Seungho cleared his throat. Took one step forward. “You have to hold the touch panel down for three seconds. It’s designed to prevent scalding.”
“Then it was designed by a fucking sadist,” Haneul spat.
Seungho’s eyes did not lower. Not once. He nodded solemnly. “I’ll reset the temperature.”
And like a monk walking into hell, he brushed past the dripping chaos, tapped the wall panel with the calm of a man disarming a bomb, and walked out without another word.
Haneul stared after him, chest still rising and falling, water pooling at his feet.
Then, in a smaller voice:
“…Sadist with perfect hair.”
??????
Ten minutes later, he emerged with a towel around his waist and an expression that said don’t even think about it.
He went back into the bathroom, brushed his teeth with too much toothpaste, opened every drawer, and peeked inside every cabinet.
All spotless.
Marble countertops. Built-in drawers. Tidy rows of linen. The whole place smelled like restraint.
Every container aligned. Minimalist. Too clean. Suspiciously clean.
“Not even a single embarrassing thing,” he thought, scowling.
One drawer had nothing but black razors. Another had Q-tips. One had a folded silk eye-mask and an unopened toothbrush, probably placed there just in case someone stayed over.
He paused at that one.
Frowned.
Closed it again.
In the mirror, his own reflection looked back—dripping, messy, bruised around the eyes, but somehow… more alive.
??????
That night, the city exhaled under snow.
And Seungho dreamt.
Of heat. Of rain. Of laughter tangled in the wind.
Hands bruised from swords, mapping skin and teeth.
A boy sat curled in his lap—bare skin on stone, braid wet and winding around Seungho’s wrist like a leash. The boy was laughing, or howling, head thrown back with thunder behind his teeth. There was blood somewhere. And salt. And the taste of grief on his tongue.
Seungho gripped his waist tighter.
“Sky,” he whispered. “Don’t go.”
The boy turned.
But his face was already fading.
??????
