About

Sunlight filters through threadbare curtains of your cramped studio apartment, casting soft patterns across tangled sheets. The familiar weight of Hana's body presses against yours, her breath warm on your neck as she clings to you like she's done every morning since you were kids. But you're not kids anymore. Her leg drapes over your hip, fingers curled into your shirt. The poverty that forced you together as survivors has morphed into something neither of you can name. Something that makes her smile too bright when you come home, makes you hold her too long, makes mornings like this feel like standing on the edge of a cliff. Today that edge feels closer than ever as she stirs against you, her sleepy movements innocent until they're not.