The boy laughed, a gentle sound, breath misting in the cold air as he leaned closer, the exhalation visible and warm, curling upward in a fleeting plume that caught the diffused light and dissolved slowly, carrying with it the subtle undertone of amusement that resonated in the space between them.
"Your hands… always cold."
A statement spoken without teasing, without scolding, only with a strange fondness that warmed Wei's chest even here, in a place made entirely of snow and silence—the words landing soft as fallen flakes, their simplicity laced with an affection that seeped inward, blooming against the dream's chill like a hidden ember, steady and uninsistent.
A shift in the wind carried loose flakes past them, a sudden eddy that swirled the air into motion, scattering crystals in erratic paths that brushed their cheeks and clung to lashes; the boy instinctively stepped closer, his body aligning with Wei's in a natural adjustment, the proximity closing the gap to mere inches, sleeves whispering against each other in the hush.
Adjusting the edge of Wei's collar with quiet familiarity, his fingers—nimble and sure—tugging the fabric straight, smoothing it down like it was a habit he had practiced many winters ago, the touch light yet deliberate, tracing the seam with a care that spoke of countless repetitions, folding away the stray fold as if to shield against an unseen draft.
Wei felt something lightly press against his forehead—perhaps a touch, perhaps a memory of a touch—something fragile and warm, the kind of gesture people make only when they care so deeply it spills out through instinct rather than intention, a brief contact that lingered like the afterimage of heat on skin, tender and evanescent, stirring a quiet ache in the hollow of his throat.
He tried to speak, tried to ask something he couldn't quite remember, lips parting on a breath that formed no words, the question hovering unspoken in the frosted air, fragmented and elusive, chasing the edges of awareness.
But the boy's outline began dissolving, as if the dream's hold was slipping, edges fraying into translucence, the form losing solidity like mist under a rising sun; his scarf wavered like smoke, crimson threads unraveling into wisps that twisted away on an intangible current, his smile stretched into the brightness, the curve elongating and fading into the glare, a final upward tilt that promised more than it revealed.
And his warmth slid slowly from Wei's hands, retreating inch by inch, the encircling grip loosening to a ghost of pressure, leaving behind only a faint echo against his palms—a residual tingle, like the memory of circulation returning after too long in the cold, pulsing faintly before dimming to absence.
The snow thickened, turning the world white again, flakes multiplying in denser curtains that veiled the horizon, burying contours in relentless layers, erasing every detail except the lingering sensation of someone's fingers intertwined with his—warm, certain, irreplaceable, the phantom weave etched into his skin, a silhouette of touch that persisted even as visibility surrendered to the blank expanse.
By the time the dream drifted away entirely, the only thing left was the imprint of a winter that had meant something, and a boy whose presence clung to Wei's sleeping breath like a memory refusing to fade—subtle, insistent, woven into the rhythm of his inhales, a quiet haunting that blurred the line between reverie and regret.
Cheng Wei surfaced from sleep not because of sound or movement, but because a pale ribbon of sunlight had threaded its way through the narrow opening in his curtains, a slender beam that pierced the gloom with unerring precision, spilled over the wooden floor in a widening pool of gold, climbed steadily up the couch leg by leg, and finally pressed insistently against his closed eyelids, warming them with a delicate brightness that didn't match the lingering chill of winter air in the apartment—a contrast that teased the boundary between comfort and intrusion, the light's touch soft yet relentless.
For several seconds, he lay completely still, breathing quietly, half-conscious and drifting in that hazy space between dream and morning, body lax against the cushions, mind adrift in the residue of snow and warmth, until the light grew too gentle yet too persistent to ignore, urging his eyes open with a soft patience that no alarm could ever imitate, coaxing awareness with the subtlety of dawn's first promise.
He blinked slowly, the world coming into focus through a blurry veil of sleep, lashes fluttering against the intrusion, colors and shapes resolving from indistinct smears into the familiar contours of his living room—the bookshelf's shadowed spines, the wine glass's stem catching a glint, the blanket's folds rumpled around his waist.
And as his vision sharpened he became aware of the faint ache in his neck from having slept in a curled position on the couch, muscles protesting the awkward angle with a dull throb that radiated down his shoulder, his cheek still pressed into the fabric, imprinted with the weave's faint pattern, his fingers loosely curled around the blanket he had pulled over himself without remembering when, the wool soft and heavy, clinging to his skin with the night's residual dampness.
A low sound escaped him—an exhausted half-groan, half-sigh that belonged to a man who rarely allowed himself to fall asleep so deeply that he forgot where he was, the noise rumbling low in his chest, muffled against the cushion, a reluctant concession to the day's encroachment.
"...too early," he muttered under his breath, not yet ready to accept the reality of morning, voice thick with the gravel of interrupted rest, the words slurring slightly as they met the air, but then his eyes drifted toward the small digital clock on the table and the glowing numbers made him straighten suddenly: 7:42 AM, a time far later than he'd intended to wake, the red digits stark and accusatory, and certainly later than a man with a promised manuscript deadline should be sleeping, the realization hitting like a splash of cold water.
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, pressing firmly to chase away the blur, blinking against the sunlight that seemed smug about waking him before his alarm, its beam now slanting across his lap in mocking benevolence, and he exhaled sharply, murmuring something that resembled a complaint and a reluctant acknowledgment all at once—a fragmented "damn it" that trailed into silence, laced with the weight of overslept hours.
His phone buzzed just as he reached for it, the vibration a sharp rattle against the wood that jolted through his fingers, the screen lighting up with a cold blue-white glare that contrasted almost rudely with the warm morning sun spreading across the room, flooding the space with a honeyed glow that highlighted dust motes in lazy dance.
The brightness made him wince, eyes squinting involuntarily, lids narrowing to slits as the glare pierced, and he had to narrow his eyes against it before the notifications came into focus: seven missed calls, icons stacked like insistent fingers; two messages, thumbnails peeking from the lock screen, all from Mr. Lan, the name bold and unyielding.
He didn't open them immediately; instead, he let the phone rest in his palm as he lowered his hand to his knee, the weight of responsibility settling into his chest like a familiar pressure—steady, compressing, a vise tuned to the pitch of unmet expectations. He inhaled slowly, letting the breath fill him, expanding his ribs against the tension, chest rising and falling in measured rhythm, and then finally brought the screen closer, thumb swiping with deliberate slowness.
He scrolled through the messages, the display scrolling under his touch with a soft swish, the texts unfolding in crisp black font against the sterile white.
"Morning, Wei. Don't forget the draft."
"It's important we send it today."
"Call me when you wake."
Seven missed calls.
Two messages.
From Mr. Lan.
Wei sighed, long and slow, the sound drawn from deep in his lungs, a weary release that fogged the air faintly before dissipating, rubbing a hand over his face, palm scraping against the faint stubble that had gathered overnight, fingers pressing into the tension at his temples.
Right… the draft.
Should've finished before the wine…
The thought looped in his mind, self-reproach mild but persistent, mingling with the dream's fading warmth like ink in water, blurring the line between yesterday's indulgence and today's reckoning.