#124 x reader

  The prayer felt different now. Before Namgyu, your conversations with God had been simple, gratitude for your family, pleas for good grades, hopes for a future husband who would love you and lead you closer to faith. Now your prayers were messy, complicated things full of contradictions that would make your youth pastor’s head spin.

  You remember you’d met him outside a coffee shop near campus, of all places. He was leaning against the glass door, chain-smoking and handing out glossy flyers for some sketchy club downtown. And your parents had been suspicious from the start. “There’s something about him,” your mother had said after their first meeting, her lips pressed into that thin line that appeared whenever she disapproved of something. “He seems… troubled.”

  But you’d seen something else. Beneath the tired eyes and the way he sometimes fidgeted when he thought no one was looking, you’d seen someone who was searching. Someone who asked the right questions, even if he didn’t have the answers. You’d convinced yourself that was enough, that love could bridge the gap between his searching and your certainty.

“Watch over him tonight, Lord,” you continued, your forehead pressed against your clasped hands. “Keep him safe from harm, from himself, from the darkness that seems to follow him.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on you. Even now, even after everything, you were still praying for him. Still hoping that somehow, some way, he would find his way back to the light you’d tried so desperately to show him.

  The first time you’d seen him use, you’d told yourself it was just marijuana. Everyone experimented in college, right? Even some of the kids from your youth group had tried it, though they’d never admit. You’d prayed about it, asked God to help you guide Namgyu away from substances that clouded his judgment and separated him from divine purpose.

  But marijuana had been just the beginning.

  “I don’t understand,” you’d said to him one night, maybe six months into your relationship. You’d found the small baggie in his jacket pocket while looking for his keys. The white powder inside had made your stomach drop. “Why do you need this?”

  He’d gotten defensive, the way he always did when you asked questions he didn’t want to answer. “You wouldn’t understand,” he’d said, snatching the baggie from your hands. “Your life is perfect. You have your little prayers and your perfect family and your perfect faith. Some of us aren’t so lucky.”

  You’d tried to explain that faith wasn’t about luck, that it was about choice, about opening your heart to God’s love. But Namgyu had looked at you like you were speaking a foreign language, like the words coming out of your mouth were incomprehensible.

  That should have been your first warning. Maybe it was, and you’d just chosen to ignore it.

   “Please, God,” you whispered now, your voice cracking slightly.        

  “Please help me understand why loving him wasn’t enough. Help me understand what I could have done differently.”

  The guilt was the worst part. Your pastor had told you that addiction was a disease, that you couldn’t love someone into recovery. But late at night, when the apartment was too quiet and the absence of his presence felt like a physical ache, you wondered if you’d given up too easily. If you’d prayed harder, loved stronger, been more patient…

  But then you’d remember the last night, the night that had finally broken something inside you that you weren’t sure could be repaired.

  He’d been gone for three days. Three days of unanswered calls and texts, of driving by his usual spots, of calling his few friends who still spoke to him. You’d been sick with worry, imagining him overdosed in some alley or arrested or worse. Your parents had begged you to stay with them, but you’d insisted on staying at the apartment in case he came back.

  When he’d finally stumbled through the door at two in the morning, you’d been so relieved you’d almost cried. Until you’d seen his eyes. Pupils dilated, movements erratic, words slurred and aggressive.

  “Where have you been?” you’d asked, and he’d laughed, a sound devoid of any humor.

  “That’s none of your fucking business,” he’d said, his voice dripping with contempt. “Is there anything to eat in this shithole?”

  You’d smelled the alcohol on his breath, seen the way his hands shook. But what had terrified you most was the stranger looking back at you from his eyes. The Namgyu you’d fallen in love with, the one who’d quoted scripture ironically but with somewhat curiosity, who’d listened to your stories about youth group with affectionate amusement, was gone.

  “I was worried about you,” you’d said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I thought something had happened.”

  “Something did happen,” he’d said, moving closer to you in a way that made your skin crawl. “I realized what a fucking joke this all is. You, me, this whole thing. You think you’re saving me? You think your little prayers and your innocent act make you better than me?”

  The words had stung, but you’d heard them before. What was new was the way he’d grabbed your arm when you’d tried to walk away, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to leave marks.

  “Let go of me,” you’d said, your voice barely above a whisper.

  “Why?” he’d asked, his grip tightening. “Afraid I’ll corrupt your precious purity? Afraid I’ll drag you down to my level?”

  For a moment, you’d seen something in his eyes that had made your blood run cold. A potential for violence that you’d never seen before, a willingness to hurt you that went beyond words. Your heart had hammered against your ribs as you’d realized how alone you were, how far you’d let yourself drift from the people who actually cared about your wellbeing.

  “Please,” you’d whispered, and something in your voice must have gotten through to him because he’d released you suddenly, stumbling backward like he’d been burned.

  “Shit,” he’d said, staring at his hands like they belonged to someone else. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I would never…”

  But you’d already seen the truth. You’d seen what he was capable of, what the drugs were turning him into. And you’d realized that all your prayers, all your love, all your desperate attempts to save him had only enabled him to sink deeper into a darkness that was consuming him from the inside out.

  The next morning, you’d found your jewelry box empty and several bills missing from your purse. He’d been gone when you’d woken up, and you’d known with crystal clarity that you couldn’t do this anymore.

  “Give me strength,” you prayed now, your voice steadier than it had been in weeks. “Help me forgive him, and help me forgive myself.”

  The breakup had been messy, painful in ways you hadn’t expected. Not because he’d fought for you, he’d barely seemed to register that you were serious when you’d told him it was over. But because cutting him out of your life had felt like amputating a part of yourself.

  Your parents had been relieved, though they’d tried to hide it. Your mother had made your favorite dinner and sat with you while you’d cried, stroking your hair and whispering that it was for the best. Your father had simply hugged you and said that sometimes loving someone meant letting them go.

  But letting go was easier said than done.

  The apartment still smelled like him sometimes. Cigarettes and that cologne he’d worn, the one that had been too expensive for his budget but that he’d insisted on buying anyway. His comics were still on the shelf, the ones he’d left behind in his hasty departure. You’d thought about packing them up, donating them or throwing them away, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

  Maybe some part of you was still hoping he’d come back for them. Maybe some part of you was still hoping he’d come back for you.

  “Help him find peace,” you whispered, finishing your prayer. “Help him find his way back to you, even if it’s not through me.”

  You crossed yourself and rose from your knees, your legs stiff from kneeling. The apartment felt even quieter now, the silence broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic from the street below.

  Coffee. You needed coffee, or maybe tea. Something warm to chase away the chill that seemed to have settled in your bones.

  You padded to the kitchen in your bare feet, your pajamas soft against your skin. The routine of making coffee was comforting, measuring out the grounds, filling the pot with water, pressing the button and listening to the familiar gurgle as the machine came to life.

  It was then that you heard it.

  The knocking started soft, almost tentative, like whoever was on the other side of the door wasn’t sure they wanted to be there. But it grew more insistent, more desperate, until it became a pounding that echoed through the small apartment.

  Your heart stopped.

  You knew that knock. You’d heard it a thousand times before. When he’d forgotten his keys, when he’d come home late and didn’t want to wake you, when he’d been too high to figure out how to use his key properly.

  “I know you’re in there,” his voice came through the door, muffled but unmistakable. “I can see the light. Just… just open the door, okay? I forgot something. I need to get something.”

  You stood frozen in the kitchen, your hand still on the coffee maker. This was not happening. This could not be happening. Not tonight, not after you’d finally started to feel like you were healing.

  “Please,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. “I just need five minutes. I forgot something important.”

  The rational part of your mind, the part that sounded like your mother and your pastor and every self-help book you’d ever read, told you to ignore him. To let him knock until he got tired and went away. To protect yourself from whatever chaos he was bringing to your door.

  But the part of you that had loved him, that maybe still loved him despite everything, wanted to know what he’d forgotten. Wanted to see him, to make sure he was okay, to convince yourself that he was someone else’s problem now.

  “Go away, Namgyu,” you called out, your voice stronger than you felt. “You don’t live here anymore.”

  The knocking stopped for a moment, and you thought maybe he’d listened. Maybe he’d finally developed enough respect for your boundaries to leave you alone.

  Then it started again, harder this time.

  “Don’t be like this,” he said, his voice taking on an edge you recognized. “I’m not asking for much. Just let me get my stuff and I’ll leave. You’ll never have to see me again.”

  “You already got your stuff,” you said, moving closer to the door despite yourself. “You took everything when you left.”

  “I fucking missed something,” he said. “Something important. Something I can’t replace.”

  You pressed your forehead against the door, trying to steady your breathing. Through the peephole, you could see him swaying slightly, his hair disheveled, his clothes wrinkled like he’d been sleeping in them. Even in the dim hallway light, you could see the familiar signs, the restless energy, the way he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, the slight tremor in his hands.

  He was high.

  “What did you forget?” you asked, though you weren’t sure why you were engaging with him at all.

  “Just… something,” he said, and you could hear the desperation creeping into his voice. “Look, I know you hate me, okay? I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. But I’m not asking for forgiveness here. I’m just asking for five minutes to get something that belongs to me.”

  “Everything that belongs to you is already gone,” you said, but your voice lacked conviction. “I don’t have anything of yours.”

 “You’re lying,” he said, and his voice was getting louder now, more agitated. “You’re fucking lying and you know it. Just open the goddamn door!”

  The coffee maker beeped behind you, signaling that your coffee was ready. The sound seemed obscenely normal, ridiculously domestic, in the face of the chaos brewing outside your door.

  “Stop yelling,” you said. “You’re going to wake up the neighbors.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the neighbors,” he said, and you could hear him pacing now, his footsteps echoing in the hallway. “I don’t give a shit about anything except getting what’s mine.”

  This was the Namgyu you’d learned to fear, the one who emerged when the drugs took hold and stripped away everything that had made him human. The one who’d grabbed your arm that last night, who’d looked at you like you were an obstacle to be removed rather than a person he’d claimed to love.

  “Please don’t make me call the police,” you said, though you weren’t sure you’d actually do it.

  “Call them,” he said, and you could hear the bitter laugh in his voice. “Call them and tell them what? That your junkie ex-boyfriend is asking for his stuff back? That’ll go over real well.”

  You closed your eyes, trying to think. Every instinct you had was screaming at you to keep the door closed, to wait until he got tired and left. But you also knew Namgyu well enough to know that he could be incredibly persistent when he wanted something. He’d stand out there all night if he had to, pounding on the door and yelling until someone called the police anyway.

  “What did you forget?” you asked again.

  “Just… let me in and I’ll show you,” he said. “I promise I’ll be quick. I promise I won’t cause any trouble.”

  His promises had been worthless for months now, but there was something different in his voice. Something that sounded almost like the old Namgyu, the one who’d listened to your dreams about the future.

  “You’re high,” you said. It wasn’t a question.

  “I’m fine,” he said, but you could hear the lie in his voice. “I’m totally fine. Just let me in.”

  The pounding started again, more desperate now. You could hear him pressing his whole body against the door, could feel the vibration through the wood.

  “Please,” he said, and his voice broke completely. “Please, I’m begging you. I know I don’t deserve it, I know I fucked everything up, but I’m begging you. Just five minutes.”

  And then, to your horror, you heard something that made your resolve crumble completely.

  He was crying.

  Not the angry, frustrated tears of someone who wasn’t getting their way, but the broken, desperate sobs of someone who had reached the end of their rope. Through the door, you could hear him slide down to the floor, could hear the way his breathing hitched between sobs.

  “I’m sorry,” he was saying, over and over. “I’m so fucking sorry. I know I ruined everything. I know I hurt you. I know I don’t deserve anything from you. But please, please just let me get this one thing.”

  Your hand was on the deadbolt before you’d consciously decided to move. Every rational thought in your head was screaming at you to stop, to think about what you were doing, to remember why you’d ended things in the first place.

  But the sound of his crying was breaking something inside you, cracking open the careful walls you’d built around your heart over the past month.

  The deadbolt clicked open, and you heard him scramble to his feet. You undid the chain lock with shaking hands, your mind still not quite believing what you were doing.

  When you opened the door, the sight of him nearly brought you to your knees.

  He looked terrible. Worse than you’d ever seen him. His clothes were dirty and wrinkled, his hair greasy and unkempt. But it was his eyes that made your breath catch. They were hollow, desperate, with the glassy shine that meant he was definitely under the influence of something stronger than alcohol.

  He’d lost weight, you realized. His cheekbones were more prominent, his clothes hanging loose on his frame. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a cut on his lip that looked recent.

  “Jesus, Namgyu,” you whispered, and he flinched at the sound of his name.

  “Thank you,” he said, and his voice was hoarse from crying. “Thank you for letting me in.”

  He stepped past you into the apartment, and you caught a whiff of his scent, unwashed clothes, cigarettes, and something chemical that made your stomach turn. This wasn’t the Namgyu you’d fallen in love with. This wasn’t even the Namgyu you’d broken up with.

  This was someone else entirely.

  “What did you forget?” you asked, closing the door behind him but leaving it unlocked. You needed to be able to get him out quickly if things went south.

  “I’ll know it when I see it,” he said, already moving toward the bedroom. “Just… just give me a minute to look around.”

  “Namgyu, wait,” you said, but he was already disappearing down the hallway.

  You stood in the living room, your heart hammering against your ribs, listening to the sounds of him moving around in what used to be your shared bedroom. You could hear drawers opening and closing, the sound of things being moved around.

  What could he have possibly forgotten? You’d been meticulous when he’d moved out, making sure every item of his clothing, every book, every random possession had been packed up and removed. You’d even found things you’d forgotten were his, a phone charger, a coffee mug, a book of poetry that had been tucked behind your dresser.

  The coffee maker beeped again, reminding you that your coffee was getting cold. Almost without thinking, you moved to the kitchen and poured two cups, one for you, one for him. It was automatic, muscle memory from hundreds of mornings spent sharing coffee before he’d started his downward spiral.

  You’d just finished adding cream to his cup the way he liked it when you heard him coming back down the hallway. You turned to face him, the two mugs in your hands, and immediately knew that something had changed.

