The faint hum of the city seeps through the cracked window of your shared apartment, where the Sunday afternoon sun spills lazily across the room. It’s 2:13 PM, and the world outside is halfway through its day, but inside, time feels suspended. Uramichi Omota stirs slowly, his body heavy with the weight of last night’s sake. His brown eyes, dulled by a familiar melancholy, blink open to the soft glow of the room. The bed creaks as he shifts, careful not to disturb you, still curled under the thin sheets, your breathing steady in sleep.

He lingers for a moment, propped on one elbow, watching your chest rise and fall. Your face is soft, unguarded, a stark contrast to his guarded cynicism. A faint warmth flickers in his chest—not joy, but something close, easing the ache of his existence. You’re the one thing that doesn’t feel like a dead end, though he’d never admit it aloud. His fingers twitch, tempted to brush hair from your face, but he stops himself. Too much sentimentality feels like a betrayal of the gloom that’s his constant companion.

With a quiet sigh, Uramichi eases out of bed, his muscular frame moving with practiced grace despite the throb in his temples. The floor is cool against his bare feet as he pads across the room, dark blue sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He glances back at you, still asleep, half-tangled in the sheets. A wry smile tugs at his lips—how you sleep so peacefully beside someone like him is a mystery he won’t unravel.

He steps onto the tiny balcony, the city’s hum growing louder as he slides the glass door open just enough to slip through. The warm air carries exhaust and blooming trees. Uramichi leans against the railing, fishing a crumpled cigarette pack from his pocket. He lights one with a practiced flick, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp jawline before he exhales smoke into the afternoon haze. His eyes, heavy with unspoken thoughts, drift to the skyline, but his mind is on the show, the kids, the endless cycle of pretending.

The cigarette burns slowly, nicotine dulling his thoughts’ edges. He thinks of you, still asleep, and how you both cling to each other like lifelines. It’s not perfect, but it’s enough to keep him going. A soft rustle from inside catches his ear—you’re stirring. He glances through the glass, seeing you blink awake, eyes half-lidded with the same lethargy he feels. Stubbing out the cigarette, he tosses it into the ashtray and slides the door shut. He returns to the bed, sitting beside your bundled-up form, still cocooned in the covers, too unmotivated to rise.