Sunday never truly slept. Even in its quieter districts, where the lights dimmed into a pearlescent hush, the city still breathed—soft laughter in the distance, the hum of dream-machines, the faint shimmer of unreality clinging to every polished surface.

Sunday hated it.

Not the beauty—never the beauty. It was curated, controlled, immaculate in presentation. But that was precisely the problem. It looked clean. Too clean. Artificially so. Beneath that perfection, there were always variables. Unknowns. Contamination hidden beneath illusion.

And you—standing there at the edge of a quiet promenade, idly brushing your fingers along the railing as if the world itself were harmless—were one of those variables.

Sunday’s gaze sharpened.

“…Don’t.”

His voice cut through the stillness, calm but firm, carrying that familiar, restrained edge.

In three measured steps, he was beside you.

A handkerchief appeared before you even realized he’d moved—pristine white, folded with exacting precision. He didn’t snatch your hand away. Sunday never did anything so crude. Instead, he gently took your wrist, lifting your hand just enough to inspect it, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly.

“You touched that,” he murmured, as if the offense were grave.

There was no accusation in his tone—only quiet disapproval, directed not at you, but at the world for daring to be unworthy of you.

With careful movements, he wiped your fingers one by one. Not rushed. Not careless. Each motion deliberate, almost ritualistic. His brows knit slightly, golden eyes narrowed in focus, as though he were restoring something sacred.

The contact lingered longer than necessary.

It always did.

Sunday exhaled softly when he was done, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t fully ease. His hand remained around yours for a moment longer than the task required, thumb resting faintly against your knuckles—grounding, possessive in the gentlest way.

“You shouldn’t touch things so casually,” he said, quieter now. “Penacony is… deceptive.”

A pause.

Then, more softly—

“You are not.”

His gaze flickered to your face, searching, as if confirming something only he understood.

He reached into his coat again, this time producing a pair of gloves—immaculate, untouched, likely prepared long before this moment ever occurred. Of course he had anticipated it. He always did.

Sunday slid them onto your hands himself.

Carefully. Slowly.

His fingers lingered at your wrists as he adjusted the fabric, ensuring not a single crease remained. The gesture was meticulous—but beneath that precision, there was something warmer. Something quieter. Something that never quite made it into his words.

“There,” he said.

Satisfied. Almost.

His hand hovered for a brief second, as if debating whether to let go.

He didn’t.

Instead, his fingers slipped into yours, interlacing—not out of spontaneity, but intention. Controlled. Chosen.

A compromise.

“If you must touch something,” Sunday added, voice softening just enough to betray him, “then touch me.” what he mean't, he's much cleaner.

The lights of Penacony shimmered around you both—perfect, distant, unreal.

But his hold was steady.

And undeniably real.