The sky was pale when the first light crept through the curtains. A soft, golden haze spilled into the room. One by one, they had all drifted off—some on the couch, some on the floor, Valhalla, curled awkwardly across two beanbags with a blanket draped over his face like a curtain of surrender. They were heroes, legends, war gods… yet here they were like this.
Ash sat up, eyes still heavy and hair pointing in five different directions. His body was sore, not from battle, but from being tackled by Ken at least three times during the night. He rubbed his eyes and squinted toward the window. It was morning, alright. Somehow, the world was still turning.
Then came a knock.
It was soft at first. Polite. Almost hesitant. Then another. Ash yawned, stood up, and staggered toward the door like a zombie pulled from bed a little too early. His hand fumbled with the handle before finally opening it.
Dev stood there with his usual tired smile, his wild hair tied back lazily. The wind nudged his jacket. He looked exactly like someone who had wandered a bit too long in the morning chill, unsure where he was going, but ended up somewhere important anyway.
"Happy birthday," he said.
Ash blinked, then smiled faintly as Dev pulled him in for a hug. The hug wasn't tight. It was slow and a bit awkward, like two people figuring out how to be okay in each other's presence again. When they pulled apart, Ash gestured him in with a thumb over his shoulder.
Dev walked inside and instantly stopped. "Wait—what the—?"
He was met with the sight of sleeping wargods. Valhalla's leg twitched in his sleep. Nero was tucked up with a pillow, her hair messily covering half her face. Atlas was snoring in the corner, and Jack… Jack was somehow still holding the TV remote in his hand. Rin had managed to sleep perfectly upright in a chair, arms crossed like a soldier at rest.
Dev looked around with wide eyes, mouth slightly open. "Am I… in the right house?"
Ash rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Uh. Long night."
Ken stirred from the floor, hair a mess, face planted into a cushion. He grunted something that resembled "coffee" and then froze when his eyes landed on Nero. She sat up slowly, her morning expression blank and sleepy, her hair somehow looking majestic and chaotic at once.
Ken made a sound that wasn't really a word. Something like:
"Skcbbhcbk—uagckubc—sdh—s—v…"
Ash raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"
Ken nodded rapidly. Then shook his head. Then hid under a blanket.
Dev chuckled and made his way toward Valhalla, giving him a light nudge with his boot. "Still sleeping like a brick, huh?"
Valhalla groaned, peeked through one eye, then sat up when he saw Dev. His tired face cracked into a grin. "You're late."
"I got lost," Dev said, sighing. "Didn't know where Ash lived. Ended up in some desert for twenty minutes."
Valhalla stood up and pulled him in for a quick back-patting hug. "You always did suck at directions."
Dev shrugged. "I've been improving."
"I doubt that."
By now, the rest were starting to wake up one by one, like sunflowers being nudged by the sun. Nero stretched. Rin blinked the sleep from his eyes and immediately checked his weapons like he'd been ambushed in his dreams. Atlas mumbled something about his fiancée. Jack turned on the TV again.
Ash sat on the couch and watched them all, his heart quieter than his thoughts.
Kesher walked out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. "I made some morning tea," he said softly, like he was reading it off a poem.
Ken, still buried under a blanket, groaned. "Please inject it into my soul."
Nero chuckled. "You need help."
Kesher handed Ash a cup and sat beside him. "You look like you saw ghosts last night."
"I think I did," Ash replied with a small laugh.
Valhalla looked around, scratching his head. "So, we doing breakfast or just pretending this was a fever dream?"
"Kesher made tea," Ash offered.
Dev raised his hand. "I brought food."
Everyone gave him a look.
"…They're still warm," he said, with a shrug.
"I don't trust you," Atlas replied.
Dev leaned back and let out a long, tired breath. "Still can't believe it. All of you, passed out like rookies after a single party. Makes me remember the old days."
Valhalla raised a hand. "Hey, I had twelve drinks."
"You're immune to drinks," Nero said flatly.
"No, I'm immune to poison. There's a difference."
Rin added, "He made up three new toasts and said them out loud before each shot."
"I meant them," Valhalla muttered.
They all chuckled again, the sound of family, not by blood, but by bond.
Dev finally reached into his coat and handed the box to Ash. "Here. I didn't wrap it well. But it's from me."
Ash opened it slowly. Inside was a small, silver ring—simple, smooth, almost dull unless the light hit it just right. It had no magic. No energy. Just a carved word inside.
"Hero."
