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He wakes up before the alarm goes off.
It’s not unusual anymore.
The room is dim, gray light filtering through the curtains in that quiet, early hour where everything feels suspended—like time hasn’t decided whether it wants to move yet.
Sungchan lies still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to breathing that’s not his.
He turns his head slowly and…
Anton is there. Half-buried in the sheets, face turned away, amber-colored hair messy and sticking out, still held up with old gel. One arm is tucked under the pillow, the other resting loosely between them like it had fallen off Sungchan’s waist at some point in the middle of the night.
Sungchan watches him quietly.
There’s always this certain moment—right here—where things feel almost simple. Like whatever this is between them could just exist without questioning it, without the constant pulling and pushing that leaves him feeling wrung out by the end of every week more than anything else.
Anton shifts slightly in his sleep, brows tightening like he’s dreaming something unpleasant. His lips part just enough for a silent breath to slip out.
Sungchan swallows, last night replaying in fragments despite both of them being mostly sober.
A late text that spelled I miss you, a door opening without a knock, Sungchan stepping in like he belongs there, then getting fucked against a wall.
No real greeting—just that look. The one that always undoes him.
He cuts the thought off before it can settle.
Because that’s where the problems start. It always starts like that. Easy. Wordless. Like nothing is wrong…and then morning comes and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Where to direct his anger if not at himself.
Sungchan exhales slowly, pushing himself up onto his elbows.
He looks at Anton again, searching his face like there’s something written there he missed in the dark.
“Hey,” he says quietly, being met with silence, and upon realizing it, his jaw tightens.
“Hey,” he repeats, louder this time, reaching over to nudge Anton’s shoulder.
Anton barely reacts—just a faint shift, a soft exhale, like he’s brushing him off, even in his sleep.
Something in Sungchan snaps.
“Get up.”
…
Then, when he’s met with more dead air, he grabs the pillow from behind his head and throws it.
It lands square against the side of Anton’s head with a muffled thud.
Anton flinches, groaning. His face scrunches up as he blinks awake slowly, like he has all the time in the world to be a piece of shit.
“…What?” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.
Sungchan is already sitting up fully now, arms crossed, irritation bleeding through every line of his posture.
“What do you mean, “what?” he shoots back, “you said yourself that we had to leave early today.”
Anton squints at him, clearly still halfway gone as he checks his phone, “It’s early.”
“Exactly.”
“That doesn’t mean now.”
Sungchan lets out a sharp laugh—short, humorless.
“Right… right… of course. Why would it ever mean what it’s supposed to mean with you?”
Anton frowns slightly, pushing himself up on one elbow, “What’s your problem?”
That does it.
Sungchan turns to face him fully, something raw flickering behind his eyes.
“My problem?” he repeats, “you say these… things, you do things, and then you just—” he gestures vaguely, “—act like none of it matters the next morning.”
Anton watches him, expression unreadable and the silence—God, Sungchan hates it.
“Say something,” he snaps.
Anton tilts his head slightly, studying him in that almost detached way that makes Sungchan feel like he’s being picked apart piece by piece.
“You’re loud in the morning,” Anton says finally.
Sungchan stares at him.
“Are you serious right now?”
“You woke me up by throwing something at my head,” Anton replies, voice still calm, “what did you expect? Some grand gesture? Breakfast in bed?”
“I expected you to care,” Sungchan fires back, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
The room stills horribly.
Anton’s gaze sharpens just slightly as his brows furrow and his mouth falls open just slightly, confusion washing over him.
“Care about what, exactly?”
…
That feeling—like Sungchan is talking to a wall. Like every word he says gets swallowed before it can reach anything real.
He laughs again, but it sounds thinner this time, strained. “I don’t know, dude. Maybe about—this?” He gestures between them. “About me? For once.”
Anton doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at him.
And Sungchan hates how that look makes his chest tighten—like he’s already lost something he hasn’t even fully named yet.
“You’re being dramatic,” Anton says eventually.
It lands exactly where it’s meant to, and Sungchan’s throat tightens.
“Yeah,” he huffed , voice toned down now but no less sharp, “that’s what this is.”
“Well… I mean… you’re the one who started yelling first thing in the morning, so.”
