The terrace air was electric that night.
November had sharpened its claws. The wind didn't just whisper anymore—it howled. The stars above shimmered like shards of glass scattered across a velvet sky, cruel and beautiful. And she was already up there, notebook balanced on her knees, hoodie drawn tight, eyes fixed on the belt of Orion like she could tear it from the heavens with sheer will.
She didn't flinch when his voice cut through the night.
"Late again," he said, dragging his telescope across the concrete, tripod legs clanking with unnecessary force.
She didn't look up. "Didn't know I was on your schedule, Space Snob."
He scoffed. "You're lucky I even show up. I could be stargazing in peace if it weren't for your celestial chaos."
That made her look at him. A full-body turn, eyes ablaze, notebook closed with a slap.
"Celestial chaos?" she repeated, rising to her feet like a storm on the horizon. "That's rich coming from someone who throws tantrums over star spacing like a five-year-old."
His jaw twitched. "It's called precision. If you're going to draw the sky, at least respect it."
She took a step closer. "I live in it, genius. I don't just measure it with numbers and smugness."
The silence between them cracked like static. The air was too full—of tension, of unsaid things, of something far too big for either of them to admit out loud. So, naturally, they argued instead.
"What are you even trying to prove?" he muttered, adjusting the telescope with more force than necessary. "You don't even know the difference between apparent magnitude and absolute magnitude."
"Do too," she snapped. "One's how bright a star looks, and the other's how bright it actually is. Duh. I read, you know. I don't just play space nerd cosplay."
That earned her a smirk. "Impressive. Still drew Cassiopeia backwards last week, though."
Her nostrils flared. "I drew it how it feels. She's not a queen. She's a cage. And if you ever looked past your damn charts, you'd see it too."
He blinked. Just once. Like her words had scraped something he didn't know was raw.
She sat again, this time with a bit more force, flipping open her notebook like a weapon.
"You know," she muttered, scribbling angrily, "it's really annoying how you act like the universe owes you answers."
"It doesn't," he replied, voice low. "But it sure as hell isn't giving them to you either."
She chuckled—dark and bitter. "God, you're such a tsundere."
His head whipped toward her. "The hell did you just call me?"
"You heard me, stardust boy. All that brooding and shade— 'I don't like you; I just happen to observe stars on the exact same terrace as you every night'—classic tsundere energy."
He turned away too quickly. "Whatever. You're delusional."
But his ears were red.
For a while, they both sat. Not speaking. Not looking. Just breathing in sync under a sky that didn't care.
Above them, Betelgeuse pulsed like a wounded heart, Arcturus glittered gold, and the Pleiades shimmered like a wound. She pointed them out one by one, whispering their names into the air.
He couldn't help it. "You know your stars."
She smirked without looking at him. "Told you. I don't just scribble for fun."
He hesitated. Then: "So why sketch them like that?"
She shrugged. "Because when I look at the sky, it doesn't stay still. It moves. It feels. Like a map of everything I've never said out loud."
He leaned back on his palms, staring at the endless dark. "You talk a lot for someone who 'doesn't say things out loud.'"
"And you care a lot for someone who pretends they don't."
He didn't respond. But his silence said everything.
A satellite blinked slowly across the sky. She tracked it with her finger. "Ever think about how small we are?"
"All the time," he said. "But sometimes… I think we're exactly the right size to matter."
She tilted her head. "That was almost poetic. You dying?"
He snorted. "Don't get used to it."
Then, in a rare act of vulnerability, he slid something toward her—a folded star chart. Her eyes widened.
"What's this?"
"My custom sky map," he muttered, almost embarrassed. "I update it weekly. If you're gonna sketch, might as well sketch right."
She took it carefully, like it might explode in her hands. Their fingers brushed.
"I'm not saying thank you," she whispered.
"I didn't ask you to," he whispered back.
Their eyes met. The night held its breath.
Then:
"You still draw Orion wrong," he said.
"And you still breathe like it's a competition," she snapped.
And just like that, the fire returned. The argument flared. But beneath every insult, every jab, something else simmered—something they both felt but couldn't name yet.
Not love.
Not yet.
But gravity.
And that was enough.
For now.