The room's air grew heavier with the chill exhaled from his open mouth, misting faintly as it mixed with the stillness. A slight draft stirred the blue-laced curtain hanging from the rod near the bed, making it flutter gently. The ribbon tied at its middle swayed just enough to catch his eye, moving like a lazy pendulum.
His fingers grazed across his damp skin, slow and unfocused, before his pinky nail—longer than the rest—scratched at his chest. The sound was quiet but coarse, like shuffling parchment in a narrow tunnel, echoing faintly in the silence of the room.
As the haze of sleep fully lifted from his eyes, his vision steadied—and then settled. His gaze fell on the figure beside him.
She was still there.
Exactly as she had been when his consciousness slipped away hours earlier. Same position, same stillness. The gentle arch of her waist rose like a soft hill under a morning sun, then dipped into the valley of her lower back—an unmoving, serene landscape that hadn't changed through the night.
Her chest lifted and sank in slow rhythm, each breath pressing her body gently against the foam beneath her. There was a subtle drag where her skin met the bed—like the fabric clung to her after being soaked and left to dry. Along her thighs, a faint line of dried fluid traced a path downward, the mark of last night's intensity now etched into the mattress in a faint, darkened patch.
"Hah… What a night."
His voice broke the quiet, low and half-laughing, like a private thought slipping out. He leaned back, shoulders easing into the foam, letting the bed cradle him. His arms moved behind his head in a relaxed fold, fingers interlaced at the nape of his neck.
A smirk formed slowly across his face—less smug than satisfied. He didn't blink. His eyes stayed on her, tracing every curve, every breath, like memorizing something too fleeting to hold onto. She looked delicate now—unguarded and soft—her body draped in the dim light like a sculpture left in the quiet aftermath.
Then, his legs shifted beneath the crumpled sheet, exposing his bare feet to the cool bite of the morning air as they touched down on the diamond-patterned floor. The chill of the surface sent a slight shiver up his calves. His toes flexed instinctively, brushing against the smooth, hard texture—polished but not cold enough to jolt him fully awake. The bed behind him groaned softly under the change in weight, springs releasing a tired creak.
The air carried a mixed scent—moisture from the night's evaporation, a hint of grass from the open window, and something unmistakably human. It clung to him, faint and intimate. He sat still for a moment, elbows propped on his knees, palms pressing into his face. Her perfume lingered faintly in his hands. He inhaled without meaning to—it was still there, warm, floral, and now fused with memory.
As his thoughts turned over the events of the night, his gaze lifted slowly. His eyes settled on the soft blue lace tied neatly around the iron-and-wood curtain rod beside the bed. He reached for it. The fabric met his fingers with a faint chill, cool and silky against the warmth of his skin. He tugged gently. The knot, loosened by the night's subtle shifts, gave with a soft resistance, pinched and pulled like a leaf breaking from its stem.
There was a gentle snap as the fabric gave way, followed by the faintest whip as the lace fluttered down. It twisted in the air, its descent slow, landing against the floor with a delicate flap—barely audible, but enough to mark the moment.
He sat still, hand resting beside him, staring at the strip of lace now lying quiet on the patterned floor. Something in that silence hung heavy, not regret—just the kind of weight that comes after the storm.
Then, he rose—slowly, fluidly—and moved toward the window just ahead of him. He stood there in silence, letting the scene before him unfold like a living painting. The sky stretched wide and pale, veined with gentle strokes of orange and blue. Birds spiraled in unison, their wings slicing through the air in organized chaos. It was impossible to describe that sound—their chorus neither loud nor soft, but full. It stirred something in him, something that felt oddly clean.
With a slow, full-body stretch, he reached upward, his hands bracing on his waist as his spine arched slightly. From deep in his throat came a low groan—not forced, just the release of sleep and stillness. The sound hovered in the room, light but with a gravity of its own. It was enough. Behind him, she stirred.
The bed gave under her weight, a soft collapse as her waist rolled gently to her left side. Springs muttered beneath the shift. The faint groan of the mattress and his own stretch-song collided in the air, as if their bodies were still in sync. He turned toward her, drawn by that quiet collision.
His eyes found her—still lying where he'd left her, but changed somehow in the light. The morning sun filtered unevenly through the curtain he had just untied, breaking into uneven streaks across her form. Her skin—bare, warm, open—caught the light in glimmers, not golden, not silver, but something in between.
And then it happened again—subtle, yet unmistakable. The curve of her backside shifted slightly, a soft bounce as it settled against the mattress. His gaze caught there, the way it moved, unshielded and natural, still echoing the night's rhythm. His mind didn't race. It clicked—like a door quietly unlatched.
'Naa… I have to retain my strength for now.'
Gliding his tongue briefly across his lips—a quiet, instinctive motion. His eyes lingered, pulled deeper into the soft lines of her resting form. It was as though every inch of her presence begged to be memorized. His mind battled with the weight of temptation and the logic of restraint, a quiet storm of feeling churning just beneath his skin.