“Because you don’t listen!” Sungchan’s voice cracks, and he hates that too—hates how it always gives him away, “in fact, you never listen unless I push you into it by acting like some crazy bastard...”
Anton’s eyes flicker.
It’s just for a second, but Sungchan sees it.
And that’s the worst part—because he knows the other boy hears him. He knows there’s something there, something real, buried under all that indifference.
So why on earth—
“Then stop pushing,” Anton says. The words are quiet, flat. The way they usually are in an argument.
But they hit harder than anything else.
Sungchan goes still.
“…What?”
“If it bothers you this fucking much,” Anton continues, sitting up now, running a hand over his tired eyes, stress of schedules and adulthood being replaced with a different kind, “then stop.”
Stop what? Stop seeing him? Stop letting him do weird, backwards shit? Stop caring?
Sungchan feels something twist deep in his chest, “…because it’s that easy, right?”
Anton shrugs. That dumb, careless shrug, “Isn’t it?”
And that’s it. That’s the moment everything tips.
Sungchan lets out a shaky breath, looking away because if he doesn’t, he might actually punch him.
“Everything’s so easy for you,” he mutters.
Anton scoffed.
“I didn’t ask you to be here. I didn’t ask you to do shit, actually.”
The words hang in the air.
Heavy.
Ugly…… disgusting.
Sungchan turns back to him, eyes wide, “Fuck, you’re serious?”
“You chose to come to my place last night, too,” Anton adds, like he’s just stating a fact. “It’s not like I dragged you in here and locked you up.”
Because you asked first.
“You’re such an asshole,” Sungchan snaps, voice breaking despite his best effort to hold it together.
There’s a flicker again.
Anton’s eyes shifts—just briefly— back to the details carved into Sungchan’s face, catching on the way his eyes gloss over, the way he bites down on his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep everything from spilling out.
Sungchan wipes at his face quickly, turning away, embarrassed.
“Whatever,” he sniffs sheepishly,“don’t bother.”
He starts to get up, to search for his clothes somewhere in that extra drawer at the bottom of the dresser, pushing the sheets off, putting distance between them because he can’t—he can’t do this again, not like this.
He should’ve sensed it would escalate. He should’ve sensed he wouldn’t be able to calm himself down anymore before he even opened his mouth. Before he ever even made the stupid decisions that led him to this moment in the timeline.
But then—
A hand wraps around his wrist. Firm. Warm. He freezes. He sits backs down slowly. Sinks.
“Wait,” Anton’s voice is softer now.
Sungchan doesn’t turn back immediately. He just keeps his back facing him, shoulders tense, breathing uneven, choosing instead to focus on the low volume of the tv.
“What?” he asks finally.
There’s a pause.
“You’re really going to leave like that?”
Sungchan lets out a small, incredulous laugh.
“What do you want me to do, Anton? Stay and let you tell me it doesn’t matter again?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t really have to.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
…
Anton shifts closer.
Sungchan feels it before he sees it—the warmth at his side, the way the air changes when Anton is near.
“You always do this.”
“Do what?” Sungchan asks, though his voice is weaker now, Anton raising his wrist to his lips gently, pressing a soft kiss against it.
“Act like you’re the only one feeling anything.”
Sungchan turns at that, anger flaring again.
“Are you kidding me?” he rips his hand away, “you act like you feel nothing.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t.”
The words land differently.
Not sharp.
Not dismissive.
Just honest.
And it throws Sungchan off more than anything else.
He searches Anton’s face, trying to find the catch.
“Then what is this?” he asks, quieter now. “Because I don’t—” he exhales sharply, frustrated. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to call this anymore.”
Anton doesn’t answer right away.
His hand makes its way back around Sungchan’s wrist, thumb pressing lightly against his pulse like he’s grounding himself there.
Or maybe grounding Sungchan.
“I don’t know either,” Anton admits.
That shouldn’t feel like relief. But it does. A little bit, at least.
Just enough to make him hesitate.
“So what, we just keep doing this?” he questions, tired. “Argue, pretend we’re fine, and then—” He cuts himself off again, at a loss for words until he finds something to get him going again.
And then end up back here.
In the same bed.
Like none of it ever happened.
Anton’s gaze lingers on him.
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
Sungchan stares at him.
