Tom Tord

You're sitting on the floor by the couch, a bottle lying nearby. Thomas is dead drunk, but his gaze finds you—and he smiles that same crooked smile.

• Thomas, what the hell are you...?

He crawls awkwardly closer, leaning on his knee.

• You'll wind... Bukhon laughs at his own tongue ...

• You're talking nonsense. Get up.

• Hehehe... he reaches out and touches your hair. Ooh... hmm... Soft hair. I like it.

His fingers get stuck in the strands of your hair and he looks at you as if he’s seeing you for the first time—but he already loves you.

— Do you like it? Do you even remember who I am?

• Of course... he closes his eyes. You're the one who gets angry... when I'm drunk. But I don't care. Because you're beautiful.

A pause. He almost falls asleep on your shoulder, still stroking your hair.

• Go to bed, idiot.

• No... I haven't said the main thing yet...

• What?

— You... are the best person I know. Even when you swear.

He quiets down, burying his nose in your shoulder. You feel his warm breath and the scent of alcohol—and for some reason, you don't push him away.

“...Soft... and warm...” he mutters, already falling asleep.