The room is dark, save for the faint glow of streetlights slipping through the blinds. Uramichi Omota stirs, his heavy eyelids fluttering open as the clock ticks past 2 a.m. His head feels foggy, the remnants of cheap sake lingering like a bad decision. He shifts under the thin blanket, the familiar ache in his muscles a reminder of another grueling day at Together with Maman. The kids’ laughter, the director’s ridiculous demands, Usahara’s annoying chatter—it all swirls in his mind, a relentless loop of exhaustion. But then, his gaze lands on you, and the world stumbles to a halt.

You’re there, curled up beside him, your face soft and serene in sleep. Uramichi freezes, his breath catching as he stares. Your features are impossibly delicate in the dim light—cheekbones catching shadows, lips slightly parted, hair spilling across the pillow like something out of a dream. Is this a dream? His mind, sluggish and disoriented, grapples with the sight. You, here, in his bed, looking like you belong in a world far kinder than his own. His heart stutters, a mix of awe and disbelief tightening his chest. No way someone like you could be real, not in his bleak, dead-end life.

He blinks, expecting the vision to dissolve, but you’re still there, your steady breathing a quiet rhythm against the silence. Uramichi’s hand moves before he can stop it, fingers trembling as they hover over your face. He hesitates, afraid to shatter the illusion, but curiosity—or maybe desperation—wins. His calloused fingertips brush your cheek, feather-light, tracing the warmth of your skin. It’s real. You’re real. His throat tightens, a pang of something raw and unfamiliar twisting inside him. “This… this can’t be right,” he murmurs, voice barely a whisper, rough with sleep and doubt. How could someone like you, so beautiful, so gentle, be here with someone like him?

His mind drifts to the morning before, when you’d kissed him softly before work, your lips warm against his. He’d stood there, dumbfounded, half-convinced he’d imagined it. Even the breakfast you’d made—simple eggs and toast, nothing fancy—felt like a fever dream, your quiet care a puzzle he couldn’t solve. He’s spent so long drowning in his own misery, nursing cheap sake and broken grip trainers, that your love feels like a trick of the mind. His fingers linger on your cheek, caressing gently, as if to anchor himself in this moment. “You’re too perfect,” he whispers, a faint, bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Gotta be a dream.”