“That’s your answer?”
“For now.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Then leave. I won’t stop you this time.”It’s softer this time. But no less dangerous.
Sungchan’s chest tightens. Because he knows Anton means it.
Not in a cruel way. Just… plainly. And somehow, that hurts more than if he tried to.
“You’re impossible,” Sungchan whispers, whether it’s to himself or Anton, he doesn’t know anymore.
A minute passes by in deep, betraying misery for him.
Anton’s lips twitch faintly, “still here?”
Sungchan hates that the atmosphere thickens again. Hates how true it is. Hates how he is still here.
Even now. Even after everything.
He exhales shakily, looking down at where Anton is still holding his wrist.
“You like this, don’t you?”
That gets a reaction. Small but unmistakable.
Anton’s grip tightens just slightly and Sungchan’s eyes narrow.
“You do…” he realizes. “You like when I get like this.”
Anton doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t confirm it either. The lack of words says enough. It says everything neither of them want to admit.
“You’re sick,” Sungchan says, though there’s less bite in it now.
“Then why are you still here?”
Because—Sungchan swallows. Because when it’s good, it’s really good.
He looks away, blinking down at the long sock scrunched lazily against his ankle that hung over the bed, “…I don’t know,” he admits.
Anton scoots even closer. Close enough now that Sungchan can feel his breath, steady and warm against his skin.
“That’s a lie,” Anton says quietly against the shell of his ear before sitting back. Sungchan’s pulse stutters under his grip as he yanks him softly, steering him closer.
“Shut up.” But he doesn’t pull away this time. Doesn’t leave.
And that’s all the answer either of them needs.
The tension shifts. Not gone. Just… different now.
Heavier.
Anton’s hand slides from Sungchan’s wrist to his hand, their fingers threading together slowly, like he’s giving him time to stop it.
Sungchan doesn’t.
“You’re still mad,” Anton’s notes.
“Obviously.”
“Good.”
Sungchan frowns.
“What?”
But Anton just looks at him—really looks this time—and there’s something there now that wasn’t before.
More intent behind those dark eyes that he admired so much.
It makes his breath catch, get stuck in his throat.
“You always feel things when you’re mad,” Anton says.
“That’s.. well, yeah, but—”
“And you don’t hide it.”
Sungchan’s stomach twists.
Anton raises an eyebrow, like he’s come to a conclusion,“you probably even cry about it, sometimes…”
Sungchan flushes hard—can feel it all the way down his neck, pulling his hand back, but Anton doesn’t let him get far.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t…?”
“Pretend you don’t cry about it.”
Sungchan glares at him, but there’s no real heat left in it. Just frustration. Confusion. Something softer underneath that he doesn’t want to name.
“Stop acting like you’ll leave, Sungchan. You know you won’t. At least not until later...”
Sungchan goes quiet.
Because he won’t.
They both know that.
And that’s the worst part of all of this.
Anton leans in one final time, closing whatever space is left between them.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. It’s not a question.
“…No,” he sighs.
Anton nods, like that settles something.
And maybe it does.
One hand lifts, thumb brushing lightly against Sungchan’s jaw, tilting his face just enough to meet his eyes again. The other hand is used to prop himself up.
“No more yelling,” Anton murmurs.
“You started it.”
“I didn’t,” he replies, almost like he’s letting Sungchan take his time, going slow with him. Like it’s their first time together all over again.
“You did,” then “… you always used to start it first, anyway.”
Sungchan’s throat constricts, but this time it’s different.
More… familiar. Like a bruise he keeps pressing just to feel something.
“I want you to fix it,” he says low, quite shy this time.
Anton’s gaze flickers.
“Why is it always me?”
“Because you’re the one who fucks it up..?”
Another silence. But this one doesn’t feel like distance. It feels like something about to give in.
“Fine,” he says softly, leaning in.
Sungchan doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
Not until—until Anton’s lips press against his cheek gently, light like the touch of a butterfly landing on your nose.
Not an actual kiss. Not yet.
Just—Close. That’s all.
Close.
“Happy?”
Sungchan lets out a quiet, shaky laugh.
“…No.”
Anton’s lips twitch.
“Liar.”
Maybe. Probably so.
But Sungchan doesn’t argue.