  His eyes were different now. Not just high, but dark in a way that made your skin crawl. There was something predatory in his gaze, something that hadn’t been there when he’d been begging at your door just minutes ago.

  “Find what you were looking for?” you asked, your voice carefully neutral.

  He stared at you for a long moment, his gaze flicking between your face and the coffee mugs in your hands. Then, slowly, he smiled.

But it wasn’t a nice smile.

  He didn’t answer your question. Instead, he moved toward you with that predatory grace you’d seen before, when the drugs made him feel invincible and dangerous. The space between you seemed to shrink as he approached, his movements deliberate and unsettling.

  Without warning, he reached out and grabbed one of the coffee mugs from your hands, his fingers deliberately brushing against yours. His skin was clammy and cold, and you instinctively pulled back from the contact.

  You watched in growing alarm as he lifted the mug to his lips, took a long sip, and then immediately spat the hot liquid across your kitchen floor. Coffee splattered against the cabinets, dark stains spreading across the white surfaces you’d scrubbed clean just yesterday.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” you demanded, staring at the mess he’d created.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, that unsettling smile never leaving his face. “Tastes like shit,” he said, dropping the mug carelessly onto the counter. “When did you start making coffee this shitty? You used to make it strong, the way I liked it.”

  “It’s late, and I don’t make coffee for you anymore,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I make it for me.”

  “Right,” he said, drawing out the word like it tasted bitter. “Of course you do.”

  He was already reaching into his jacket pocket, and you felt your stomach drop as you saw what he was pulling out. A crumpled pack of cigarettes, the kind he’d smoked constantly toward the end of your relationship. The kind that had made your apartment reek of smoke and reminded you daily of his deteriorating condition.

  “You can’t smoke in here,” you said immediately, panic rising in your voice. “This is my apartment now, Namgyu. You can’t just—”

  He laughed, the sound harsh and grating in the small space. The cigarette was already between his lips, and he was flicking his lighter with practiced ease. The flame cast dancing shadows across his gaunt face, making him look almost demonic in the dim kitchen light.

  “Can’t I?” he said around the cigarette, his words slightly muffled. 

“Since when do you make the rules?”

  “Since you moved out,” you said, your voice rising. “Since you decided to throw away everything we had for whatever poison you’re putting in your body now.”

  The cigarette was lit now, and he took a long drag, the tip glowing orange in the darkness. When he exhaled, the smoke hit you directly in the face, making you cough and step backward.

  “You can’t smoke in here,” you repeated, more desperately now. “The lease says no smoking. I could get evicted. Please, just—”

  “Shut up, you fucking bitch ” he said, his voice suddenly cold and sharp. “Just shut the fuck up for five seconds.”

  He held up his free hand, palm facing you, and before you could process what he was doing, he pressed the lit end of the cigarette directly into his skin.

  The sizzle was immediate and horrifying. The smell of burning flesh hit you like a physical blow, acrid and nauseating. You watched in horror as his skin blistered and burned, the cigarette tip eating through his palm like it was paper. He didn’t even flinch. His eyes never left yours, watching your reaction with something that looked almost like satisfaction. The pain should have been excruciating, but he might as well have been pressing the cigarette into a piece of wood for all the reaction he showed.

  “You’re insane,” you whispered, backing away from him until your back hit the refrigerator. “You’re absolutely fucking insane.”

  He dropped the cigarette to the floor, grinding it under his heel without breaking eye contact. The burn on his palm was already turning an angry red, the skin raised and blistered in a perfect circle.

  “Maybe I am,” he said, his voice eerily calm. “Maybe that’s what happens when an ungrateful bitch like you decides I’m not worth saving.”

  “You need to leave,” you said, your voice shaking so badly you could barely get the words out. “Right now. Get whatever you came for and get out, or I swear to God I’ll scream loud enough for the whole building to hear.”

  “Oh, you’ll scream for your neighbors,” he said, tilting his head like he was genuinely curious. “But you won’t scream for your precious God? What happened to all that faith, sweetheart? What happened to loving your enemies and turning the other cheek?”

  The way he said ‘sweetheart’ made bile rise in your throat. It was the same endearment he’d used when you’d first started dating, when he’d whisper it against your ear. Now it sounded like a mockery, like he was throwing your shared intimacy back in your face.

  “Don’t call me that,” you warned, but he was already moving again.

He reached into his pocket with his uninjured hand, his movements deliberate and slow, like he was savoring whatever moment was about to come. When he pulled his hand back out, your world tilted sideways.

  Dangling from his fingers was a pair of underwear. Your underwear. But not just any pair, these were new, delicate, nothing like the practical cotton ones you’d always worn when you were together. These were black lace, with tiny ribbons at the sides, the kind of thing you’d bought after the breakup in some desperate attempt to feel beautiful again.

“Found what I was looking for,” he said, his voice thick with something that made your skin crawl.

  The coffee mug you’d been holding slipped from your numb fingers, shattering against the kitchen floor. The sound seemed to echo in the sudden silence, ceramic shards scattering across the linoleum like broken promises.

  “Where did you—” you started, but the words died in your throat.

  The violation of it hit you like a physical blow. He’d been in your bedroom, going through your drawers, touching your most intimate belongings. The thought of his hands on your things, searching through your underwear drawer like he had some right to be there, made you feel sick.

  “Why were you going through my things?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

  His expression changed instantly, the predatory smile vanishing and being replaced by something much darker. His eyes narrowed, and when he spoke, his voice was full of rage.

  “You want to know why?” he snarled, his grip tightening on the underwear. “Because when you were with me, you always wore those fucking granny panties. Those ugly, beige, cotton pieces of shit that covered everything. And now I’m gone and you’re pulling out this sexy lingerie bullshit?”

  He threw the underwear at you, the fabric hitting your chest before falling to the floor among the broken ceramic. You flinched as if he’d struck you, the violation of the gesture making you feel dirty and exposed.

  “Who are you fucking?” he demanded, taking a step closer to you. 

  “Huh? Who’s the bastard who gets to see you in that shit? Some clean-cut Christian boy from your church? Someone your parents would actually approve of?”

  “Nobody,” you said, but your voice came out weak and unconvincing.

  “Bullshit,” he spat. “You don’t buy underwear like that for nobody. You don’t start dressing like a whore unless someone’s paying attention.”

  The word hit you like a slap, and you felt tears starting to burn behind your eyes. This wasn’t the Namgyu you’d fallen in love with. This wasn’t even the broken, desperate man who’d been destroying himself with drugs. This was something else entirely, something cruel and vicious that had taken up residence in his body.

  “Get out,” you said, your voice stronger now. “Get out of my apartment right now.”

  “Or what?” he sneered, kicking at the broken ceramic on the floor. “You’ll call your daddy? Tell him the big bad junkie is being mean to his precious little angel?”

  “Fuck you,” you spat, the words tearing out of your throat before you could stop them. You never cursed, your parents had raised you better than that, but something about his presence in your space was bringing out a side of you that you didn’t recognize.

  “There she is,” he said, his eyes lighting up with sick satisfaction. “There’s the real you. Not the perfect little church girl act you put on for everyone else.”

  “You don’t know shit about the real me,” you shot back, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. “The real me got tired of watching you destroy yourself. The real me got tired of making excuses for a pathetic loser who chose drugs over everything else.”

  His face twisted with rage, and before you could react, he grabbed the remaining coffee mug from the counter and hurled it at the wall next to your head. You ducked instinctively as ceramic exploded against the drywall, shards raining down around you.

  “Pathetic loser?” he screamed. “I’m a pathetic loser? You’re the one who’s so desperate for attention that you’re buying slutty underwear the second I’m gone!”

  Without thinking, you grabbed the sugar bowl from the counter and threw it at him. It caught him in the shoulder, white granules scattering across the floor as the bowl shattered.

  “I bought them for me!” you screamed back. “Because for the first time in months, I wanted to feel like a woman instead of a fucking babysitter!”

  “Bullshit!” He was advancing on you now, his burned hand leaving bloody smears on whatever he touched. “You bought them for whoever you’re spreading your legs for now. Some clean-cut asshole who doesn’t know what a manipulative bitch you really are.”

  “You’re insane!” You grabbed a dinner plate from the drying rack and hurled it at his head. He dodged, and it smashed against the refrigerator. “You’re a paranoid, delusional piece of shit who can’t stand the thought that someone might actually be happy without you!”

  “Happy?” he laughed, the sound completely unhinged. “You call this happy? Living alone in this shithole, buying fancy underwear for nobody, pretending like you don’t miss what we had?”

  “What we had was toxic!” you screamed, throwing a fork at him that clattered harmlessly against the wall. “What we had was me enabling your addiction while you stole from me and treated me like garbage!”

  “I never treated you like garbage,” he snarled, grabbing a coffee mug from the counter and slamming it down so hard the handle broke off. “I fucking loved you!”

  “You loved having someone to take care of you!” You were both circling each other now like animals, the kitchen floor littered with broken dishes and spilled coffee. “You loved having someone to clean up your messes and make excuses for you and pretend like everything was fine while you flushed your life down the drain!”

  “That’s not true,” he said, but his voice was less certain now, more desperate. “That’s not fucking true and you know it.”

  “It is true!” you shouted. “And you know what the worst part is? I actually thought I could save you. I thought if I just loved you enough, prayed hard enough, you’d get clean. But you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved!”

  “I never asked you to save me!” he screamed, his face contorted with rage and pain. “I never asked for your prayers or your judgment or your perfect little Christian conscience!”

  “Then what did you ask for?” you demanded. “What did you want from me, Namgyu?”

  “I wanted you to love me!” he roared. “I wanted you to fucking love me without trying to fix me! I wanted you to accept me the way I am instead of constantly trying to turn me into someone else!”

  “The way you are is broken!” you screamed back. “The way you are is sick and destructive and—”

  You never got to finish the sentence because suddenly he was across the kitchen, his hands tangling in your hair, pulling your face toward his. His mouth crashed against yours with desperate violence, all teeth and desperation and the taste of cigarettes and something chemical that made you gag.

  You tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong, his fingers twisted in your hair so tightly that moving sent shooting pains across your scalp. His kiss was nothing like the gentle, hesitant kisses from when you’d first started dating. This was possession, domination, an attempt to reclaim something that had never really belonged to him.

When he finally released you, you stumbled backward, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You could taste blood. Whether his or yours, you couldn’t tell.

  The look on his face made your blood run cold. His eyes were wild, pupils dilated, but there was something else there now. Something calculating and dangerous that made every instinct in your body scream at you to run.

  “You still taste the same,” he said softly, and the quiet tone was somehow more terrifying than all his screaming had been.

  You stared at him, wide-eyed, stunned into stillness. The world felt off-kilter, your breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts as your back pressed into the edge of the fridge. The ache in your scalp from where he’d yanked your hair hadn’t faded, but it was the look in his eyes that left you shaking, like he’d seen straight through your defenses and found the part of you that still wanted something from him.

  You hated yourself for it.

  “Don’t touch me,” you managed to whisper, your voice cracking mid-sentence. “Please, just—just go.”

  But the tears were already falling, hot and heavy and ugly, streaming down your cheeks in uneven lines. You weren’t crying pretty, and you didn’t care. Your nose was running, your lips trembling, your whole body shuddering from the aftermath of the argument and that violent kiss. You could taste him in your mouth, and it made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

  He didn’t back away.

  He watched you like you were a movie he’d seen a dozen times, like he already knew how this scene ended. When he stepped closer, you flinched, your hands curling into fists at your sides like you could punch the pain out of the air.

  But you didn’t move. You didn’t stop him.

  Because some sick, buried part of you still remembered what it felt like to be touched by him when things were good. Before the lies. Before the drugs. Before the nights you sat by the window waiting, praying, begging God to bring him home alive.

  That part of you still lived somewhere inside your ribcage. And she wasn’t gone yet.

  “Don’t cry like that,” he said, his voice low, rough, familiar in the way poison is familiar to someone dying slow. He reached up and wiped your cheek with his burned hand, the smell of scorched skin still thick in the air. “It makes me hard.”

  You choked on a sob, horrified at yourself for the way your thighs clenched at his words. Your whole body was betraying you, rewiring itself around him like muscle memory.

  “I hate you,” you breathed, but even you weren’t sure if it was the truth.

  “I know,” he said, stepping even closer, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body. “You hate me. You miss me. You fucking need me.”

  Before you could protest, before you could gather any coherent thought, he spun you around and shoved you forward until your hips slammed against the kitchen counter. You gasped, your palms bracing against the cool surface, your chest rising and falling with shallow, frantic breaths.

  “I said no—” you started, but the words died the moment you felt his hand between your thighs, bold and possessive like he had every right to touch you. You should’ve stopped him. You should’ve screamed. But instead, you bucked into his hand like your body remembered something your soul wanted to forget.

  “You wore this for someone else?” he growled against your ear, yanking the lace panties down your thighs in one rough motion. “Some loser church boy with?”

  “No,” you whispered, tears falling anew as his fingers traced over your folds with slow, humiliating familiarity. “I wore them for me…”

  “Liar,” he hissed, slapping the inside of your thigh. “Fucking liar. You wore them for attention. You wanted someone to look at you and think, ‘I bet she fucks like a whore when the lights are off.’ Isn’t that right?”

  Your breath hitched. His fingers slipped inside you, two at once, deep and practiced, curling just right as your knees buckled.

  “Namgyu—”

  He growled low in his throat, grabbing a fistful of your hair again and yanking your head back. “Say my name again. Go on. You’re already dripping down my fingers, might as well admit how much you missed this cock.”

  You bit your lip so hard you tasted blood. And still, you didn’t tell him to stop.

  He shoved his jeans down just enough to free himself, and a second later, he was pushing into you hard and fast, with no preamble, no mercy, no illusion of tenderness. You gasped, the stretch sharp and unrelenting, your cheek pressed against the cool countertop as he buried himself to the hilt.

  “Still so tight,” he groaned, one hand gripping your waist, the other pressing down on your back to keep you bent for him. “Like your pussy knows it belongs to me.”

  You sobbed again, the shame and arousal mixing in a sickening cocktail that flooded your veins. His thrusts were brutal, punishing, fast. His hips slamming into the backs of your thighs as he used you like a thing, like a possession he’d left behind and come back to reclaim.

