He could feel the weight of Seungho’s arm sliding over his waist, the lazy gravity of it.
“Five minutes,” he said. “Then I’m gone.”
But the minutes stretched, blurred, folded into silence.
The hum of the city softened, thunder rolling somewhere beyond the glass.
When dawn finally lifted its pale face over the skyline, they were still there—fully dressed, unwashed, tangled in the sheets like the aftermath of a storm.
Haneul’s hand rested in Seungho’s hair, fingers absently combing through it as if the motion kept the world from tilting.
It was the first time they shared a bed.
And neither of them moved again until morning turned gold.
??????
Chapter 30 — Morning After Gods
The headache hit first.
Not the thunderclap kind—the slow, punishing crawl of dehydration, regret, and half-remembered warmth pressing against the inside of his skull. Seungho opened one eye and immediately wished he hadn’t.
His bedroom was too bright.
The curtains hadn’t been drawn. The windows glared with early sun.
The smell—sesame oil, burnt sugar, something green and sharp and alive—was too familiar to be unfamiliar. And yet it felt different. He’d woken up to Haneul’s cooking before. But this morning didn’t feel like before.
This wasn’t shared convenience. This wasn’t a guest making himself useful in someone else’s space. This felt… claimed.
He exhaled slowly. The bed was warm.
Too warm.
He turned his head. The second pillow was dented, one strand of pale hair clinging to it. The sheets were rumpled in a way they never were when he slept alone.
Memory pulled like a muscle sore from overuse.
A couch. A voice. A storm-lit braid and the shape of a man curled in his arms. The sound of someone dragging him across the floor like a dead king.
Then—
Fingers. Laughter. A soft hand in his hair.
Seungho sat up slowly, jaw clenched, and scanned the room.
Empty.
Only him, the scent of someone else’s skin, and the smallest indentation in his mattress. As if the chaos of last night had been real. As if it had stayed.
He ran a hand over his face. Then dragged himself upright.
Barefoot, shirt clinging to his ribs, he shuffled toward the smell.
??????
The kitchen looked like a battlefield.
