There's a space between sleep and wakefulness where the details in the surroundings are muted. Where Kotetsu's head hasn't yet started pounding with the memory of what happened the night prior, and where he can't even begin to wonder at the different feel of the sheets fisted in his hand, or in the light patterns scattered across his pillow. In that moment, the only thing he knows is that there's someone next to him, a frequent recurring dream that all too often slips from his fingers in the seconds after waking.

He keeps his eyes half-open, unfocused, as though that might help maintain the impression, even for just a second longer. Even if it means waking becomes tinged with a deep loneliness that won't abate.

Nestling his face back into the pillow, Kotetsu lets out a soft groan, toes dragging against the covers.

"Sun's not even up yet," he declares, in response to the soft amber cast over the room.