A thin line of light spread across the horizon, coloring the sea in silver and peach. The waves rolled evenly, heavily, like the breathing of a living creature, and a light mist hung above them, still undecided whether to dissipate or stay.
Do-yun stood at the edge of the cliff, watching the sun rise from the water. He wore Seungho's shirt — a little too big, smelling of salt and something domestic. The fabric fluttered in the wind, and in his hands, he held a paper cup with cooling coffee.
A quiet step sounded behind him, and a familiar warmth was beside him — Seungho, barefoot, with dishevelled hair, with the calmness that only comes after a war that lasted too long. He stopped next to him, not touching, but so close that Do-yun felt his breath on his neck.
— You're awake, — Seungho said.
— I didn't sleep.
— Why?
— I was afraid to miss the morning.
They stood, silently looking at the sun. The world seemed to pause on an inhale: only the cries of birds and the sound of the surf. Do-yun finally spoke:
— It's strange. I used to always wait for dawn as an end. After the night, after a shift, after everything. And now — as a beginning.
Seungho chuckled softly.
— Because now you know you have somewhere to return to.
Do-yun shifted his gaze from the sea to him. Light reflected in Seungho's eyes — soft, almost golden.
— I thought about it… — he said. — About returning.
— Where?
— To the department. The police.
Seungho nodded, as if he already knew.
— Why?
— Because I want to feel that I'm not living in vain. Not just for myself, not just for us. I… want to do something that isn't about fear or salvation. Just about duty.
Seungho lowered his gaze, then smiled.
— You know, I thought that when everything was over, I wouldn't let you out of my sight. That I'd want to lock the doors, hire security, and finally exhale.
— And what changed?
— I realized that isn't life. If I love you, I must trust you. And trust is also a form of protection.
Do-yun smiled, but his eyes remained serious.
— I don't want to become part of the war again. I just… want to be who I was before all this. For Min to grow up and see that his father wasn't broken.
Seungho stepped closer, took his hand.
— Then go back. But promise me you won't forget the way back here.
— I promise.
— Not like a promise in a storm, — he said, looking him straight in the eyes. — But like an oath in clear weather.
Do-yun nodded.
— In clear weather. Only in clear weather.
They stood side by side when the sun touched the surface of the sea. The light became almost blinding, but warm, and all shadows disappeared in it. Seungho pulled him close, hugging him from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder.
— Do you want to know what I feel right now? — he asked.
— I do.
— That everything is finally simple. Not painful, not scary. Just life.
— And that… isn't scary to you?
— No. It was scary back then, when I thought that there was no meaning without fear.
Do-yun turned, looking at his face — soft, slightly tired, with lines of light at the corners of his eyes. He raised his hand, touched his lips.
— And now the meaning is — us?
— Us, Min, the morning. Everything that moves forward.
He kissed him. Not quickly, not passionately — slowly, as if cementing the promise in every touch. Do-yun responded, touching his lips, cheek, chin, as if wanting to memorize this moment by feel.
— Seungho…
— Mm?
— Thank you for not stopping me.
— If I had tried, you would have gone anyway.
— Yes. But thank you nonetheless.
They laughed — quietly, as if they didn't want to startle the morning. The laughter dissolved in the wind rising from the sea. Then they simply sat on a stone, shoulder to shoulder. No talk, no plans, no fears. The sun rose higher, the mist dissipated, the sea glittered like liquid gold.
And in this simplicity — in the silence, the breathing, the touch of hands — was everything they had sought for so long. Life without war. Without masks. With a dawn that no longer felt like an end.