  “You think anyone else could fuck you like this?” he sneered, pounding into you harder. “You think some little church boy could make you moan like a slut while crying on your knees?”

  Your mouth opened but no sound came out. He had you folded over the counter like a doll, your hands slipping on the surface as he drilled into you, as he took and took like you owed him every last drop of what was left.

  “Who does this pussy belong to?” he growled, his hand wrapping around your throat as he fucked into you deeper.

  You couldn’t answer.

  He squeezed just enough to make your head swim.

  “Say it.”

  “Y-You,” you sobbed, your voice cracked and broken. “It’s yours. It’s always been yours.”

  “Damn right it is.” His voice was like gravel, low and victorious. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to fuck the faith out of you.”

  You came with a violent shudder, biting down on your forearm to muffle the sounds you couldn’t control. The heat, the pain, the degradation, it all blurred into one humiliating wave that crested and crashed over you while he rutted into you from behind like an animal.

  He followed seconds later with a loud, guttural groan, spilling into you with no protection, no hesitation. You felt it. Hot, thick, invasive, and the aftershocks left your body trembling, hollow, used.

  He pulled out slowly, with a satisfied grunt, and you collapsed against the counter like your bones had given out.

  There was silence after that.

  The kind that made you want to rip your own skin off. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t.

  You heard him adjust his clothes, zip up. Then footsteps. Then the sound of him crouching beside you.

  Something warm brushed your temple.

  A kiss.

  Soft.

  Gentle.

  Mocking.

  “You may not take me back today,” he murmured, his lips ghosting against your skin, “or tomorrow. But I’ll wait. I know you’re too smart to go for someone else…” He paused, and then added, almost sweetly, “Or I’ll end you both.”

  Your breath caught, your body still trembling from everything. Fear, anger, disgust, and something darker still. Something shameful that lived deep inside you, refusing to die.

  When you finally turned to look at him, he was already at the door. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the black lace underwear, dangling it between two fingers.

  “I’ll take this as a souvenir,” he said with a smirk. “Good night, beautiful. Lock up after me.”

  Then he was gone.

  And you were alone again.

pre - breakup.

'dating' namgyu had always been difficult.

it could barely be called dating, actually.

︱the start of your relationship had already been rocky— both of you initially only looking for something casual that wasn't supposed to last very long.

but it was... comfortable. staying with him. it had its benefits. ones you couldn't say no to.

︱namgyu wasn't nice, he wasn't warm or someone who seemed to genuinely love you. but that wasn't what you were looking for anyway. no attachment.

︱you were far from what most would consider to be a couple, but after a while it was easier to word it that way, than to figure out what was going on between the two of you.

︱you went out together— partying, drinking, drugs. they were things you were able to bond over. as much as two people who had agreed on not getting attached could bond.

maybe you weren't as happy with that agreement anymore.

you knew you were wrong for feeling this way. for not being able to get enough. it was greedy, and you were leading him on, in some way. feeling more than you had promised, wanting things you couldn't have. comfort. warmth. a normal relationship, not what you two currently had.

︱namgyu's true feelings had always been a mystery to you. his intentions were unclear, had been from the beginning. you couldn't judge— you were hiding how you truly felt, too, after all.

︱you had started to pay more attention to the way he treated you. in public, when you were alone, the tone in which he texted you. you were grasping at any sign that could give you hope.

it was bad. trying to look for things that weren't there. but all of this had been unhealthy to begin with.

it was the biggest mistake you could have made, but maybe it had also been for the better.

︱you never directly confronted him. your form of communication was through questions that could be brushed off as meaningless — subtle words to get as much information out of him as you could.

︱namgyu never seemed happy about them, regardless of how casually you tried to be about it.

you just couldn't help yourself.

as strange as it was, and as much as it hurt, you were undeniably in love with him.

︱it was a weird feeling, considering that namgyu was far from likeable and often treated you like shit, aside from when he was high, or drunk, or desperate for what you could five him, even if you knew it would just make things worse for yourself.

maybe you were doing it to yourself— this endless cycle of telling yourself that you had to stop, just to come running as soon as namgyu was bored enough to pay attention to you.

breaking up.

you had probably asked too much that day— had been too eager to catch a glimpse of hope that maybe he would give you at least a small sign. a sign that it wasn't all hopeless.

the two of you had been yelling for quite a while. how long exactly, you were unsure of. minutes, hours, whatever. you had lost track rather quickly.

it was no longer about trying to get your point across— it was all about going back and forth, back and forth. whoever was louder had the upper hand— which tended to be namgyu. neither of you were trying to find a solution, but rather letting out all the anger and frustration that had been bottled up over the past few months.

︱this was far from your first fight. but you knew that it would be your last.

︱namgyu had a vicious streak of nasty comments that had lead to the two of you yelling at each other before, but it had never been as bad as today.

it wasn't something that could be solved with sex, or drinking, or closing doors so loudly they were probably close to falling apart. maybe it could be solved through communication, but neither of you seemed to be capable of that.

it was over the moment the two of you had started, but you kept going regardless. kept yelling, kept making pointless arguments that no one really cared about.

︱namgyu didn't befome physical when arguing, and neither were you, but that wasn't needed. the words cut just as deeply as a fist to your face did.

︱both of you could be mean, disgustingly so, and neither of you ever apologised. it wasn't a part of your relationship, after all. emotions and attachment weren't what you wanted. well, at least not what namgyu wanted.

you did not get to tell him how you felt that night, too out of your mind to find the right words, too hurt to want to give him one more reason for hating you.

when you left, you didn't know. you didn't know how you got home, if you even got home on the same day. you couldn't remember. your head hurt, your body was aching, and all you wanted to do was collapse in some alley, close your eyes, and never open them again.

it was almost amusing to you, looking back on it. how much namgyu had ruined you, just for him to not care about it at all.

you had known how pathetic your hopes had been, but having them crushed right in front of you, having your fears turned into reality, was even worse than you could have imagined.

there were no calls after that. no attempts at reconnecting, even if it was just because no one else would fuck him.

you didn't try either.

you didn't block him, sometimes still hoping that maybe he at least felt sorry, but there was nothing.

during the games.

you were hiding from him.

you wouldn't admit it, but you did your best to stay out of his sight.

it had been a success thus far— being on the opposite side of the room whenever you could, following after people he'd never bother to look at, staying as quiet as possible.

it became more difficult the more people had died. the crowd became smaller, making it more difficult to blend in.

it took him until after the second game to notice you.

you were washing off blood that had gotten on your face when namgyu entered the men's bathroom. as if trying to process how many people had just died again wasn't bad enough on its own already.

you froze, looking at him through the mirror.

it was uncomfortable to see him again from up so close, the memories of the months you had spent together crushing down on you in a matter of seconds.

judging by the look on his face, the uneasy feeling seemed to be mutual.

namgyu stared back at you through the mirror, his face blank as he did so.

he stopped next to you, his gaze fixed at his own reflection now. he was avoiding your eyes now just as much as you had avoided him until now.

namgyu brushed his hair behind his ears, taking a good look at himself before he scoffed, eventually turning towards you again witha rather displeased look on his face.

"didn't expect to meet you here."

of course he didn't. he had probably expected to never see you again.

if you were being honest, it was partly thanks to namgyu that you had ended up here.

the way the two of you had parted ways had ruined your mental health for months— still did.

you hadn't gone to work. hadn't left your apartment. you had barely done anything that made you someone who could be considered a functioning member of society.

it had been an awful time in your life— paired with all the unhealthy habits you had had before that already.

you knew how much it would end up fucking you over— the drugs and alcohol you had even less money to pay for now, engaging with even worse people than you had before.

you hadn't known how else to cope.

namgyu didn't have to know any of that, though.

you nodded at his words, not daring to reply. you didn't know what you'd say if you did. how much you would reveal.

not like he cared anyway.

taken your silence as an answer, namgyu let out an exasperated sigh, taking one last look at himself as he did so.

"I see how it is, then", he huffed, before turning around and leaving the room.

he didn't turn back, didn't look at you one more time before leaving.

even if you had replied, you knew it wouldn't have ended well. knew that it would only lead to even more pain.

maybe he had talked to you to hurt you even more. had known that you were more sensitive than him— that it would affect you, regardless of what he said to you.

maybe he wanted revenge. for the things you had said. every accusation got had made, every insult you had thrown at him that night.

but that would mean that he'd have to have cared enough to feel that strongly in the first place.

you doubted that.

as much as you hated yourself for it, you couldn't stop the tears streaming down your face, the moment you were sure he was out of sight.

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  “Jesus, how much fucking makeup do you need?”His tone drips with condescension. You can practically picture the smug smirk on his face as he leans against the wall, probably running a hand through his hair.

  Your jaw clenches. Every interaction with Namgyu feels like nails on a chalkboard. Don’t engage, you remind yourself. But it’s useless. He always knows how to get under your skin.

  A bitter comeback flies out before you can stop it. “Some of us actually care how we look. Unlike you, I don’t roll out of bed smelling like booze and call it a day.”

  There’s a beat of silence, then a low chuckle. “Sure, princess. Keep telling yourself that makeup hides your bitchy attitude.” He’s practically purring with provocation now. “Though that dress is doing a lot of heavy lifting. Who are you trying to impress? Or are you just hoping to get laid to loosen up that uptight ass of yours?”

  You freeze, blood rushing to your cheeks in a mix of embarrassment and rage. You spent way too long stressing over what to wear, settling on a sleek black mini-dress that hugs your curves just right, paired with knee-high boots. It’s bold for you, a departure from your usual jeans, but you wanted to feel confident tonight. Now Namgyu’s twisted it into something cheap.

  Face burning, you fling open the bathroom door so hard it bounces off the stopper with a bang. Namgyu stands there in the narrow hallway, one eyebrow arched over those dark, mocking eyes. He’s dressed in his typical club attire: ripped black jeans, a fitted grey tee that rides up just enough to flash a bit of a toned stomach when he shifts, and a worn leather jacket. The silver chain at his neck catches the light. Flashy. Just like everything about him. He’s the picture of casual arrogance, arms crossed as he looks you up and down with a curled lip.

  “Fuck you, Namgyu,” you hiss, shouldering past him. Your bare arm grazes against his leather jacket and you pull away as if burned. The living room is just a few steps away, the whole apartment is small and poorly furnished, clearly a bachelor pad. Empty beer cans and takeout boxes litter the coffee table, and the smell of smoke clings to the sagging couch cushions. You whirl around to face him, anger boiling over.

  “I’m ‘trying to impress’ no one. And don’t you dare talk to me about being uptight,” you spit out. “Maybe if you weren’t such a misogynistic piece of shit, you’d know the difference between dressing for yourself and dressing for male attention.”

  Namgyu saunters out of the hallway after you, leaving the bathroom door to drift shut. He towers a few good inches over you and uses every bit of it, looming with a lazy grin. “Spare me the feminist lecture,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You walk into my place looking like that and expect me not to comment? I’m just being honest, babe.”

  “I’m not your babe,” you snap, heart pounding in your chest. He infuriates you. The way he says things, like he’s entitled to judge you. You fold your arms across your chest, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze, which keeps flicking over you. The air between you crackles with hostility.

  Namgyu steps closer, the smell of his cologne invading your space. You refuse to back up, even as your nerves jangle.His head tips slightly, gaze crawling from your boots to your face without an ounce of shame. “Whatever you say,” he murmurs, then smirks. “By the way, you missed a spot.” He gestures vaguely at your face.

  You blink. “What?”

  He makes a circular motion at his own cheek. “Your makeup. It’s uneven or something. But hey, maybe no one’ll notice in the dark. Lighting’s pretty forgiving at the club.”

  Humiliation slams into you. You spent extra time trying to get everything perfect, and he’s saying you look… wrong? Instinctively, your hand twitches toward your purse for a compact mirror, but you catch yourself. This is exactly what he wants, to make you doubt yourself. To get under your skin and make fun of your insecurities.

  You lift your chin instead. “Eat shit, Namgyu,” you growl, forcing your voice not to waver. “Like I’d trust your opinion on anything women related. The last time I saw you, you were drooling over some girl wearing fishnets as pants.”

  Namgyu’s grin sharpens. “Yeah, I remember. She was hot as fuck. Hooked up after, no regrets.” He licks his bottom lip suggestively, and you nearly gag. “Unlike some people who are all bark, no bite.”

  Your hands ball into fists at your sides. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugs one shoulder. “It means you talk a big game about being independent and dressing for yourself, but I bet you’d never have the guts to do what she did. You judge her, but at least she knows how to have fun.” He gives you a once-over again, slower this time. “All this effort just to scowl all night? What a waste.”

  A hot, prickling sensation creeps up your neck. “Don’t compare me to your flavor of the week,” you say tightly. “And I’m not judging her, I’m judging you. You treat women like they’re disposable, Namgyu. It’s disgusting.”

  He laughs. A short, harsh sound. “Better than treating them like saints and getting walked all over. Not that you’d understand. You’re too busy acting like you’re above everyone to actually get laid.”

  The words hit a nerve. You flinch before you can stop yourself. Acting like you’re above everyone… Is that how he sees you? As some stuck-up prude? Your face burns, this time not just from anger but a flicker of shame. You open your mouth, a retort on the tip of your tongue, when your phone buzzes loudly in your purse.

  You exhale, tearing your glare away from Namgyu’s infuriating face to yank your phone out. Saved by the bell, you think, relief short-lived as you see the caller ID: Subong.

  Namgyu’s eyes narrow at the phone in your hand. “That him?”

  Ignoring Namgyu for a moment, you answer, turning slightly away. “Where are you? We’ve been waiting—”

  Subong’s voice crackles through, loud enough that even Namgyu can likely hear the tinny sound. “Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up with my girl. She’s  having a meltdown over some shit, and I… I can’t leave her like this. I’m not gonna make it tonight.”

  It takes a second for his words to register. You frown, pressing the phone harder to your ear. “Wait, what? You’re bailing?”

  Namgyu comes closer, trying to catch what’s being said. You feel him hovering at your shoulder, and you twist away further, heat simmering again.

