“That so?”
Seungho’s jaw tightened.
His fingers flexed once, then stilled.
“I don’t know,” he said finally.
Jaewan blinked. That—that—was not the answer he’d expected.
“You don’t know.”
“I keep sensing or … seeing snow before it falls. Waking up with a name in my mouth I don’t remember saying. Drawing faces I can’t finish.”
Jaewan went very still. “What name?”
“Sky.”
The word landed like a stone in the room.
Soft. Heavy. Old.
Seungho didn’t look at his friend. “Doesn’t mean anything. It’s nothing.”
Jaewan was quiet for a beat too long. “You’ve never spoken in your sleep before.”
“I don’t sleep,” Seungho said. “Not well.”
More silence.
Outside, the snow pressed against the windows like a held breath.
“Look,” Jaewan said carefully. “I don’t pretend to understand your head. You’ve always had your ghosts. Your fire. I just—” He hesitated. “I’ve known you since we were both bastards with death wishes and something to prove. I know when something’s wrong.”
Seungho didn’t answer.
Didn’t blink.
He just reached for his scotch, fingers steady again.
“The name… feels like something I lost.”
Like waking to bruises you don’t remember earning. Like a promise you never got to make. He did not say it aloud, but the words spun in his mind.
Jaewan exhaled softly. “You want me to dig?”
“No.”
“Want me to lie?”
“Not yet.”
Jaewan gave a short laugh. It didn’t carry.
He stood, walked toward the door. “When you’re ready to tell me who Sky really is, I’ll be here.”
Seungho didn’t need to answer.
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