The last breath of dawn.
Light spilled through the window—soft and quiet, like a blanket sliding off a leather sofa, draping the room in gentle warmth.
The only sound—a low vibration, threading its way through the silence woven by sleeping breath.
Jinwoo.
His name glowed, hushed, on the screen.
Celeste opened her eyes.
Before Daniel did.
She turned her head, slowly.
There he was—his face half-buried in the pillow, breathing deep, unguarded.
No tension. No weight.
Just peace, absolute and whole.
She watched him.
For a long time.
His lashes rested like shadows.
The rise and fall of his nose caught the faint rhythm of dawn.
His lips—usually sealed, unreadable—were softened now, vulnerable in sleep.
The sharp lines of his face had quieted.
The chill in his eyes replaced by a kind of heaviness, like dusk sinking into still water.
His jaw, defined yet never cruel.
His cheekbones, deep but balanced—framing him like something carved with care.
Celeste drew a breath.
Without meaning to, she matched his.
And within her, something began to bloom—slowly, quietly.
Guilt—toward her parents.
Regret—for Jinwoo.
Fear—of what the world might say.
And something darker.
Something forbidden.
The shiver of crossing a line you were never meant to cross.
A dread of not being able to return.
And the even more dangerous truth—that she might not want to.
She could justify herself in a thousand ways.
None of them would matter.
None of them could explain what she was now.
When emotion overflows, language breaks.
She was, in that moment—a blank page.
A breathless silence only she could fill.
She moved, carefully—trying to slip from his arms.
But even in sleep, Daniel found her.
His arm curled back around her waist—firm, certain.
A silent instinct: stay.
Celeste inhaled sharply.
Shallow. Full.
"…A morning like this," he murmured,
"it's almost unbearable. It's too good."
Then—another vibration.
Langley Media – Internal Line.
Daniel stirred.
"Just a second,"
he murmured, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Noah.
Last-minute changes to the global audition itinerary.
"Right… not now. I'll head down to the press team in an hour."
He hung up.
Turned back.
And saw her.
Celeste.
lay at the edge of the bed, looking down at her phone.
Jinwoo's name still on the screen.
Her fingertips hovered, hesitant.
As if one wrong word would unravel everything.
Daniel didn't speak.
He simply slipped under the blanket again—closer this time, deliberate.
His warmth reached her bare skin, and she flinched, just slightly.
Not from surprise.
But from knowing exactly what came next.
He pressed in behind her.
Slow. Heavy. Inevitable.
His knees, his hands, his mouth—moved beneath the covers like someone rediscovering a language he once knew by heart. Tracing the familiar map of her body, not rushing—never rushing—just remembering.
Every time their skin met, the air seemed to hold its breath.
So did she.
"…It's morning," she whispered.
It slipped from her lips like vapor.
He didn't answer.
Just lowered his mouth to the curve of her waist.
Kissed her there.
Once. Then again—deeper.
Beneath the sheets, his lips traveled slowly—up her back, her shoulder blades, to the hollow behind her neck.
His breath lingered at her ear.
"I crave you more in the morning," he whispered.
His voice was low—but what poured from it was lower still.
A thirst.
A hunger that came not from night's darkness, but morning's bare honesty.
His knee nudged gently between hers.
She felt the press of his warmth against her spine.
And Celeste—closed her eyes.
His rhythm wasn't hurried.
It was patient, certain—like he was still inside the night before, only drawing the thread further.
His arms caged her in.
Under the covers, the silence returned.
And this time, it came with breath.
With skin.
With surrender.