  “Look, I know it sucks,” Subong continues, sounding genuinely upset, “but I have to sort this out with her. She’s threatening to break up and… fuck, I’m sorry. I swear I’ll make it up to you. Both of you. I owe you one, okay?”

  You’re silent, a mixture of disappointment and panic swirling in your gut. If Subong’s not coming, that leaves you here… alone with Namgyu for the rest of the night. The plan had been to meet up and head to the club together. Now everything is falling apart.

  Subong’s still talking, oblivious to your inner crisis. “You two should still go! Have fun, drink on my tab. Namgyu can get you in VIP. Seriously, I feel like shit for cancelling last minute. Just… try not to kill each other, alright?” He attempts a weak chuckle.

  You can’t even fake a laugh. Your eyes dart to Namgyu, who’s watching your face intently, arms still crossed. You know he can tell something’s wrong. “Yeah,” you say into the phone, voice flat. “Sure. Take care of her. Bye.” Without waiting for a response, you hang up.

  The moment you lower your phone, Namgyu asks, “What happened? Where’s Thanos?”

  You suck in a deep breath. “He’s not coming.”

  Namgyu blinks. “What do you mean ‘not coming’?”

  You slide your phone back into your purse with stiff movements. “I mean he’s ditching us. Girlfriend problems or whatever.” The bitterness in your tone is unmistakable. “So it’s just—”

  “Just us,” Namgyu finishes, his voice flat.

  For a heartbeat, neither of you speaks. The reality settles in the cramped living room like a foul odor. You feel your night splintering into chaos. There’s no way in hell you’ll go clubbing alone with Namgyu. You’d rather swallow glass.

  He must feel similarly because he immediately shakes his head. “Well, fuck that. I’m not going to Pentagon with just you.” 

  “Glad we agree,” you retort, fuming. “So do us both a favor and drive me home. Now.”

  Namgyu’s brows shoot up at your demand, and for a second you think he might actually do it. Instead, he strolls around you and collapses onto the couch. He fishes his phone from his pocket and tosses it onto the cluttered coffee table, then runs a hand over his face. “God, what a waste of a night…” he mutters.

  You remain standing, arms tightly crossed. The thump of club music you heard earlier is now gone, maybe it was just in your head. In the silence, you notice your own heart pounding. “Namgyu,” you say sharply. “Hello? Did you hear me? I want to go home.”

  He tilts his head back against the couch, eyes closing for a moment. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, then he cracks one eye open to look at you. “And I want you to stop bitching, but we can’t always get what we want, can we?”

  You stare at him, incredulous. “What is your problem? My brother just screwed us over, and now you’re throwing a tantrum? If you’re not going out, fine. Just drive me back. Or call me a taxi, I don’t care.”

  Namgyu sighs dramatically. “Will you chill for one second?” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a thin, hand-rolled blunt. You recognize the distinct brown leaf wrapper. He probably prepped it for later at the club. With an irritated grunt, he pats his other pockets and then looks at you expectantly. “You got a lighter?”

  You fumble, thrown off by the random request. “Seriously? You’re going to get high right now?”

  He flashes you a sarcastic grin. “I was planning to later anyway. Might as well salvage something from this shitshow. Now, do you have a lighter or do I have to get up?”

  Unbelievable. You dig in your purse on autopilot, your hands are shaking with frustration and some leftover adrenaline from the earlier fight. You find a pink lighter. Wordlessly, you toss it to Namgyu.

  He catches it in one smooth motion. “Thanks,” he says, voice thick with sarcasm, as if you’ve done him a grand favor. Then he hesitates. His gaze flickers over you, less hostile now and more considering. “Look… I’ll take you home after this, okay? Ten minutes. Relax.”

  You open your mouth to say something back. Something about how he should take you now, not after he gets high, but you bite it back. He’s clearly not budging, and a taxi ride alone from this part of town doesn’t thrill you. Namgyu’s apartment is in a sketchier part of the city, somewhere you wouldn’t wander by yourself at night. He knows it too, you can tell by the way he watches you wrestle internally with your options. Damn it.

  “Fine,” you say curtly, moving to perch on the arm of a chair across from the couch. You make sure to smooth your dress down, aware of his eyes flicking to the exposed length of your thighs. “Ten minutes. That’s it. Then you’re driving me home.”

  He doesn’t respond, already holding the blunt between his lips. He sparks the lighter. The tip of the blunt glows orange as he inhales deeply. Almost immediately, the pungent scent of weed fills the small living room. Earthy and a little sweet. It blends with the stale tobacco odor that clings to everything Namgyu owns.

  You watch him through narrowed eyes. His lashes flutter shut as he holds the smoke in his lungs, head tipped back. For a brief moment, with his guard down, he looks almost peaceful. Strong features softened in the dim light, full lips parted as he finally exhaled a long stream of smoke toward the stained ceiling. The tension in his posture eases slightly.

  It’s the calmest you’ve seen him all evening, maybe ever. Not that you’re looking, you tell yourself, but your gaze betrays you. There’s something morbidly fascinating about Namgyu in his element like this. The asshole who’s been tormenting you all night is, for a few seconds, just a guy unwinding.

  He catches you staring. Of course he does. Those dark eyes cut to you through the haze, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Want a hit?” he asks, voice raspier after holding the smoke. He extends the blunt toward you between two fingers, the offer almost gentlemanly if not for the smirk.

  You blink, thrown off. “What?”

  He waves the smoking blunt slightly. “Do you want a hit, (Y/N)? It might get that stick out of your ass for a bit.” Then he adds with a thoughtful expression, “Unless you’re too much of a good girl to indulge?”

  His words are needling, but there’s less venom behind them than before. More like he’s teasing. You glare at him all the same, ignoring the prickle of temptation. You don’t often smoke weed, just a few times in college, and occasionally with Subong when he was desperate for company and you were desperate to understand what was pulling him away. It’s not really your thing. Yet right now, your nerves are frayed and your night is ruined. Maybe a little escape would be welcome.

  Namgyu raises an eyebrow at your silence. “Thought so,” he says, about to retract the offer.

  Something rebellious flares in you. Before you can think it through, you push off the chair and cross the space between you. “Give me that,” you mutter, plucking the blunt from his fingers.

  A look of surprise flickers across his face, quickly masked by a cocky grin. “Well, well. Look who’s full of surprises tonight.”

  You ignore him and bring the blunt to your lips like you’ve seen Subong do countless times. Inhale, deep but careful, you tell yourself. The moment you draw the smoke into your mouth and then down your throat, a harsh burn scratches at your lungs. You break into a cough, heat searing your chest, and quickly pass the blunt back to Namgyu as you cover your mouth.

  He’s laughing at you, of course. “Smooth,” he comments, but he shuffles over on the couch, patting the seat beside him. “Sit down before you fall down, maybe.”

  Your eyes water from the coughing fit and embarrassment. You want to snap at him, but the truth is your knees do feel a little wobbly. Partly from the coughing, partly from the adrenaline crash. Reluctantly, you sink down onto the far end of the couch. The cushions sag under your weight, tilting you slightly toward Namgyu.

  He offers the blunt again, now that you’ve recovered. “Try again. Slower this time. Don’t hold it in so long if you can’t handle it.”

  You tense at his tone, but snatch the blunt anyway, determined to not look completely incompetent. Another drag, smaller this time. The smoke curls into your lungs and you let it out quickly, coughing only a little. The second attempt goes better, a tendril of warmth unfurls in your chest, spreading to your limbs.

  Namgyu watches you with a lazy half-smile. “There you go. Not so hard, huh?”

  The sarcasm in his voice is mild now. You hand the blunt back, leaning into the couch as you exhale slowly. A strange calm begins to creep in, like your anger is a radio someone just dialed down. It’s not gone, just not blaring in your ears so loudly.

  “Don’t get used to it,” you mumble. You’re not sure if you mean the weed or sitting civilly with Namgyu on a couch sharing a smoke. Maybe both.

  He chuckles, a low sound that vibrates through the quiet room. “Trust me, I’m not. But I gotta admit, I’m impressed. I figured you’d march out of here the second your brother bailed.”

“I thought about it,” you confess bluntly. The honesty surprises even you, but the filter between your brain and mouth feels like it’s loosening. “But this neighborhood is sketchy and the buses are shit at night. So… I’m kinda stuck with you.”

  “Lucky me,” Namgyu says dryly, but there’s no bite to it. He takes another slow drag, then passes the blunt back. As your fingers brush his, you notice the rough calluses on his fingertips, probably from rolling so many joints or handling whatever other drugs he both deals and uses. For some reason, that detail sticks in your mind.

  Silence settles as you take another hit. It’s not exactly comfortable silence. There's too much history of animosity for that, but it’s less charged than before. The weed’s effects are subtle but growing. Your limbs feel looser, your head a touch light. The tension in your shoulders unknots itself. Even Namgyu seems more relaxed, sinking into the cushions, manspreading in that obnoxious way but at least not on full alert to start shit with you.

  Your eyes drift over the coffee table: a couple of empty Soju bottles, a half-full ashtray, crumpled receipts. Among them, a small framed photo stands out, unexpected in the mess. It’s of Subong and Namgyu from last summer, arms slung around each other’s shoulders in front of Club Pentagon’s neon sign. Your brother’s grinning wide, clearly buzzed, and Namgyu has the goofiest expression you’ve ever seen on him, both middle fingers up at the camera. They look so… happy. Carefree idiots. You remember Subong showing you that photo, trying to convince you Namgyu wasn’t that bad once you “got to know him.” You’d laughed in your brother’s face then.

  Now, with a slight haze settling in your mind, you find yourself pointing at the photo. “You and my brother,” you say, “how did that even start? You two don’t exactly make sense as friends.”

  Namgyu’s gaze follows your finger to the photo. He snorts. “Met at the club, how? He was a paying customer, I was the charming promoter. One thing led to another. Shots, girls, a little coke in the bathroom and bam, buds.” He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  You frown. The mention of coke sends a ripple of worry through you, even in your relaxed state. “I wish he’d never met you,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.

  Namgyu exhales smoke and laughs under his breath. “You and me both, sometimes.”

  That answer surprises you. You turn to look at him fully. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugs, tapping ash off the blunt into an empty can. “Just that your brother’s a pain in my ass too, princess. I didn’t sign up to be anyone’s dealer-slash-babysitter. But he kept coming around, and, I dunno… he grows on you.” Namgyu rolls his eyes. “Like a fungus.”

  Despite yourself, a tiny smile tugs at your lips. It’s bizarre to hear him talk about Subong like that. Almost affectionately, in his own twisted way. Normally you only hear secondhand accounts from your brother or catch glimpses of them together when you’re picking Subong up after a bender. You’ve never bothered to wonder how Namgyu feels about any of it, or why he sticks around when even you know Subong treats him like crap sometimes.

  “I know he looks down on you,” you blurt, the filter in your brain apparently completely gone now. “Subong… he talks like you’re just his fix.” You bite your lip. You hadn’t meant to spill that, but it’s true. You’ve heard your brother on the phone bragging about how he’s got Namgyu “wrapped around his finger” for any party favor he needs. It always made you uneasy, like Namgyu was some rabid dog that could bite back any time.

  Namgyu is silent for a moment, jaw tight. He doesn’t meet your eyes. When he speaks, his tone is neutral, but a muscle twitches in his cheek. “He’s not wrong. I mean, what do I do? I get him high. He gets me into VIP rooms with his trust fund friends who want product. It’s mutual use, princess. Symbiotic, even. Save your judgment.”

  It’s weird. Normally his assholery hits you like darts, but right now, it almost sounds like he’s deflecting. You can sense a bitterness under the surface. Maybe even hurt? But before you can decide, he smirks and nods at the blunt in your hand. “You gonna finish that or just hold it all night?”

  Startled, you bring it to your lips and draw one last hit. The paper has burned down almost to the end. You cough softly as you exhale, and he plucks it from your fingers, stubbing it out in the ashtray.

  Almost immediately, he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lights one. “Seriously?” you groan, waving smoke away from your face. “More?”

  “Nicotine boost,” he says, leaning back with the cigarette dangling from his lips. “And it’s my place, so yeah. Seriously.” He regards you through the thinning weed haze, blowing a stream of lighter smoke upward. “But look at that, we actually shared something without biting each other’s heads off. Miracle.”

  You roll your eyes but can’t deny it. The fight in you has dulled to embers. The weed has wrapped you in a peculiar tranquility, where everything, even sitting here with him, feels one step removed and softer at the edges. Your body is relaxed against the couch, limbs loose, head pleasantly buzzing. Even your anger has been gentled. Not gone, but gentled.

  “Don’t get used to it,” you repeat, but there’s no heat in it. Your eyes drift over Namgyu’s profile as he smokes. He has one arm slung over the back of the couch now, not quite touching your shoulders but close enough you feel the warmth radiating from him. His t-shirt rides up a bit, revealing a bit of his stomach and the trail of a tattoo curling up from his hip. You catch yourself staring at the ink and quickly look away, focusing on the dirty coffee table again. Anything but him.

  Namgyu notices anyway. He always notices. “Something interesting?” he drawls.

  “Nope,” you say quickly. But then a bubble of curiosity, fueled by the weed’s uninhibiting effects, pushes you to speak. “What’s the tattoo of?” you nod vaguely at his waist.

  He glances down as if he’s forgotten it’s there. “Oh. This old thing?” He lifts the hem of his shirt a couple of inches, enough to give you a better look. It’s a black-ink design slashing across his right hip: some kind of stylized dragon or snake, you’re not sure, curling towards his abs. The skin looks a little scarred in places, like it was done in haste or by someone learning. “Just stupid teenage choices,” he says dismissively, dropping the shirt. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

  You find yourself oddly disappointed at the lack of a story. Maybe you expected something more dramatic, like he got it in a gang or for a lost love. But of course he won’t give you that, even if it were true. He’s always been a closed book.

  Still, the brief glimpse of his skin has you unnerved. You hate to admit it, but Namgyu has always been attractive in a dangerous way. You noticed it against your will the first time Subong dragged you out to meet him. He was hot before he opened his mouth and ruined it with his personality. He’s lean but strong, with those sharp cheekbones and perpetually messy black hair that just begs fingers to tame it. Not that you’ve ever thought about doing that.

