Didn’t shift him either.
Just watched the boy’s grip tighten slightly on his sweater.
And hoped, silently, that next time—
he’d hold on longer.
??????
The days stretched longer.
Light bled into evening slower.
And with it, so did the ache.
Not just for touch.
Not just for sex.
But for something older. Deeper.
The kind of closeness that didn’t flinch when called by name.
Seungho began dreaming.
Not filth. Not purity either.
Just fragments. Sensations.
Haneul biting into tangerines, juice slipping down his wrist.
A lavender tank top, sheer with sweat.
Fingers brushing his, and staying.
Eyes that didn’t soften—but burned.
Then stranger things:
A rooftop under moonlight.
Ash swirling through stars.
A warrior’s braid heavy with charms and color.
Smoke in his lungs. Ozone in his throat.
The reek of blood and wool and sex and something sacred.
A grin sharp enough to cut fate.
Hands glowing with magic he couldn’t name.
He always woke up before the morning sun touched him.
But the scent clung.
Red bean. Spring rain. Lotus tea. Dried persimmons.
