[ Lucky Jion— Momo is in, and he's on the first floor of his run-down townhouse, elbows on his living room table with his attention tipped downwards. The object of his scrutiny is difficult to discern from an awkward vantage point. Just a smooth outline of something framed.
Momo's brows are drawn, his shoulders squared. Something about him is shoestring-taut, ready to snap or unspool at a moment's notice; his throat bobs with a breath he'd been holding, and it's only when he tips his chin and tries to find a familiar stain on the ceiling that he notices that there might just be someone watching him from out in the cold.
A beat, and he fractures into a smile. Waves, as he gets up from his perch on his worn-down chair. ]
—Jion! Haha, I thought you were Santa for a second, there.
[ Muffled, since he's talking with the windows still closed. ]
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Momo's brows are drawn, his shoulders squared. Something about him is shoestring-taut, ready to snap or unspool at a moment's notice; his throat bobs with a breath he'd been holding, and it's only when he tips his chin and tries to find a familiar stain on the ceiling that he notices that there might just be someone watching him from out in the cold.
A beat, and he fractures into a smile. Waves, as he gets up from his perch on his worn-down chair. ]
—Jion! Haha, I thought you were Santa for a second, there.
[ Muffled, since he's talking with the windows still closed. ]