  Nope, absolutely not. You shake your head, physically dismissing the thought. You blame the high for loosening your control. Heat rises in your cheeks again, but this time it’s not pure anger. It’s something more confusing.

  To fill the silence and your own awkwardness, you latch onto the first topic that drifts through your hazy mind. “So… besides dealing and pissing people off, what do you do for fun?”

  Namgyu chuckles, a puff of cigarette smoke escaping his lips. “Who says I piss people off for fun? That’s just a bonus.” He takes another drag, then stubs the cigarette out half-finished on the same ashtray. You wonder idly if he’s actually anxious. He usually smokes to look cool or out of boredom, but leaving one burning out is unusual. Maybe the conversation is making him restless too.

  “I’m serious,” you insist, turning to face him a bit more. Your knee bumps into his thigh and you both pause at the contact. Neither of you moves away, though your pulse ticks up. “What do you do when you’re not at the club? There’s gotta be more to you than free drugs and a big ego.”

  Namgyu laughs. “You really wanna know?”

  “I… yeah.” Do you? The sober part of you might not, but right now some curious part does. “Unless it’s going to bore me to death, sure.”

  He runs his tongue over his teeth, considering. “Alright. Fun. Let’s see… I like music.”

  You blink, not expecting something so normal. “Music?”

  “Yeah, you know, those sounds people listen to for enjoyment,” he says sarcastically. “I DJ sometimes on off-nights at the club. Write some mixes. Not that you’d know, you’ve never come when I’m spinning.”

  This is news. You recall Subong mentioning Namgyu messing with playlists occasionally, but you always assumed it was just him blasting bass-heavy crap. “What kind of music?”

  “EDM, mostly. Trap, house… shit that gets girls shaking ass like the biggest sluts.”

  He waggles his eyebrows comically, and you groan.

  “Of course.” So much for depth, he made it sleazy again. Still, the idea of Namgyu focusing on something creative like mixing music is oddly humanizing.

  He continues, “I also watch movies, play some games, normal shit.” Then he grins wickedly. “And fuck. That’s a hobby, right?”

  You roll your eyes hard. “You would count that as a hobby.”

  He chuckles. “Why not? It’s fun. Good exercise too. And I’m damn good at it.”

  The arrogance in his voice is simultaneously irritating and strangely intriguing. You can’t help but laugh. “Oh really? Is that what all the girls say when they’re done with you?”

  “Pretty much, yeah,” he says, casual as anything. “Though usually they can’t talk right after, being exhausted and all.”

  You make a gagging noise. “Oh my God, shut up. I’m gonna puke.”

  He just smirks. “Truth hurts, princess. Don’t blame me because you’ve only been with boys who couldn’t find the clit if it bit them.”

  Your mouth falls open in shock. “Excuse me?”

  He shrugs, totally unrepentant. “I’m just saying, you’re constantly bitching about shit. Maybe you need some good dick to sort you out. 

You shoot him a glare. Heart thudding grossed out, but also unsettled by how much it gets to you.

  It’s not like you haven’t had… well, you’ve had an okay sex life. With your ex. It was fine. Fine, not mind-blowing, but fine. But Namgyu doesn’t need to know any of that.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” you snap, but there’s less venom than usual. Possibly because you’re distinctly aware that your limbs are soft from the high and your comebacks are coming slower. “Unlike you, I don’t base my self-worth on who I’ve slept with or how many notches are in my bedpost.”

  Namgyu’s eyes gleam. “That wasn’t a denial.”

  Shit. You scowl at him, lifting your chin defiantly. “My sex life is none of your business, Namgyu.”

  He raises his hands in mock surrender, though the grin stays. “Alright, alright. Touchy subject. I get it. Must be a dry spell.”

  You almost lunge at him, but manage to restrain yourself, nails biting crescents into your palms. “God, I hate you,” you mutter. The problem is he’s too perceptive even when high. Your reaction gave away more than you wanted. Now he looks like a cat who’s cornered a mouse, delighted and toying.

  “If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under,” he teases. He scoots a fraction closer; you feel the cushions shift, and suddenly your thigh is against his. A zap of awareness goes through you at the contact. Namgyu lowers his voice conspiratorially. “C’mon, tell me one thing. When’s the last time you got laid? Bet it’s been a while.”

  You grit your teeth. “None of your business,” you repeat, but he’s not wrong. Since your ex, you haven’t exactly had the energy or trust to sleep with anyone else. Sure, there were a few dates, some drunken makeouts that went nowhere. Your standards climbed sky-high after being burned. The memory of catching your ex screwing his colleague on his couch while you stood there with a birthday cake still twists your gut.

  A flicker of that hurt must show on your face, because Namgyu’s smirk fades a touch. “Oh,” he says softly. “That bad, huh?”

  His tone holds something almost like understanding, and that strange gentleness is worse than his taunting. You don’t want his pity or whatever this is. You cross your arms defensively. “Drop it. I’m not joking.”

  Namgyu tilts his head, studying you. Maybe it’s the low lamplight or the way your head is swimming, but you think his gaze softens for a split second. Then he kicks his feet up onto the coffee table, ankles crossed, affecting nonchalance. “Alright. No need to bite my head off. I was just curious. The tension on you is so thick.”

  You huff, not sure if that was another insult or a weird observation. Possibly both. He’s not entirely wrong.You've been on edge a lot these days, stressed from work, constantly worrying about Subong, and pissed off at life in general. But you’re not about to unpack that with Namgyu of all people.

  “So, your idea of fun is screwing and bragging about it,” you say, redirecting away from yourself. “What an exciting life you have.”

  He laughs. “There’s that sharp tongue. Careful, I might start thinking you’re fun to hang out with after all.”

  That draws a genuine scoff from you. “In your dreams.”

  The high peeled back that usual filter in your brain, leaving things messier, more honest. You find yourself saying things you normally wouldn’t and surprisingly not regretting it instantly.

  Namgyu stretches, raising his arms above his head until his joints crack. Your eyes unintentionally skim up the strip of skin revealed where his shirt lifts: a lean V-line diving below his belt, more of that tattoo peeking out. You swallow and force yourself to look away, pretending to pick at a stray thread on your dress.

  He drops his arms and suddenly asks, “So what about you? What do you do for fun, when you’re not judging me and Subong?”

  The question is so unexpected you have to think. What do you do for fun nowadays? It feels like all you do is work, go home, occasionally drag your brother out of trouble, and repeat. How sad is that?

  “I… read, sometimes,” you say lamely. “Watch Netflix. Hang out with friends.” Although you’ve been distant with friends lately, canceling plans because you’re either too tired or anxious about leaving your mom alone. She's been a wreck since she discovered Subong’s habit.

  Namgyu raises an eyebrow. “That’s it? And you call me boring.”

  “I didn’t say you were boring, I said you’re a sleaze,” you correct, then sigh. “And yeah, I know. My life’s not exactly wild. Sorry it doesn’t measure up to yours.”

  He regards you, an unreadable expression on his face. “Ever think maybe that’s why you got cheated on?”

  The comment is like a slap. You flinch as if struck, eyes widening. “What the fuck did you just say?”

  He doesn’t back down. “Your ex. He cheated, right? I heard something like that from Thanos. Maybe if you weren’t so… I dunno, predictable, he wouldn’t have gone looking elsewhere.”

  Anger whooshes back in, dousing the mellow haze. A pressure builds behind your eyes,angry tears threatening. But you refuse to show that weakness. That wound is still raw beneath layers of scar tissue and here he is poking it casually.

  “That’s rich coming from you, Namgyu,” you manage to bite out, voice trembling despite your efforts. “You barely know anything about me or that relationship. But sure, blame me for a man’s shitty choices. How very on-brand of you, you misogynistic prick.”

  He actually has the decency to look a bit contrite, a crease forming between his brows. “Hey, I’m just stating facts. It sucks, but guys get bored if you don’t keep things interesting.”

  You shake your head in disbelief, a bitter laugh escaping. “Right, because it’s the woman’s job to be a circus act to hold a man’s attention. You really are a piece of work.”

  Namgyu exhales slowly, irritation crossing his features. “Twist my words all you want, princess. I’m trying to give you a fucking insight and you’re taking it personal.”

  You glare daggers at him. “How is it not personal? You’re talking about my life, my relationship that you know nothing about.” Your voice rises, cracking. “You don’t know how hard I tried to make it work with him, what I put up with, how I—” You cut yourself off, realizing you were about to spill far too much.

Namgyu’s face shifts, less cocky now, more attentive. “How you what?” he prompts quietly.

  Your heart thuds. The walls you usually keep so sturdily in place are wobbling, weakened by weed and emotion. Your chest is tight, you press a fist there as if it could hold the hurt in. “How I never measured up,” you finish bitterly. “At least, that’s how it felt. No matter what I did, it wasn’t enough for him. Not exciting enough, not sexy enough, not—” you gesture vaguely, “whatever.”

  The admission hangs in the air, and immediately you regret it. You hate that you admitted that to him of all people. You sink back, dragging a hand over your face. “Fuck. I can’t believe I’m talking about this.”

  Namgyu is quiet, surprisingly so. When you peek at him through your fingers, he isn’t smirking. He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher. It almost looks like… understanding. Maybe even sympathy. But it’s gone too fast to tell, replaced by his usual half-grin, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “Well, his loss,” he says casually, but there’s a rough edge to it. “If I had a girl like you—”

  He stops abruptly, and your heart skips a beat. Did you hear that right? The air in the room suddenly feels charged again, but with something different from anger or annoyance. Namgyu’s looking away, jaw working as if he’s angry at himself.

  Slowly, you find your voice. “If you had a girl like me… what?”

  He flicks his eyes back to you, then lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. Forget it. I was just talking out of my ass.”

  You’re not about to let that slide. Maybe it’s masochistic, but you press on, needing to know. “No, tell me. If you had a girl like me, what?”

  Namgyu meets your gaze directly now. There’s a heat in his eyes that wasn’t there before, or maybe it was and you’re only now noticing it. It makes your breath catch.

  “You really want to know?” he asks quietly.

  The way he says it makes your skin pebble with goosebumps. You nod, though you’re not entirely sure you’re prepared for his answer.

  He leans in slightly, resting his forearm on his thigh, his body angled toward you. You can see the faint stubble along his jaw. When he speaks, his voice is low, deliberate.

  “If I had a girl like you, I sure as hell wouldn’t leave her wanting,” he says. “Not for anything. Not attention… not respect…” His eyes dip down your form and back up, igniting sparks under your skin. “And definitely not pleasure.”

  The bluntness of that last word sends a hot flush through you. Your mouth goes dry. You should laugh it off or slap him or something, but you’re frozen, hanging on that husky tone. He’s likely just fucking with you. He has to be. But it doesn’t stop your pulse from thudding in your ears.

  Namgyu smirks lightly at your speechless figure. “I’m just saying, princess, some guys actually know how to take care of a woman. Sounds like your ex wasn’t one of them.”

  You search his face for any sign he’s joking, that this is just a way to humiliate you further. But his expression is oddly serious despite the quirk of his lips. There’s something hungry in his eyes that wasn’t there before, or maybe it was and you’re only now noticing it.

  Namgyu reaches out, slowly, giving you time to stop him. He takes a lock of your hair between his fingers, rubbing it gently as if examining the texture. The gesture is surprisingly tender, and it sends a tingle across your scalp. “He must’ve been a fucking idiot,” he murmurs, “to not want to taste you.”

  Your breath catches. The words are obscene, but the way he says them, almost reverent and low, makes your thighs clench unconsciously. Heat floods your face, and you’re caught between mortification and sudden arousal. You should slap him for being so vulgar. You should laugh it off. You should do anything but stare at him with your lips parted and your body betraying you with a surge of desire.

  But you do stare. And he stares back, that cocky mask dropping completely now. What remains is raw and unreadable except for one thing: lust. You recognize it because it’s mirrored in how your own belly flips and tightens.

  “You… you’re high,” you whisper, a weak attempt to break whatever spell is coiling around you both. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Namgyu’s fingers leave your hair to trail lightly down your cheek. You shiver. “I know exactly what I’m saying,” he replies softly. “I’m saying your ex was a moron. And that maybe you shouldn’t knock me until you try me.”

  Your brain misfires. Did he just—?

  The world tilts as Namgyu shifts nearer, his face now inches from yours. You can see the subtle variation of brown in his irises and the way his throat moves as he swallows. The scent of him surrounds you. A mix of smoke, cheap aftershave, and something warm and male underneath. It’s not unpleasant. In fact, it’s dizzying in a way that makes you feel even more lightheaded than the weed alone.

  “You’re out of your damn mind,” you finally manage to croak, but your voice lacks conviction. It comes out husky, almost needy, and you internally cringe at how weak it sounds.

  “Maybe,” he breathes, eyes flicking to your lips. “But the offer stands.”

  Offer. The word sends a jolt through you. This is actually happening. Namgyu is offering. No, basically suggesting that he’ll go down on you. To let you experience what you’ve missed. The audacity, the arrogance, and yet… the thought makes your entire body flush hot.

  Your rational mind screams at you to say no, to push him away. This is Namgyu. The man you loathe. Your brother’s fuck-up friend. You shouldn’t even consider this.

  But then another part of you, possibly influenced by being high and definitely by the lingering frustration and curiosity of years, whispers: Why not?

  It’s just physical, right? Two people blowing off steam. It doesn’t mean you suddenly like him. In fact, you could blame it on the weed and anger and everything colliding. And who’s going to know? Subong bailed. It’s just you two, alone in this apartment where secrets likely pile up with the dust.

  You realize you’ve been quiet for too long. Namgyu misreads it as reluctance or outright rejection. Slowly, he pulls back a few inches, clearing his throat. His hand drops from your face. “Forget it,” he mutters, a defensive edge returning to his tone. “Stupid idea.”

  The loss of his warmth on your skin spurs you to action. Without fully knowing why, you reach out and grab his wrist before he can retreat completely. “Wait.”