Because despite everything—arguments, confusion, the way nothing ever feels fully resolved—
His skin’s crawling.
And as Anton’s hand slides to the back of his neck, pulling him just a little closer, Sungchan’s long, delicate lashes flutter shut.
Just a little in time with the way that he doesn’t want it to end any other way than it’s about to end.
—
By the time Sungchan pulls away the first time, he’s fighting for space, pushing away as Anton pulls him in.
Things are jagged. Charged. Like his breath had been cut roughly from him with a shard of broken glass.
The argument had passed, but now he was afraid.
Afraid to dive deeper.
“What’s up?” Anton asked, fingers crossing under the imaginary barrier of Sungchan’s vintage Nike’s shirt he’d gifted him.
“Nothing…”
“You sure?”
He nodded, feeling his heart skip a beat for the first time this morning when those same fingers made their way up, feathering a soft trail of warmth across his stomach.
Anton leaned in again, lips brushing against his, like he was waiting for the go-ahead.
But there wasn’t one.
Sungchan was frozen.
He wanted this so much right now. More than anything. But he couldn’t activate that part of his brain.
The part that asked. The part that gave. The part that begged and pleaded.
Thankfully, Anton seemed to catch that nervousness, hand sliding back towards his waist and grabbing at it.
Sungchan crumbled, unable to avoid his own desire for much longer.
And then, before he could overthink it, he locked eyes with Anton, eyes closing with much more confidence this time.
“Good,” Anton whispered, and it seemed so intimate.
So sure.
So echoed in his mind.
Then—
Lips began dragging along his jaw, making their way down to his neck, planting soft, wet kisses.
Sungchan didn’t know what to do at first.
Didn’t know where to put his hands, nor what to do with the sensation coiling in his stomach.
Despite that, his body responded, eyebrows furrowed, mouth opening as he sucked in a panicked breath, neck extending, eyes squeezing even tighter once Anton came back up, tongue pushing into his mouth like he’d die without it.
He groaned softly, fingers now grasping at his shorts in a way that left him feeling defenseless.
He broke the kiss again after Anton tried biting him, knocked off guard when the dizziness of opening his eyes hit.
Anton smiled—a real smile—before wiping away the strand of saliva that connected them.
One lick of his lips and it was gone.
And somehow, Sungchan didn’t like that.
“Why’d you do that?” He asked, eyes struggling to focus on one thing at a time—stuck on the way Anton’s fingers began digging into his thighs, nails breaking the soft surface of his skin.
“You like when I do it?”
Again, that coil in his stomach drew taut.
“Mh—“ Sungchan hummed, letting Anton flip him with ease, pressing him against the coolness of the sheets.
His hands trembled softly as they took hold of the pillow used to cushion his head, clenching down harder when he felt the weight of the mattress shift, sinking down where Anton knees were located.
He knew what was coming next.
The same thing they’d done countless times already.
But he was so in love with Anton, it didn’t matter if this was the second or eighty-second time—he’d be scared all the same.
“You good?”
“Yeah…”
Silence stretched, making Sungchan grow uneasy.
“Cool.”
A hand wrapped around his waist quickly after that, bringing him to his knees as the other busied itself with pulling his shorts down and, finally, his underwear.
Upon the cold air first hitting his skin, Sungchan felt himself burn.
“Shit…” he blushed, shielding his face.
He’s an adult, he thought, he can do this.
He’s done it before.
Yet—
“Fuck…” Anton cursed quietly, to himself.
“You saw this before. It’s no different now…” Sungchan murmured, barely audible, a mix of embarrassment and shame mixing into his conscience.
Anton didn’t say anything else, instead blowing on Sungchan’s hole, watching him twitch slightly.
“Ah—shit… don’t do that…”
Sungchan felt himself harden, body tensing once Anton leaned over, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
—
The next thing he registered was the sound of a cap popping open.
It sent a chill down his spine at first, but when the first of Anton’s fingers pushed past the entrance, and that hot stretch past the first knuckle hit, he couldn’t help but whine. Sweet, low, heady.
It didn’t take much else to get Anton going.
A little more lube, a little more spit, and he was already hellbent on destroying Sungchan’s dignity.
“More—more… please…” Sungchan begged, back arching and chest smashing against the bed as Anton spread his legs wider.
