𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒔

forty four

"home is a person sometimes"

It was one of those nights I thought would end like all the others—scrolling through my phone until sleep caught up. So when Cato's name flashed on my screen, part of me figured he was just bored. But when I answered, his voice had this casual insistence that made me hesitate.

"Come outside," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing.

"Why?" I challenged, half-expecting him to shrug it off and hang up. But he didn't.

"Just come outside. I'm picking you up."

"Where are we going?" I asked, grabbing my hoodie and slipping into my sneakers. No answer.

I stepped out to see his truck idling quietly at the curb. The glow of the dashboard lights cast a faint, moody hue over his face as I climbed into the passenger seat. He barely looked at me, just shifted into drive, and we were off.

We were silent for the first stretch, the streetlights fading as the roads grew narrower, winding away from the neighborhoods I knew.

The quiet between us wasn't awkward; it was just Cato. He didn't offer any explanations, and I'd learned not to ask too many questions.

Besides, the night had a sort of magic to it—the dark countryside blurring by, stars starting to poke through the inky sky. It felt like we were leaving everything behind, and that thought alone was enough to keep me still.

The city lights were well behind us when he finally turned off onto a gravel road, where he parked and killed the engine. I glanced around.

In every direction, there was nothing but darkness stretching toward the horizon, interrupted only by the cliffside that edged out ahead.

He stepped out without a word, and I followed, the night air cool against my skin. As I looked up, my breath caught. I hadn't expected the stars to be this clear. Up here, away from the haze of city lights, they stretched out, glittering and infinite, a whole universe just hanging above us.

"What is this place?" I whispered, half to myself.

"One of my favorites," he replied, his voice softer than usual. "Hard to see the stars like this anywhere else."

I could feel his presence close beside me, our shoulders almost brushing as we stood on the gravel path looking up. The air was still, filled with the scent of pine and the faint chill of winter. It felt like the stars had wrapped us in some quiet, hidden world where nothing else existed. I was almost afraid to speak, to break the spell.

After a while, he nodded toward a spot near the edge of the cliff, and we made our way over, settling down on the rough ground. The stars seemed even closer from here, like you could just reach up and touch them.

I don't know how long we sat in that silence, both of us staring up at the sky. Finally, he broke it, pointing out a cluster of stars.

"That's Orion. You can see it by the belt—three stars in a row," he said, his tone low and almost reverent. He wasn't the kind of guy who talked much, so hearing him point out constellations felt strange, like I was getting a glimpse of something softer beneath the surface.

"Orion, the hunter, right?" I replied, trying to recall something from some long-forgotten science class. "He was, like, a Greek myth or something?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Supposedly, he was put in the sky by Zeus, or something like that. I don't remember all the details. Just... reminds me of being a kid, I guess. Back when things made sense."

His voice trailed off, and I glanced over, studying his profile in the starlight. There was something about the way he looked up at the sky, like he was searching for answers that were just out of reach.

The silence stretched, thick with words neither of us wanted to say out loud.

"It's weird," I murmured, not looking at him. "Being here, feeling... okay. Like nothing else matters."

He didn't reply, just shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing mine. I thought he might say something sarcastic or try to break the mood, but he didn't. The silence settled around us, comforting and full, like a blanket.

I didn't know why, but I started talking, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

About my mom, about how nothing felt right, how I never felt like I belonged anywhere.

I kept my voice low, just skimming the surface, not wanting to dig too deep. It wasn't like I'd ever shared this with anyone, but somehow, out here, it felt... safe.

Cato stayed silent, his gaze steady on the sky. He didn't interrupt, didn't offer any empty reassurances.

He just listened, his presence solid beside me, grounding me in a way that felt strangely comforting.

When I finally fell silent, I felt lighter, like some invisible weight had lifted. I turned to look at him, a little surprised by how close we were.

He was watching me, his eyes reflecting the stars, his expression unreadable. There was a softness there, a quiet understanding that made my breath hitch.

And then, without a word, he leaned in.

It was slow, almost hesitant, like he was giving me a chance to pull away.

But I didn't.

His lips brushed mine, gentle at first, then more certain, his hand finding the side of my face. The world seemed to blur, fading into a quiet hum as I leaned into him, letting the warmth of his touch chase away the chill of the night.

The kiss lingered, soft and electric, like every feeling I'd been trying to ignore had come rushing to the surface.

When we finally pulled back, I was breathless, my heart pounding in my chest.

He looked at me, his gaze steady, and for the first time, I felt like he was really seeing me.

Neither of us spoke.

We didn't need to; the silence between us said everything.

He reached over, slipping his hand into mine, and I let him, the weight of his touch grounding me. We stayed like that, side by side, looking up at the stars as the night stretched on.

When the cold started to seep into my skin, he noticed, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.

"Ready to head back?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. As we made our way back to the truck, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between us, something real and unspoken.

The drive home was quiet, the weight of the night settling over us as the city lights came into view. He pulled up to my house, and for a moment, neither of us moved.

"Thanks," I murmured, finally breaking the silence.

He just nodded, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he watched me, his gaze steady and unreadable.

I stepped out, my hand lingering on the door as I looked back at him one last time.

There was something in his eyes, something I couldn't quite name, and I knew things would never be the same between us.