  He stills, looking at you in surprise. You don’t think you’ve ever willingly touched him before. His skin is warm under your hand, his pulse skittering at the base of his arm. You gather your courage, pushing aside a lifetime of animosity just for this suspended moment.

  “You’re serious?” you ask softly, needing confirmation straight from him. “You’d… do that? For me?”

  Namgyu’s eyes flicker with something. Perhaps shock that you’re actually considering it. Then they darken, and he leans back into your space slightly, the tension between you coiling tight again. “I don’t say shit I don’t mean, princess. If you want it…” His gaze travels down your body and up, lingering on the press of your breasts against your arms where you’re still tensely hugging your knees. “I’ll give it to you. No strings attached. Think of it as… a favor.”

  You nearly snort. A favor. Right. More like he wants to prove a point. But damned if you aren’t tempted beyond reason now.

  This is insane, the last lucid part of you interjects. You can’t sleep with Namgyu. There’s literally no one worse to mess around with. This will complicate everything, and if your brother ever found out—

  But he won’t find out. Because you’ll never tell him, and Namgyu certainly won’t either. It would ruin their friendship and probably cut off his best customer.

  It’ll just be this once, a devil on your shoulder murmurs. An itch scratched. Then you can both pretend it never happened.

  Your heart beats so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. You slowly release his wrist, only for him to take your hand in his, calloused thumb brushing the inside of your palm in an almost soothing motion. It sends tingles all the way up your arm.

  “And you think you can actually get me off?” you say, trying to inject some challenge in your tone to mask how close you are to caving. “What, like all those other girls you brag about?”

  He sees right through your bravado. “I’ve never had any complaints in that department.” Then he adds, eyes locking with yours, “But I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself.”

  Your breath hitches. The ball’s back in your court. Decide, he’s saying. Yes or no.

  Time seems to slow. In the space of a few seconds, a cascade of thoughts and images flood your mind. You imagine what it might be like. Namgyu’s head between your thighs, that sharp tongue of his put to better use, his hands holding you down, your fingers in that messy hair. The idea is outrageous, terrifying, and incredibly arousing. Your core contracts and you realize with a start that you’re wet, just from the thought and the heated look he’s giving you.

  You could say no. Stand up, call a cab, run away from this. But you know you won’t. Because you’re tired of always doing the right thing, tired of the what-ifs and missed experiences. Tired of holding yourself back out of fear or principle. You rationalize it swiftly. It’s one night. You’re both a little high, pent-up, and clearly attracted enough to entertain this. You can do this and still hate him tomorrow.

  In fact, a part of you wants to do it because you hate him, like extracting a twisted revenge by using each other’s bodies. Fuelled by all those emotions you keep bottled up. Release, in the purest form.

  The words leave you in a soft exhale: “Fuck it.”

  Namgyu’s eyes widen a fraction. “Yeah?”

  You lick your lips and nod, your decision solidifying in the drum of your pulse. “Yeah. Just… don’t make me regret it, or I swear—”

  He doesn’t let you finish. In one swift movement, Namgyu closes the scant distance and kisses you.

  It’s like a spark hitting a fuse. The moment his lips crush against yours, every rational thought left in your brain incinerates. You gasp against his mouth, shocked by the suddenness, but he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue against yours, a bold, filthy stroke that draws a whimper from you.

  It’s not a gentle kiss. There's nothing gentle about Namgyu, apparently even now. It’s bruising, aggressive, a clash of teeth and tongue as you respond with equal fervor. All the pent-up frustration, the years of mutual antagonism, it spills into the kiss, making it far hotter than it has any right to be. You pour your anger and confusion into biting at his lower lip, and he retaliates with a growl, one large hand coming up to cup the back of your head, tangling in your hair to hold you in place.

  Your hands hover uncertainly. One grips his shoulder through his jacket, the leather cool and smooth under your fingers, while the other, almost of its own accord, slides up the hard plane of his chest. You feel his heart thudding nearly as hard as yours beneath your palm.

  He tastes faintly of smoke and mint, and something sweet from the blunt. It’s intoxicating. Or maybe that’s just the lack of oxygen because he’s kissing you like he wants to devour you and you’re letting him.

  A small, distant voice in your head screams that this is Namgyu you’re making out with, how can you stomach it? But that voice is drowned out by the roar of your blood and the heat coiling in your belly.

  Namgyu nips at your bottom lip, eliciting a sharp inhale from you. He smirks against your mouth. “Still with me, princess?”

  “Shut up,” you breathe, then pull him back in, surprising both of you with your urgency. You slide your hands up around his neck, fingers curling in the hair at his nape. It’s as soft as it looks, damp still from an earlier shower or product. You tug, and he makes a delicious sound low in his throat, deepening the kiss in retaliation until you’re dizzy.

  At some point, he shifts, guiding you to lie back against the couch. You find yourself pressed into the worn cushions as Namgyu moves over you, one knee sliding between your thighs. Your dress hikes up your legs, and you couldn’t care less at the moment. All you care about is the solid weight of him partially on top of you and the way his mouth has begun to wander from your lips to your jaw and down your neck.

  He bites at the sensitive spot where your neck meets shoulder just hard enough to make you gasp. Then soothes it with a hot, open-mouthed kiss. Your back arches involuntarily, breasts pressing against his chest. He notices, of course, and a hand that had been gripping your waist slides up to the neckline of your dress.

  “Is this okay?” he mutters against your skin, fingers teasing the strap.

  It’s almost sweet that he asked, like he’s checking in. You’d be more touched if he didn’t follow it up immediately with a typical Namgyu remark. “I mean, I assume you want more and not just a PG-13 makeout.”

  You huff a breathless laugh, tilting your head back to give him better access as he kisses along your collarbone. “Yes, dumbass. It’s okay.”

  “Good,” he growls, and with that, he yanks one strap of your dress down, then the other, not even bothering to find a zipper. The stretchy fabric gives way, and suddenly your bra is exposed. He wastes no time pulling the cup down to free one breast, his mouth descending on your nipple so quickly it forces a shocked cry from you.

  Your hands fly to his shoulders, gripping as his tongue circles the sensitive peak, then closes his lips around it to suck. Your nerves are on fire. You can feel that sensation spearing straight down between your legs. You clamp your thighs around the knee he’s pressed against you, a reflexive attempt to ease the ache building there.

  “Fuck,” you whimper, the expletive drawn out into a moan as he gently bites your nipple. It sends a lightning bolt of pain-pleasure through you. He soothes it with another lap of his tongue, looking up at you through heavy-lidded eyes.

  Your hand finds the side of his head, fingers threading in his hair again. Not to pull him away, but to hold him there, wordlessly urging him on. He obliges, giving attention to your other breast, tugging the dress and bra down enough to expose it as well. His big hand cups you, thumb strumming over the nipple not currently in his mouth.

  It’s almost too much. You feel your pulse between your thighs, your panties undoubtedly damp by now. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been this turned on. Scratch that, you’ve never been quite this turned on. Maybe it’s the taboo nature of it, the hate-turned-lust, or just Namgyu actually being as skilled as he boasts. Whatever it is, it has you writhing under him, your hips instinctively grinding up against the pressure of his knee between your legs.

  Namgyu notices your squirming. He releases your nipple with a wet pop, leaving both your breasts slick with his saliva and cool in the open air. The combined sensation of chilled air and heat from his mouth makes you shudder.

  “Someone’s eager,” he taunts, but his voice is thick, belying his own arousal. He plants a hand on your thigh, just below the hem of your ruched-up skirt. The weight of his palm on your bare skin sends a thrill up your spine. “Relax. I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

  You bite your lip, nodding, because words seem to have abandoned you. There’s an urge to snark back, to maintain some upper hand, but it melts away when his fingers inch higher, tracing light patterns on your inner thigh.

  He nudges your thighs apart a bit more, sliding down until he’s kneeling on the floor between your legs, the couch cushions supporting your back. The sight of Namgyu on his knees for you is almost as heady as the feeling of his hands pushing your skirt fully up around your hips. He hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties and raises an eyebrow, silently asking permission.

  It occurs to you, fleetingly, that this is it. Cross this line and nothing between you will ever be the same. But honestly, things were never good between you to begin with. At least this would be a different kind of tension.

  And you want it. God, you want it so bad you can taste it.

  You lift your hips slightly, granting him access. That’s all the answer he needs. In one swift motion, he drags your panties down your legs, tossing the scrap of fabric aside. You cringe internally at how wet they are. Evidence of just how affected you are by him. But if Namgyu notices, he doesn’t tease for once. His focus is laser-sharp on the prize between your thighs.

  The air against your damp, exposed core makes you shiver, but not as much as the look in Namgyu’s eyes when he settles his gaze there. It’s a mix of hunger and smug male pride.

  He licks his lips. “Damn, princess… you’re already dripping.” He says it almost reverently, his hands sliding up your thighs to gently push them further apart. You flush deeply at his words, instinctively trying to press your knees together to hide yourself, but he holds you firmly.

  “Don’t,” he murmurs, and the unexpected tenderness in that single word freezes you. “I want to see.”

  Your cheeks are on fire, but you force yourself to drop your knees open again. You’ve never felt so vulnerable lying half-dressed on Namgyu’s couch, legs spread with his face hovering inches from your most private area. The one no man has ever given his full attention to. Your heart hammers at the thought that this is Namgyu about to do this. Namgyu, who you always said you hated. And yet, the anticipation coursing through you doesn’t feel like hate at all.

  He trails a finger down your slit, feather-light, and you jerk at the contact, a soft cry escaping. You’re embarrassingly sensitive, all your nerve endings on high alert.

  “Easy,” he coos, in a tone that might be mocking if it wasn’t so throaty. His finger slides through your folds again, gathering wetness, then he brings it to his lips and sucks it off with a hum of satisfaction. “Fuck… you taste good already.”

  You bite back a whine. The sight of him tasting you like that sends a pulse of arousal through you, and you clench around nothing, hips canting upward involuntarily.

  “Please,” you hear yourself whisper. It’s half an entreaty, half a demand.

  Namgyu flashes you a grin, almost feral in the low light. “Told you, just had to ask nicely.” And with that, he ducks his head and finally, finally puts his mouth on you.

  The first swipe of his tongue through your folds has you moaning outright. It’s a slow, deliberate lick, from your entrance up to your clit, where he circles teasingly before doing it all over again. Your hand flies to your mouth, almost embarrassed at the sounds trying to escape you. The other grips the back of the couch above your head, bracing yourself as your body jolts with electricity at each lap of his tongue.

  If he was smug before, he’s downright energized now. “That’s it,” he murmurs against you, the vibration of his voice against your sensitive flesh making you gasp. “Already making such pretty noises. And I’ve barely started.”

  “Don’t—ah—don’t get cocky,” you manage to pant, though it loses effect since it’s punctuated by a whimper when he sucks lightly on your clit. Your vision sparks. Pleasure bolts through you, and you instinctively clamp your thighs around his head.

  Namgyu just chuckles, prying them back apart with firm hands. “Nuh-uh, keep these open. I’m not done with you.”

  He latches his mouth around your clit and begins to suck in earnest, flicking his tongue over the swollen nub in rapid strokes. The world drops out from under you. You cry out, both hands flying to his head this time, fingers tangling in his hair and holding on for dear life.

  “Fuck! Namgyu—” you gasp. It’s half curse, half plea. Your hips move of their own accord, grinding up against his face as he works you with a precision that leaves you reeling. He alternates between sucking and licking, occasionally dipping his tongue down to tease at your entrance, then back up to torment your clit again until you’re a writhing mess.

  Pleasure coils tight in your belly, an insistent, molten heat growing with each passing second. You can’t believe how fast he’s unraveling you, how your body responds to every flick of his tongue as if he’s played this instrument a thousand times.

  Maybe he has, just not with you. The thought of all those other girls, faceless in his past, usually would provoke jealousy or disgust. But right now, you’re almost grateful he’s had practice, because he’s playing you like a maestro, and you’re hurtling towards a crescendo at breakneck speed.

  “Oh god,” you choke out. One of your hands claws at the cushion, the other gripping his hair almost painfully, but he only groans as if he likes it. The sound vibrates through your core, sending you closer to the edge.

  Heat is surging inside you, muscles tensing. Your breaths come in short, ragged pants. It’s never been like this, so overwhelming, so all-consuming. Your ex’s fumbling attempts to get you off were like weak tremors compared to this earthquake building inside you.

  Namgyu slides one hand up to intertwine with yours where you clutch the cushion, pinning it above your head. With his other, he teases your entrance with his index finger, circling lightly. “You’re so wet,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Think you can take a finger?”

  You nod frantically, not trusting your voice. Actually, you could probably take more than one given how aroused you are, but one is a fine start.

  He eases a finger into you, slowly, watching your face for any discomfort. All you feel is relief, the fullness a welcome addition to the relentless stimulation of his mouth. You moan, loud and unabashed now, as he pumps the finger in and out a few times before adding a second without even needing to ask. You’re more than ready.

  The stretch is perfect enough to feel it, not enough to hurt. He finds a rhythm, curling his fingers to press against your front wall as he thrusts slowly. The combination of his fingers inside and his mouth on your clit has you hurtling toward that peak so fast it’s almost frightening.

  Your legs are trembling on either side of his head. “Namgyu—” you gasp, looking down at him.

  His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the heated haze in them pushes you closer to oblivion. He looks thoroughly in his element between your thighs, like he belongs there, and the realization that you’re letting him do this, loving that he’s doing this,sends your mind reeling.

  “I’m—” you try to warn him, but coherence fails you as he redoubles his efforts, fingers curling just right inside you to hit a spot that makes you see stars, tongue flicking faster over your clit.

  It’s too much. You shatter with a cry, your climax crashing over you in a white-hot wave. Your thighs clamp around his head despite his earlier admonition, and you feel him groan against you in response, but he doesn’t let up. He carries you through it, lapping at you as you spasm and arch off the couch. Your hand in his hair tightens, likely painfully, but he doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering and pushing at his head, the overstimulation turning sharp.

  He relents then, gently removing his fingers and placing a soft kiss on your inner thigh as your body continues to quake. You can hardly breathe, much less form a sentence. An intense flush covers you from face to chest, your skin damp with sweat. You’re pretty sure you just saw heaven for a second there.

