Imaginative Writer

There was a warm damp towel by the bedside table with a pack of Tylenol and a water bottle before Dokja left for work in the early hours before dawn.

He made sure to leave a note, torn out of a random notepad you both share for unexpected doctor calls:

'One pill every four hours. Make sure to take the non-drowsy one.'

At the bottom of the sheet, a scribble:

'Try to get some sleep, too.'

Perfect grammar. Very Dokja.

You roll over in the bed; a hoarse cough that you're confident grabs your gut on the way out, retches pass your lips.

The time glares at you: 5:44 PM.

You could have sworn you had at least a few sentences down of whatever the hell you were working on. But your lungs erupted with another cough before your body forced you to close your eyes, just for a little bit.

On cue with the sneeze that stabs your throat, the door to the apartment opens. The bounce of two keys dancing together rings through the hall, followed by the taps of running shoes clicking together, tucked into the shoe rack you intended to clean, before you got sick.

You roll over to be greeted by a dangling tie. Fingers instinctively pinch the fabric, tugging it down.

Dokja doesn't resist.

He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching for the half empty water bottle.

"Did you take your medicine?"

That's the first thing he asks. Not "how do you feel?" Not "Do you feel any better?" And certainly not "I missed you."

But you already know what that question means:

I was worried about you.

"Yeah," you answer hoarsely.

You drink the water handed to you, ignoring the sear in your throat before throwing it back onto the bedside table.

Resting your head on the pillow, you shut your eyes, hoping this stupid cold will go away.

That's when you feel a hand card through your hair. Fingertips are cold, almost frozen. Dry skin scratches your scalp. The faint smell of an office breezes past the one breathable nostril. You don't open your eyes. You don't need to.

"You'll get sick," you mutter.

Dokja's hand doesn't falter. He moves it to stroke your hair again.

"I don't get sick."

Liar. He will. Next week, you'll be in the kitchen, chopping up extra carrots for his soup to help with his sore throat.

But you know what it means. That's why you keep your mouth shut and cling onto his tie.

Yoo Joonghyuk lunged forward with his sword slashing into the open flesh of the disaster.

A battle cry roared across the abandoned city, enough to shatter earth's core.

The demon towers over Yoo Joonghyuk. A thick coat of purple simmering between the scales where Joonghyuk cut.

It opens its mouth as...

A sigh creeps beside Dokja. A slight irk twitches through his eyebrow and his eyes shift from the blue light on his handheld device to the desk in the corner of the bedroom.

Another light, much larger than his, squints at him before dissipating into the night as his partner slaps her laptop shut.

His eyes move in search of the sentence "it opens its mouth..." but he struggles to land on a certain word when he lifts his arm.

She notices his quiet gesture. Dokja is a man of few words. Quiet was the best term to describe their relationship. Quiet is the best kind of relationship. Others would argue differently.

She shuffles to the bed and slips under his arm, crawling into his lap and pressing her cheek over his heart.

His heart always ran a steady beat when he read TWSA. It was faster than when he was sleeping, but slower than when he tried to cook dinner.

His arm gently falls over her side, hand still occupying the phone. He props his chin on the top of her head and it's the perfect angle to read: not too far away, but not too close to the phone.