“Y‘Sure?”
But he did it anyway, adding another finger in, filling him just as fast as the first one did.
Sungchan shifted, mouth agape once he began fucking himself on now hooked fingers.
“Oh.. ah…” he moaned quietly, brows knitting together, dark hair falling in his eyes as he bit his bottom lip, building enough courage to finally look Anton dead in the face as he lifted his hips again, lowering himself too quick.
He felt a punch of air escape his mouth, resting his head on the pillow as Anton stretched him fervently, scissoring him open.
—
When the time came that Anton slipped both fingers out and the cap popped open a second time, Sungchan tried to convince himself he was ready this time.
That was just the warm up. This was the real thing.
All he had to do was kneel and take it.
Soon, though, he realized how hard he was, unable to ignore it once Anton’s hand rested against his back and his dick pushed in too fast, both of them groaning in unison.
Shit.
Finally, Anton adjusted himself, the new angle allowing him to bury himself flush against Sungchan’s insides—against his sweet spot.
It took every ounce of focus, every ounce of self control, in that very moment, for Sungchan not to let his eyes roll.
It was like a conscious thought. Like he had to control his movements instead of letting his body transition into autopilot.
Instead, he let out a strangled, pleasured sigh, followed by soft panting as he stared at the headboard.
White. Metal. Cold… probably—
Then, the coil broke before he could fully understand what caused it.
“Anton… hah, Anton—” he gasped, whimpering, feeling the first thrust of hips against ass, arching hard against the bed as he came, his hips stuttering.
Anton, upon hearing him, pulled out halfway, slamming back into him roughly.
“You done already?”
Sungchan shook his head, too worked up to speak.
There was no one word response. No hum. Nothing.
Then,
“Shit!” Sungchan hissed, Anton grinding his hips non stop, like something was slowly taking over in his mind.
More panting,
more moaning.
Then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, Anton’s hands traced their way back down.
Soon, Sungchan felt the overwhelming pressure of Anton’s thumb against his hole. Rubbing in rhythm with every grind, then—every tiny half thrust.
“Anton—mmfuckkk…”
Sungchan was losing his mind, babbling muffled nonsense into the mattress.
Burning.
Stretching.
Spreading.
Like an endless loop.
Anton was beginning to feel it too, evident in the way his touching-feeling act became less of a show, less interchangeable, more desperate.
He began letting out soft pants again, pulling out just to the tip before slamming back in once, twice, three times.
“Ahhh… fuck… fuck, you’re so tight…” he moaned, reaching over and pressing Sungchan’s face into the pillow, thrusts now frenzied, biceps tensing, fingers curling and strong hands tugging—chasing that high.
Eventually, the both of them fell quiet, Anton snapping his hips, burying himself deep inside—so, so deep Sungchan thinks it might be to leave a piece of himself behind, brand him—warm, thin liquid spilling into Sungchan until they stilled.
Anton slumped against him like deadweight—melting into the mattress like they were about to fuse together—Sungchan admittedly feeling content with it.
—
The room is quiet again.
Not the tense, brittle kind from before—but something different nonetheless.
Slower. Like everything has settled, even if nothing’s actually been resolved.
Sungchan stares at the ceiling, chest rising and falling unevenly, trying to catch his breath without making it obvious.
The covers had fallen into a sad pile on the floor, the air cool against skin that still feels too warm.
Beside him, Anton doesn’t move much.
He’s on his side now, propped slightly on one elbow, gaze fixed on Sungchan in that same way as before—steady, unreadable, like he’s studying something he already knows the answer to.
Sungchan doesn’t look at him.
His arm is thrown over his eyes instead, like that might hide the fact that he’s still a little shaken, still caught somewhere between frustration and afterglow he doesn’t want to admit out loud.
For a while, neither of them speaks.
It’s always like this after.
Awkward.
Not exactly comfortable.
“You’re thinking too much,” Anton says eventually.
Sungchan exhales a weak, exhausted half-laugh, “shut the fuck up.”
There’s no bite to it this time.
Anton shifts closer.
The mattress dips, subtle but noticeable, and Sungchan feels it immediately—like his body’s already fine-tuned to every small movement Anton makes.
“You always do that after,” Anton adds.
