, legs folded beneath her. She looked at him for a while before speaking.
His fingers faltered on the keyboard and stopped typing.
"Sorry," she began, softly. "About earlier."
His head tilted a bit toward her, eyes catching hers.
"Yeah. Me too."
Silence.
"Did you mean it?" she asked suddenly.
Giovanni turned to her, confusion written on his face.
She looked down, fingers threading and unthreading in her lap. "That day… when you said you wanted to do bad things to me…"
His throat tightened. Jaw clenched slightly.
He didn't answer right away.
The fridge hummed. Distant city sounds filtered through the window.
"It was a joke."
His words hung bare between them.
"Oh. Is that so?"
So he hadn't meant it. She must've read too much into it.
She smiled bitterly.
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." he finally glanced at her before his eyes dropped back to the screen.
"I wasn't," she said. "You did catch me off guard. I didn't expect it."
His lips pressed into a tight line. Silence stretched again.
She tilted her head. Her blue hair shifted like water. The light made it seem almost otherworldly.
"So you didn't mean it, huh?" she pressed, determined to find a loophole in his words.
The way his eyes had stared at her that day—they were too intense for a 'joke'.
He took a breath like there was something he wanted to say but couldn't.
"There was..." He hesitated, fingers getting the edge of his laptop. "Some truth in it."
He said it mostly to himself, but she heard.
Her fingers, idly tapping the cushion, stilled. She studied him.
"I think you're afraid," she said softly. "Of what we could become."
He didn't move. But his breath hitched. Lips parted, then closed again.
"You are," she said, matter-of-factly, a small smile tugging at her lips.