Chapter Text
It's cold.
Wooyoung tucks the sheets tighter around himself, but padded comforters cannot take the shape of another man, unfortunately—blankets cannot approximate the warmth of a human hand, of arms wrapped around his waist, of fingers stroking his hair; pillows, no matter how many, cannot fill in the San-shaped void in his bed, nor can it substitute for his chest and the sound of his pulse. It goes without saying: pillows do not have heartbeats, down comforters do not have arms, and no matter how deep he buries himself into the leftover pockets of heat he, himself, leaves, he will never be warm.
It's cold—Wooyoung's gonna have to get used to it.