  Namgyu sits back on his heels, wiping the glistening wetness from his chin with the back of his hand. He looks incredibly self-satisfied, the bastard. But you can’t even summon the will to knock that smug grin off his face because you’re still floating.

  When you finally manage to catch your breath, you croak out, “Holy shit…”

  He laughs, low and pleased. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  You manage a weak glare that probably looks more like awed gratitude than irritation. “Don’t—don’t you dare say ‘I told you so.’”

  He smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Then, to your surprise, he leans down and plants a soft kiss on your mound, almost… sweetly. Your heart skips at the gentleness of it. Maybe he’s more affected by this than he’s letting on.

  You’re more affected by him than you’d like to admit. Because as the haze of climax slowly clears, the reality sets in. You just came harder than ever in your life from Namgyu’s mouth. And now he’s looking up at you, hair disheveled from your fingers, lips swollen and glistening with your arousal, and he’s… beautiful. Ruggedly, sinfully beautiful. The thought shakes you.

  He moves to stand, and in a daze, you sit up, legs still feeling like jelly. Your dress is still bunched around your waist, breasts exposed, and you start to pull it back up, suddenly self-conscious. But Namgyu stops you with a hand on your knee.

  “Don’t,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “I’m not done looking at you.”

  The way he says it sends a flicker of renewed arousal through you. You should be spent, utterly satisfied. And you are, in one sense. But seeing the bulge straining against his jeans, knowing he’s hard and aching and that you can do something about it, stirs your own hunger back to life.

  He’s done this incredible thing for you, no one can say Namgyu doesn’t give as good as he boasts. And now, surprisingly, you want to return the favor. Not out of obligation, but because the idea of making him unravel like you just did is suddenly very, very appealing.

  Maybe it’s also because a part of you still wants to wipe that cocky grin off his face, and what better way than to have him at your mercy for a change?

  You reach for him, fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans. He raises an eyebrow as you tug him closer. “Your turn,” you say, voice still a bit shaky but gaining strength with each word.

  Namgyu blinks. “What, you gonna suck my dick out of gratitude?” His tone is teasing, but there’s a flicker of genuine surprise and desire in his eyes.

  You flush. “Gratitude? No. Consider it… payback.” You force a smirk. “Unless you’re all talk and no stamina?”

  He laughs, a genuine warm sound that rumbles through his chest. “Oh, I’ll show you stamina.”

  But as he starts to undo his belt, you stop him, batting his hands away. “I got it.”

  He lets you, curious, as you rise onto unsteady knees on the couch and push his leather jacket off his shoulders. He shrugs out of it and tosses it aside, then grabs the back of his t-shirt and yanks it off in one fluid motion, clearly eager to shed clothes. You drink in the sight revealed: lean muscle, a scatter of tattoos across his chest and arms and a few old scars. His skin is warm and smooth except for the roughness of scars and ink.

  You realize you’re outright staring when he smirks. “Like what you see?”

  You snap back, “Shut up,” but it lacks bite because, yeah, you do like it. Too much. You place your hands on his bare chest, intent on pushing him to sit on the couch so you can straddle him or kneel or something, but he’s not easily guided.

  Instead, Namgyu grabs your hips and flips positions with you, sinking onto the couch and pulling you into his lap in one swift move. You gasp, hands landing on his shoulders for balance. Your bare core is pressed against the rough fabric of his jeans and the hard bulge beneath, and even though your nerve endings are a bit sensitive from your orgasm, the friction makes you suck in a breath.

  He groans softly, hands sliding up your thighs under your bunched dress. “Fuck, you’re so wet… gonna ruin my jeans,” he mutters appreciatively.

  “Then take them off,” you counter.

  His eyes flash with heat. “As you wish.”

  You help, fingers fumbling only slightly as you undo his belt and pop the button on his jeans. The zipper is next, and as you pull it down, his erection strains against black boxer briefs, the tip already gleaming with a damp spot of pre-cum.

  You feel a fresh wave of arousal at the sight and the realization: he got that worked up just from going down on you. The power in that is heady. You reach into the waistband of his briefs and wrap your hand around him, freeing his cock from its confines. He hisses as the cool air hits it.

  Holy hell. He’s big. Not in a way that seems impossible, but definitely enough to command attention. Long, with a slight curve, and girthier than you expected. Your mouth goes a bit dry, not with fear, but anticipation. A flicker of nerves, sure But mostly excitement at the challenge.

  Namgyu watches you pump him slowly, eyes hooded. His chest rises and falls faster now. “Enjoying yourself?” he quips, but it comes out in a strained rasp.

  You smile sweetly. “Actually, yeah.” And to emphasize, you swirl your thumb over the slick head of his cock, spreading the pre-cum around. He inhales sharply, hips twitching.

  “Two can play that game,” he breathes, and suddenly he sits up and captures one of your still-bared breasts in his mouth again, teeth scraping your sensitive nipple unexpectedly. You cry out, pleasure laced with a bit of overstimulation pain, and arch against him. He soothes it with his tongue, then pulls back with a self-satisfied look.

  “You distract me, I distract you,” he says smugly.

  Your eyes narrow playfully. “Fine.”

  You slide off his lap to the floor, kneeling between his spread legs. The position reversal from earlier is not lost on either of you. He looks genuinely stunned for a second, maybe not having expected you to go this far. But he recovers with a grin.

  “If you wanted to get on your knees for me, all you had to do was ask,” he taunts.

  “You talk way too much,” you mutter.

  “Make me shut up, then,” he challenges.

  So you do. By wrapping your hand around the base of his cock and leaning forward to take the tip into your mouth. That shuts him up real fast.

  “Ah, fuck—” he curses, head tipping back as you swirl your tongue around the head, tasting the salt of him. His hand flies to your head, fingers tangling in your hair, not pushing, just holding, as if to convince himself this is real.

  Encouraged by his reaction, you take him deeper, sliding your lips down his shaft as far as you can comfortably go. He’s thick, stretching your mouth wide, and you hollow your cheeks, sucking hard as you pull back.

  “Jesus, (Y/N)…” he groans. The sound of your name in that ragged tone sends a thrill through you. Usually he calls you princess or just hurls insults, but the way he says your actual name now, like a prayer or a curse, spurs you on.

  You begin a steady rhythm, bobbing your head, taking him a little deeper each time until the tip nudges the back of your throat and you have to ease up. Your hand works in tandem, stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and you use your other hand to gently cup his balls. He curses again, a litany of “shit, fuck, yeah” spilling from his lips.

  Namgyu is not quiet, he lets you know exactly how good it feels with those filthy words and deep, throaty groans that only make you wetter. He tries to watch you, propping himself on an elbow to gaze down, but one particularly hard suck makes his eyes roll back and he collapses against the couch with a strangled moan.

  The taste of him and the musky scent envelops your senses. You never particularly enjoyed giving head with your ex. It always felt like a chore because he never reciprocated. But this… this feels powerful. You’re driving Namgyu absolutely wild. Him, who always acted like nothing fazed him.

  You hum around his length, and he actually whimpers, his grip on your hair tightening. “Fuck, baby, you keep doing that—” He cuts himself off, chest heaving.

  The pet name slips out and surprises both of you. You feel his thigh muscles tense under your hand as if he’s bracing for you to tease him about it.

  Instead, you double down, sucking even harder and then releasing him with a lewd pop to catch your breath, pumping him with your fist. “Keep talking like that and I might think you like me or something,” you tease breathlessly, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock.

  Namgyu lets out a breathy chuckle, lifting his head to meet your eyes. “Don’t get it twisted,” he pants, though his hand is petting your hair almost affectionately now. “I just really, really like your mouth.”

  “To think earlier you said I talked too much,” you quip, then lick around his head again, focusing on that sensitive spot just under the crown.

  He swears, hips bucking a little. “Shit— okay, fine, shutting up.”

  You smile, victorious, and take him back in, bobbing faster now. His breathing grows ragged, and you can tell he’s getting close. His thighs tremble on either side of you.

  “(Y/N)… I’m gonna…” He grits out, a warning.

  You should pull back and finish him with your hand, or ask where he wants to come. But a streak of recklessness, or perhaps generosity, makes you want to take it all the way, consequences be damned. You want to taste him, to swallow his cockiness literally and figuratively.

  So you don’t slow. You keep going, slurping and sucking, pumping the base with a twist of your wrist the way some instinct tells you he’ll like.

  With a hoarse shout, Namgyu comes undone. He spills hot and salty into your mouth in spurts, and you do your best to swallow quickly, but some still trickles past your lips. You keep milking him until he’s empty, his body shuddering with aftershocks, a string of curses and your name tumbling from his lips.

  Finally, you release him, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth, catching the bit that escaped. Namgyu is panting, head thrown back, one arm over his face. He looks thoroughly debauched and utterly spent.

  Pride swells in your chest. You did that. Little Miss Uptight made the king of sleaze fall apart.

  As the high of the moment begins to settle, an uncertain quiet envelops the room. You slowly rise from your knees, your own legs screaming from the position, and sit on the couch next to him. You’re hyper-aware of your disheveled state. Dress still down around your waist, breasts out, hair a mess, lips swollen. He’s not any better. Jeans open, shirt off, chest glistening with sweat.

  Your mind races to process the sheer insanity of what just happened. A half hour ago, you were at each other’s throats. And now…

  Namgyu is the first to break the silence. He lifts his arm from his face, turning to look at you with an expression you can’t quite read. Sated, yes, but there’s something softer, almost perplexed in his eyes.

  “That,” he says slowly, voice rough from groaning, “was…”

  You tense, wondering if he’s about to ruin it by saying something cruel or crass.

  “…fucking amazing,” he finishes with a faint, almost incredulous laugh.

  You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, then manage a smirk. “Yeah, it was alright.”

  He barks a laugh at your nonchalance. “Alright, she says. The way you were moaning, I’d say it was a bit better than alright.”

  Now that the deed is done, your reflexive banter returns to cover up the weird vulnerability creeping in. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was thinking of someone else the whole time.”

  He grins, rolling his head to face you fully. “Liar.” His hand comes up, and for a second you think he might touch your face. But he hesitates, then smirks and flicks your exposed nipple instead. “And cover up. Not that I mind the view, but you’ll catch cold or some shit.”

  You swat his hand away, cheeks heating, and quickly pull your bra and dress back up over your chest. “Ever the gentleman,” you quip.

  He zips up his jeans, not bothering with the belt yet. An awkward beat passes as you both adjust yourselves, reality slowly seeping back in. The air smells of sex and sweat and weed, a pungent reminder of what happened.

  Your mind starts to chase implications: what now? Do you just… go home? Do you say thank you? God, that would be weird. This was transactional in a sense, but also not. It felt… personal, in ways you’re not prepared to face yet.

  Namgyu clears his throat, seeming to sense your sudden tension. “So,” he drawls, attempting nonchalance, “this definitely beats going to the club, huh?”

  A startled laugh escapes you. “Yeah,” you admit, “the club would have to be pretty damn special to top this.”

  He flashes a lazy grin. “I mean, we could probably charge people to watch next time. Might make more than I do dealing in a night.”

  You roll your eyes, but can’t help a small smile. “In your dreams, Namgyu.”

  He waggles his eyebrows. “Could be fun. But fine, I’ll keep this private show just for me.”

  The implication that there might be a next time hangs in the air. You should shut that down. This was a one-time lapse in judgment, right? Brought on by weed and weird circumstances. Tomorrow, you’ll both go back to hating each other. That’s the safe assumption.

  Yet, a treacherous part of you isn’t entirely sure you want it to be a one-time thing. Not after discovering what lies beneath all that bickering, a chemistry so intense it scorched you both.

  You stand up on slightly unsteady legs, smoothing your dress and searching for your discarded panties. You spot them half under the coffee table and bend to pick them up, wincing at the slight ache between your thighs. Namgyu definitely did a number on you.

  As you step into your underwear and right yourself, Namgyu has also stood, pulling on his t-shirt again. You catch each other’s eyes and then quickly look away, both of you seemingly unsure how to navigate this new terrain.

  The awkwardness is starting to creep in. You hate it. After everything, returning to being strangers enemies feels wrong. But you’re not about to get all sappy and ask him what this means or any of that nonsense. Instead, you latch onto practical matters.

  “You still gonna drive me home?” you ask, your tone a bit more snappy than intended. Defense mechanism, fully engaged.

  He runs a hand through his mussed hair, giving you a sideways look. “Yeah… of course.”

  He grabs his jacket and keys from where they ended up, while you retrieve your purse and phone which somehow got knocked to the floor in the fray.

  As you slip on your heels that you’d kicked off at some point, you become hyper-aware of the silence. A million thoughts swirl in your head. What will it be like tomorrow? Next week? Can you really act like nothing happened? Do you want to?

  Should you say something? Like, set a rule or…?

  Before you can decide, Namgyu speaks up, his tone oddly serious. “Hey.” He steps closer, standing in front of you. You clutch your purse strap, steeling yourself and meeting his gaze.

  He actually looks a bit nervous, which is a new look on him. “About… all this,” he begins, gesturing vaguely at the couch and you. “We’re cool, right?”

  It’s almost endearing, how unsure he sounds. You realize he might be worried you’re going to freak out or regret it and make things weird for Subong or something.

  You force what you hope is a reassuring smirk. “As cool as we ever were.”

  He gives a small huff of laughter. “Not saying much. But yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck, an unusual bashfulness creeping in. “I mean… we don’t have to tell him. Obviously.”

  “Oh god, no,” you say quickly, mortified at the very thought. “We take this to our graves.”

  “Good,” Namgyu says, though something in his face twitches. Disappointment? You can’t tell. He recovers with a cocky grin. “Though if he ever found out, at least he’d know his sister isn’t as uptight as she acts.”

  You swat his arm, but lightly. “Shut up.”

  He laughs and heads to the door, pulling it open and gesturing for you to go ahead. “After you.”

  Well, at least he’s not a total asshole post fucking, you think dryly. You step out into the hallway, the cool air a stark contrast to the heat inside that apartment. As you pass him, you feel his hand lightly brush your lower back in a way that’s oddly protective, but it could have been accidental.