Everyone settled down again, some returning to their spots, others grabbing blankets. Kesher handed out more tea. Ken finally emerged from under the blanket, still red-faced every time Nero spoke.
It was warm in the house. Not just from the tea or the blankets, but from the silence between people who trusted each other enough not to fill every moment with words.
Sometimes, even war gods needed mornings like this. And sometimes… heroes just needed to sit quietly, drink tea, and forget the weight of the world. Even if only for a while.
**
The house had grown quiet. Everyone had left. Atlas with his big smile and even bigger future. Valhalla with a satisfied yawn and a nod of farewell. Jack had tried to sneak another gun under Ash's pillow as a second gift before being dragged away by Rin. And Nero—Nero had said something soft to Ken before leaving, something short that made him blush for fifteen whole minutes.
Now it was just the three of them. Ash, Ken, and Kesher.
Ash had stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the mess of cake crumbs, wrapping paper, and plates. Then, without a word, he just turned and walked off toward the shower, rubbing the back of his neck like he hadn't slept in days.
Ken stood by the couch, yawning like a bear. He looked like he might fall over and nap right there on the floor. Kesher was leaning against the windowsill, the morning sunlight painting half his face golden, the other half still lost in shadow. His arms were crossed, guitar slung over his back like some wandering bard.
"You like the girl, Sergeant?"
Ken blinked, his half-lidded eyes flickering open a little more. He turned to Kesher, confused. "Huh?"
"The dark one," Kesher said, voice like silk soaked in rainwater. "Eyes like cold iron. Strength like summer storm. The one who walks like a warrior but smiles like a secret. You like her."
Ken's cheeks turned red instantly. "Wh-what?! N-no! I mean—yes! I mean—wait, how the hell did you know?"
Kesher didn't move from the window. Just smiled a little, his voice dipping into that strange, poetic rhythm of his.
"The heart is loud, soldier," he said. "Even when the mouth is quiet. Even when the eyes try to lie. I've heard the wind whisper softer secrets than yours."
Ken laughed, even if it was the kind of laugh that came with a nervous scratch behind the ear. "Damn, bro, you sound like some sort of really intelligent villain from a movie."
Kesher laughed slowly. "A poet is just a villain who writes instead of fights."
Ken crossed his arms now, shoulders squaring like he was stepping onto a stage. "Well then, General. If you've got advice for a young, dumb private like me, I'm all ears."
Kesher turned slowly from the window, walking over like he was in no rush. "You want to impress her, hmm? Show her not your fists, but your fire. Don't shout your worth. Whisper it into the world through actions. And when she's near… don't try to be taller. Just stand steady."
Ken gave him a look. "Okay, that was deep. But also, kinda useless."
Kesher smirked. "Then here is simpler wisdom, plain as bread. Be kind, even when you're scared. Be brave, even when you're awkward. And—" he leaned in slightly, grinning now— "don't cook garlic bread with chocolate sauce ever again."
Ken's face went pale. "Wait—how the hell do you know about that?"
Kesher gave no answer. He just turned back to the window, as if the moment had never happened. "You're a good man, Ken. It bleeds off you. The way you check if Ash is okay without asking. The way you laugh like it's medicine. Keep that. That is rare."
Ken stood there for a while, not really knowing what to say. No one ever spoke to him like that.
Finally, he sat down on the armrest of the couch and looked over at Kesher again. "You ever been in love?"
Kesher didn't answer right away. He pulled the guitar off his back and ran his fingers along the strings, soft as feathers.
"Once," he said.
The room went quiet again. The guitar sat in his lap, and for a moment Ken thought he wasn't going to say more. But then Kesher spoke, voice low and steady.
"She was quiet. But not empty. Like a library with locked doors. You knew there were stories in her… but she made you work for them. Her laugh? Rare. Like shooting stars. Her pain? Hidden. Like scars on a statue."
Ken sat still.
"I lost her," Kesher said simply.
"I'm sorry, man."
"No need to be. She taught me things that the world couldn't. Like how silence isn't always peace. And how loving someone doesn't mean keeping them. Sometimes it means letting them go."
After a while, Ash walked out of the bathroom, towel around his neck, looking at both of them with the kind of expression that said: I missed something important, didn't I?
Kesher nodded at him. "The soldier has confessed."
Ash blinked. "Huh?"
Ken pointed at Kesher. "General's fault."
Ash looked between them, sighed, and rubbed his eyes. "You two have way too much energy for a morning."