Morning spills into the room in soft, golden hues, filtering through the sheer curtains in lazy streaks of light. Mujin is still asleep beside you. It’s rare to see him like this—unburdened, his sharp edges dulled by sleep. His face, usually so unreadable, is softer in the gentle light. His dark hair is tousled, spilling over the pillow, the faintest crease between his brows as if even in rest, his mind refuses to let go.

The silk sheets have slipped down to his waist, revealing the broad expanse of his back, the scars that map his life etched into his skin, the dragon tattoo curled around his chest. But your marks are there, too, trailing down his throat, the faint purpling of hickeys standing out against his pale skin.

Eventually, the weight of your stare must reach him because Mujin stirs, lashes fluttering before those dark eyes crack open, heavy with sleep. For a moment, he just looks at you, the kind of gaze that makes it feel like he’s seeing straight through you.

“Watching me sleep?” His voice is rough, still thick with sleep, but there’s amusement there too.

You roll your eyes, shifting back onto your pillow. “You’re the one who broke into my bed last night.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, stretching out beneath the sheets, indulging in a rare moment of laziness. "And yet, you didn’t kick me out.”

No, you didn’t. You never do. You’ve seen him at his worst — when Dongcheon was a pipe dream and he was a reckless kid. Now he’s a hardened man, scarred and tattooed, a leader of one of the most volatile and dangerous drug rings and yet he still comes back to you when the police breathe down his neck and it all gets too much, finding respite in you.

Instead of answering, you reach for the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table, plucking one free before offering it to him. Mujin watches you for a moment, before he takes it between his fingers. The flame of the lighter flickers, the scent of tobacco curling between you as he takes a slow drag, exhaling toward the ceiling.