Alias couldn’t find his voice. His mind was racing, trying to categorize the sensation. He had spent centuries watching mortals from above.

He had seen the desperate, hungry kisses of people in the slums trying to forget their misery for an hour. He had seen the quiet, tired affection of couples who had survived decades of dust together.

He understood the mechanics of it—that it was a gesture reserved for those who belonged to one another.

​But he had never understood the feeling. It wasn’t just a press of skin; it was a transfer of heat that made his very divinity feel heavy and grounded.

It was the realization that a kiss on the lips was worlds away from a kiss on the forehead or a graze on the chin. This was an invitation.

But despite that invitation, ​Theo didn’t push further. Despite the fire that Alias could feel radiating off him, Theo simply stopped.

He stood up, keeping Alias’s hand firmly in his, and guided him toward the slightly larger lean-to tent.

​Inside, the space was cramped, the scent of the dry linen tent mixing with the crushed grass beneath them.

Theo laid out the blankets, and as they settled down, Alias naturally found his place against Theo’s side. The man’s arm immediately came around him, pulling him flush against that familiar, solid muscle.

​Alias rested his head on Theo’s chest, his eyes wide in the darkness of the tent. He could hear the frantic thumping of Theo’s heart slowing down into a steady rhythm.

​He kissed me, Alias thought, his fingers subconsciously touching his own lips. On the mouth. Like the way the men in the Ward kissed the women they didn’t want to lose.

​He wasn’t a newlywed. He wasn’t a mortal trying to forget his troubles. He was a creator who had returned to his creation, and yet, as Theo’s breath slowed into sleep, Alias realized he didn’t want to be an Architect anymore.

He wanted to be whatever it was that made Theo’s heart beat like that.

​He drifted off to sleep with the lingering pressure of Theo’s lips still burning on his own, the most beautiful ’malfunction’ he had ever experienced.

The next morning, the world looked the same, but to Alias, the light felt heavier—more golden, more intentional.

He stood by the fruit trees, a woven basket resting against his hip, but his hands remained idle. His gaze was fixed on Theo.

​Watching Theo work had always been a study in efficiency for Alias—the way the muscles in his back rippled under his sun-darkened skin, the precise arc of the axe, the grounding strength of his legs. But today, the ’data’ was different.

Every time Theo swung the axe, Alias didn’t just see the hands on the axe; he saw the hands that had woven into his hair so tenderly the night before.

He saw the chest that had served as his pillow, and the panting lips that had sparked that terrifying, beautiful fire in him.

​Alias felt a strange heat behind his ribs every time Theo wiped sweat from his brow. It was a resonance, he could feel. One that had everything to do with the kiss.

He found himself tracing the curve of his own lower lip with his thumb, gently... softly... his mind replaying the pressure of Theo’s mouth against his.

It felt nice. He thought, lightly pressing this canine on his lower lip. I want to do it again.

​Theo paused, sensing the weight of the gaze. He turned, his blue eyes locking onto Alias’s, and Alias flinched.

Theo didn’t say anything, but he offered a small, knowing smirk—the kind that belonged to someone who shared a secret.

​Alias immediately looked away, his face flooding with that irrepressible pink. He grabbed a fruit blindly, his heart performing that frantic, rhythmic ’malfunction’ once again.

He realized then that he was reacting to him. Greatly. The distance between the Architect and the creation had vanished, replaced by a thread of desire so thin it felt like it might snap if Theo stepped any closer.

​He found himself anticipating the brush of their shoulders when he got closer, or the moment Theo would reach out to take a basket from him.

Every point of contact felt like a spark hitting dry tinder. He was no longer just building a house; he was becoming acutely, painfully aware of the man he was building it with.

That night, to Alias’s relief, they kissed again, and it felt just right, but he was still awkward at it, and he was clumsy, but Theo did not mind.

He sucked on those clumsy lips until they were both breathless and slept in each other’s arms.

The days that followed were just like that. Sap from trees, sweat, rolling down muscles, and a growing, heavy anticipation for the nights to come.

Every morning, the rhythm was the same: the rhythmic thud of Theo’s axe, the sound of Maya’s humming as she planted seeds in the damp earth, and Alias gathering fruit.

But it was the nights that had become the true center of Alias’s world.

​Under the low cover of their temporary tent, the distance between them had vanished. What started as a hesitant, messy press of lips, but by the third night, had evolved.

Theo’s hands, rough and calloused, would frame Alias’s face with a desperate sort of reverence, and Alias would lean in, meeting him halfway with an eagerness that surprised them both.

​It felt good—too good. But as the week progressed, Alias began to notice a persistent, hollow ache in his chest.

Every time Theo pulled back, breathless and eyes dark with a hunger Alias didn’t understand, Alias felt like a sentence had been cut off midway. He wanted to be closer. He wanted to merge. He just didn’t know what ’more’ looked like.

​By the end of the 15th day, the house stood finished. It was a sturdy structure of wood and sandstone, smelling of fresh resin.

It had two bedrooms—one for Maya, who had already vanished into hers with a squeal of delight—a kitchen, and a main living space. The restroom was built outside, far from the lake.