“Do what? Stop saying weird cryptic shit.”
“You get stuck in your head a lot, I mean.”
Sungchan lowers his arm just enough to glance at him, “maybe if you didn’t mess with me all the time, I wouldn’t have to.”
Anton hums, unconvinced.
“You’d find something else to get upset about.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
…
“You’re still here.”
Sungchan rolls his eyes, but it’s automatic, not sincere.
“You keep saying that like it means something to you.”
“It does.”
Sungchan turns his head fully this time, frowning slightly.
“Then explain why. Stop expecting me to know why.”
Anton doesn’t answer right away.
His gaze drops for a second—to Sungchan’s shoulders, his collarbone, the way his underwear stretch over his waist loosely—before flicking back up.
There’s something in his expression now. Fainter than before, but there.
Less sharp.
Less distant.
“I don’t stop you,” Anton says.
“….That’s not the same as wanting me to stay...”
Anton tilts his head slightly. “I thought it was.” A layer of sarcasm is evident.
“No,” Sungchan says immediately, “I’m telling you… It’s really not.”
Another stretch of time settles between them.
Sungchan shifts onto his side, mirroring him without thinking.
They’re close now—closer than before, but not touching. Just enough space to pretend there’s still a boundary after what they just did.
“There are other people, you know,” Sungchan says suddenly, “plenty of people.”
It slips out before he can stop it.
Anton’s expression doesn’t change.
“I know.”
The answer comes to him too easy.
Sungchan’s stomach flips, “do you—” He hesitates, then pushes through it. “do you want them?”
Anton watches him, fingers pinching at the sheets beneath them.
“That’s what this is about?” he asks, brows raising a bit.
“No,” Sungchan says quickly. Then, with a little shrug as one of his forearms now drape over his own side “Yeah...”
Anton exhales softly through his nose, like he expected that.
“You for real think I’m replacing you?”
Sungchan looks away. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you did… well, basically did.”
The way Anton says it, it’s like he has this superpower of pulling things out of him without any real effort.
“I just—” Sungchan stops, trying to gather his thoughts, “I don’t think I get you fully some days, y’know...? One second you’re here, and the next you’re gone. Like none of what I do with you—for you—sticks.”
Anton’s gaze softens, just a fraction.
“It sticks,” he says.
“Then why does it feel like it doesn’t?”
Anton reaches out—slow this time—and brushes his fingers lightly against Sungchan’s wrist.
“You remember everything,” Anton noted, “every look, every word. You hold onto it like it’s this concrete proof of something with a bigger message.”
“It is.”
“To you, yeah.”
“And to you it’s not?”
Anton’s hand retreats, and he flips on his back lazily, now using it as a pillow.
“It’s different,” he says.
“That’s not an answer, stupid ass.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting right now.”
Sungchan lets out a breath, closing his eyes briefly.
When he opens his eyes again, Anton is still watching him, grabbing at the pack of cigarettes on his nightstand and taking one out.
No matter how many times they go through this, Anton always lingers in his space just long enough to pull him back in again.
…
“Do I matter?” Sungchan asks, barely above a whisper, almost in hopes Anton wouldn’t hear it.
They hang there.
Fragile, like a string about to cut in half as Anton lights his cigarette, taking a long drag.
For once, Anton doesn’t deflect.
Doesn’t dodge it.
“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”
…
“You matter a lot me, Sungchan. A whole lot.”
Simple.
Uncomplicated.
And somehow still not enough.
Sungchan searches his face, like he’s trying to measure the weight of those words, trying to figure out if they’ll hold this time.
“…Start showing it and maybe I’ll believe you.”
“I am.”
He puffs on the cigarette again, blowing smoke out of his nose.
Sungchan huffs softly, “this doesn’t count.”
“ ‘does to me.”
With that, Sungchan rolls over, facing away from him, grabbing the covers off the floor and hiding himself away with them.
“You staying?” Anton asks after a while.
Sungchan hums softly.
“For a bit.”
Anton nods even though Sungchan can’t see it, eyes becoming heavy, eventually closing.
Not long enough to fall asleep.
Just long enough to enjoy the rest of the grey morning fade out, replaced by blues and purples, pinks and oranges.
Just long enough to think.