Lifting up his head from the backrest of the sofa, Ryul's gaze traced over the slouched figure cradled in his arms. Suddenly, he had the fervent impulse to lean in closer.
His face lolled to one side, naturally pressing his cheek against the pliant curve of the slender back, feeling the rise and fall with every breath Jihoon took.
An imperceptible smile wove through the man's lips as he inhaled–the mingling scent of fresh fabric and warm skin locking him in the moment. Each thump of the heart against the ribs sent a thrum through his own body, strangely calming, almost therapeutic.
"… I got offered to come back after that, but I had to decline," Ryul murmured tiredly, resuming where he had left off. "Honestly… it was painfully obvious they were only doing so because of the public backlash."
Jihoon's brows furrowed the more he listened, as though each word pulled him further into a tide of sorrow, leaving him gasping in the quiet suffocation of it.
