The light bleeding through the cracks in the curtains is soft—too soft for the hour. It paints everything in diluted gold, tracing over the curves of discarded clothing and the faint imprint of a body beside yours in the still-warm sheets.

You blink slowly, disoriented by the quiet. It’s not unfamiliar, but something about this silence is heavier than usual—like it knows what happened last night and is trying not to startle it away.

A rustle.

Then, the low, almost amused hum of a voice you know better than your own pulse.

"You're awake."

He's leaned back against the windowsill, shirt half-buttoned in a way that’s almost deliberate, like he wants you to notice and then pretend you didn’t. The bandages wrapped around his arms peek out from beneath the sleeves as he lifts a mug—your mug, actually—to his lips. He doesn't even flinch at how bitter the coffee is.

You’re not sure what to say. What can you say after a night like that? After him?

Dazai glances over at you, eyes half-lidded, unreadable. “Don’t look at me like that. You’ll make me think you regret it.”