  The walk down to his car is quiet. Your body feels heavy, sated, a pleasant hum in your veins. Namgyu unlocks his beat-up car with a click, and you slide into the passenger seat. He gets in the driver’s side and for a moment, you just sit there. The car smells faintly of him, plus a bit of weed. You wonder if the scent of sex clings to you both.

  When he starts the engine, a music track comes on. Some EDM thing with a driving bass. He quickly turns the volume way down to a background thump. Neither of you seem inclined to blast music right now.

  As he pulls out and heads toward your part of town, you find yourself stealing glances at his profile in the passing streetlights. He looks calm, maybe a bit tired. You suddenly recall the way he looked between your legs, concentrated and feral, and you flush, facing forward again.

  Say something, you urge yourself. Anything to cut the tension. But small talk feels ridiculous after what you’ve done.

  In the end, it’s Namgyu who speaks, just as you’re almost halfway. “So… your first time, huh?”

  You almost choke. “Wh— excuse me?”

  He clarifies, one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually out the open window. “Getting head. That was your first.”

  “Oh.” You bite your lip. “Uh, yeah.”

  He glances at you, a hint of a proud smirk on his lips. “Glad I could be of service.”

  You manage a huff. “Way to ruin it, jerk.”

  He frowns. “That’s not—” He stops, sighs. “I’m just saying. I’m glad it was me.”

  That admission hangs in the air, far more intimate than the crude talk before. You turn your face to the window, hoping the darkness hides the way your cheeks burn yet again. There’s that softness from earlier creeping in, threatening to make this more than just a sleazy hook-up story.

  “Don’t let it get to your head,” you murmur, trying to keep your tone light. “Just because you gave me an orgasm or two doesn’t mean we’re suddenly best friends or something.”

  He is quiet for a moment, and you worry you’ve offended him. But when you peek over, he’s smirking lightly. “Orgasm or two, huh? So I set a high bar. Whoever comes after me’s got their work cut out.”

  Whoever comes after… The idea of someone else, someone not him touching you should be a comforting thought because obviously you won’t do this with him again. You’ll eventually meet a nice guy, have normal sex, maybe they’ll be generous lovers too. That’s what you want… right?

  So why does picturing anyone else down there make you feel oddly… empty?

  “Yeah, well,” you say carefully, “maybe no one will have to try. I might just swear off guys entirely after tonight. Retire at my peak.”

  He actually looks almost insulted. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”

  You can’t help it. You burst out laughing. “You idiot. I meant the opposite.”

  His grin returns. “I know. I just like hearing you say it.”

  You shake your head, but a smile tugs your lips. “Fine. Congratulations, Namgyu, you’ve officially ruined me for other men. Happy?”

  He taps the wheel in a little drum fill, clearly pleased. “Very.”

  The rest of the drive is mostly quiet, but not painfully so. You both seem lost in thought. Soon, he’s pulling up to your house. It’s late and the lights are off.

  Namgyu parks and stops the engine. You hesitate, hand on the door handle. This might be the weirdest part yet, saying goodbye.

  “So…” you begin awkwardly, turning to him. “Thanks for the ride. And… uh…”

  He raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes. “And… uh…?”

  You groan. “Don’t make it weird.”

  He chuckles. “Alright. I won’t say ‘it was a pleasure’ then, even though it was.”

  You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Good night, Namgyu.”

  You push open the door and step out, eager to escape before anything more can be said to muddle your brain.

  Just as you’re about to close the door, he calls your name. You lean down, looking at him questioningly through the open car door.

  His face is partially in shadow from the streetlight, but you can see he’s serious. “Don’t forget… still taking this to the grave, yeah?”

  You nod firmly. “Absolutely.”

  He nods back. But you think you catch a flash of something like regret in his eyes before he masks it. Maybe you imagined it.

  Without another word, you close the door gently and head up the path to your house. You don’t look back, but you hear his car start up and drive off as you reach your door.

  Inside, the house is silent. You tiptoe to your room, not bothering with more than kicking off your heels and dropping your purse. You collapse on your bed, every muscle in your body relaxing into the mattress.

  The night’s events replay behind your eyelids. Already, it feels a bit like a dream or something you might have hallucinated. But the aches and tingles in your body are proof it was real.

  As you drift off to sleep, one last thought goes through your mind: you’re definitely not telling Subong. But lying here, sated and warm, you’re also definitely not regretting a damn thing.

  If only it were that simple.

  You’d waited until you were sure he wouldn’t be back anytime soon. His pattern was predictable: fight, leave, drink himself into oblivion, maybe get into another fight with strangers who didn’t know to stay away from him when he got like this. Usually he’d be gone for at least twenty-four hours, sometimes longer if he passed out at some friend’s place or ended up in jail for the night.

  The thought of him in jail should have worried you. Six months ago, it would have. You would have been calling every precinct in the city, bailing him out, making excuses to his boss when he didn’t show up to work. But now? Now you just felt relieved at the idea of a locked door between you and him.

  He’d come back tomorrow or the next day, bruised and sorry and full of promises that meant nothing anymore. The same fucking script every time. “Baby, I’m sorry. I was drunk. You know I love you. I’ll never do it again.” And like an idiot, you’d believed him. Over and over and over until the words lost all meaning.

  But this time, you wouldn’t be here when he returned.

  The bedroom felt smaller with half the furniture missing, your absence already carved into the space like a wound. You’d taken only what was yours, left behind anything that felt contaminated by what you’d become together. The bed where he’d held you down when you tried to leave during arguments. The mirror that had reflected your face, swollen and tear-streaked, too many times to count. The chair in the corner where you’d sit and wait for him to calm down, where you’d learned to make yourself small and quiet until the storm passed.

  Your best friend had offered to help you pack, but you’d turned her down. How could you explain the shame of it? How could you tell her that you’d let it get this bad, that you’d stayed this long? She’d never understand what you saw in Namgyu anyway. “He’s bad news,” she’d said after meeting him the first time. “There’s something off about him.”

  You’d defended him then. Told her she didn’t know him like you did, that he was sweet when it was just the two of you. That he’d had a hard childhood, that he just needed someone to love him the right way.  What a fucking joke that had turned out to be.

  You were sealing the last box when you heard his key in the lock.

  “Fuck,” you whispered, heart immediately hammering against your ribs. The sound of that key still made your body react like a startled animal, even when things were good between you. Even when he came home sober and sweet and apologetic.

  He wasn’t supposed to be back yet. The sun was still up, bars weren’t even open. It was barely three in the afternoon, and he’d left yesterday evening. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. You’d planned this down to the minute, had everything timed perfectly.

  “Baby?” His voice carried through the apartment, slurred and rough. The sound made your stomach clench with familiar dread. Still drunk, then. Or drunk again. “Baby, where the fuck are you?”

  You stood frozen in the bedroom, surrounded by boxes and the evidence of your escape attempt. Maybe if you stayed quiet, if you didn’t answer, he’d think you were out. Maybe he’d just grab some clothes and leave again.

  “I know you’re here,” he called, and you could hear him moving through the living room. Heavy footsteps, unsteady. Something crashed, probably the lamp you’d left on the side table. The sound of glass shattering echoed through the apartment. “Your shitty car’s outside.”

  Your hands were shaking as you tried to think. The fire escape was too far, and he’d hear the window. The front door was the only way out, but he was between you and freedom now. You were trapped, and he was drunk, and history had taught you that this combination never ended well.

  More crashing from the kitchen. Probably throwing open cabinets, discovering the empty shelves. You could picture his face when he realized what you’d done. The way his features would twist with rage and hurt and that particular brand of possessive fury that made him dangerous.

  Footsteps in the hallway. Getting closer. You could hear him breathing hard, muttering to himself. Words you couldn’t quite make out but recognized the tone of. He was working himself up, getting angrier with each step.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  You heard him in the kitchen, probably seeing the empty cabinets, the missing appliances. Your coffee maker was gone, the good knives, the blender he’d bought you for you last year. All of it packed away in boxes, ready to start over somewhere he couldn’t find you.

His voice was getting louder, more aggressive. You knew that tone. It meant broken dishes and holes in walls and your wrists pinned above your head while he told you exactly what he thought of your attempts to leave him. It meant hours of screaming and crying and him blocking every exit until you promised you weren’t going anywhere.

  “Baby!” The bedroom door flew open so hard it bounced off the wall, and there he was.

  He looked like absolute hell. His left eye was swollen shut, purple and grotesque. A cut across his cheekbone was still seeping blood, and his lip was split so badly you could see the white of his teeth through it. His knuckles were raw and bloody, skin torn open like. There was a bruise across his ribs that looked fresh, dark purple spreading across his pale skin.

No shirt, jeans unbuttoned and hanging low like he’d undressed in a hurry. His hair was matted with what looked like dried blood, and there were scratches down his neck that definitely wasn’t from fighting some random guy at a bar.

  He’d been with someone else. You could smell perfume on him, something cheap and cloying that made your stomach turn. Lipstick smeared across his collarbone, barely visible but there if you knew where to look.

  “Jesus Christ, Namgyu. What happened to you?”

  His good eye took in the boxes, the half-empty room, your guilty face. You watched the realization hit him like a physical blow, watched his expression change from confusion to hurt to rage in the span of seconds.

  “No,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. His voice was raw, like he’d been screaming. “No, no, no, you’re not—” His voice broke, and suddenly he looked younger, more fragile. “You can’t fucking leave me.”

  “Namgyu—”

  “Don’t.” He stepped into the room, and you instinctively backed toward the window. The movement was automatic, learned from months of reading his moods, his body language. “Don’t you fucking dare say my name like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re about to break up with me. Like you’re about to destroy my whole fucking life.” He was crying now, tears cutting tracks through the dried blood on his face. “Where are you going? Where the fuck do you think you’re going to go?”

  “I found a place—”

  “What place? With who?” His voice was getting higher, more frantic. 

“With that bitch of a friend of yours? She’s been trying to turn you against me since day one.”

  “She has nothing to do with this.”

  “Bullshit. This is exactly the kind of shit she’d put in your head. ‘He’s no good for you, honey. You deserve better.’” His impression of your friend was cruel, mocking. “She’s just jealous because she can’t keep a man for longer than five minutes.”

  “Don’t talk about her like that.”

  “I’ll talk about her however the fuck I want.” He stepped closer, and you could smell the alcohol on him now. Not just beer. Whiskey, maybe vodka. The kind of drunk that made him mean. “She doesn’t know what we have. She doesn’t understand us.”

  “We don’t have anything, Namgyu.” The words felt like pulling glass from your throat. “Not anymore.”

  “That’s not true.” His face crumpled like a child’s. “That’s not fucking true. We love each other. We’re supposed to be together forever, remember? You promised me forever.”

  You had promised him that. Two years ago, lying in bed after making love, both of you drunk on wine. You’d traced patterns on his chest and whispered about the future like it was something you could control.

  “I can’t do this anymore.” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted, but at least it came out. “I can’t keep living like this.”

  “Like what?” He was getting agitated again, pacing back and forth in the small space. “What did I do? Tell me what I fucking did.”

  “You know what you did.”

  “The fight? That was an accident. You know I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was high, I was angry about work, I wasn’t thinking straight—”

  “It wasn’t an accident.” The words felt like a confession. Like admitting to yourself what you’d been denying for months. “You held me down, Namgyu. You wouldn’t let me leave the room.”

  “I was trying to make you listen—”

  “You hurt me.” You touched your lip, still tender from where it had split against your teeth when he’d grabbed your face. “You’ve been hurting me for months, and I’m done pretending it’s okay.”

  His face went through another series of changes. Hurt, anger, desperation, calculation. You could practically see him cycling through his usual strategies, trying to figure out which one would work this time.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll stop drinking. I’ll quit drugs too. I’ll go to therapy. I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t leave me.” The words tumbled out in a rush, practiced and hollow. “Please, baby. Please don’t do this to me.”

  You’d heard this before. The promises, the tears, the desperate bargaining. It always sounded so sincere in the moment. And for a while, things would get better. He’d be sweet again, careful with you, like he was trying to prove something. He’d bring you flowers and cook dinner and hold you like you were made of glass.

But it never lasted. It couldn’t last, because the problem wasn’t the drinking, the drugs or the anger or the stress from work. The problem was deeper than that, something fundamental about who he was and how he saw you. You weren’t a person to him. You were a possession, something that belonged to him, and he’d destroy you before he’d let you go.

  “I’ve already decided.” You moved toward the door, but he stepped sideways, blocking your path with his body. He was bigger than you, stronger, and he knew it. “Namgyu, please. Just let me go.”

  “No.” His hand moved to his back pocket, and your blood went cold. You knew what he kept there. Had seen him clean it after fights, had watched him practice with it when he thought you weren’t looking. “I can’t. I can’t fucking let you leave me.”

  The knife was small, nothing fancy. Just the one from your kitchen, the one you used to cut vegetables. But in his shaking hand, it looked deadly. The blade caught the afternoon light streaming through the window, and you couldn’t look away from it.

  “Namgyu, put that down.” Your voice was steady, but inside you were screaming. This was it. This was how it ended. Not with a breakup or a move across town, but with blood on the bedroom floor.

  “You don’t understand.” He wasn’t looking at you anymore, staring at the floor instead. The knife trembled in his grip like he was fighting himself, like part of him knew how insane this was. “You don’t understand what happens to me when you’re gone.”

  “Nothing happens to you. You go out, you drink or get high, you come back—”

  “I can’t breathe when you’re not here.” His voice was getting higher, more panicked. “I can’t fucking breathe. I sit in this apartment and I think about you with someone else, and I can’t—I can’t handle it.”

  “So you’re going to threaten me with a knife?” The question came out sharper than you intended, but you were beyond caring about his feelings now. “This is your solution?”

  “I’m not threatening you.” He looked up then, and his eyes were wild, unfocused. The pupils were blown wide, and you realized he wasn’t just drunk. There was something else in his system, something that made him unpredictable in ways alcohol never did. 

“I’m not threatening you, baby. I would never hurt you.”

But the knife was still in his hand, still pointed in your direction. And you were still trapped between him and the wall, your escape route blocked by three feet of desperate, unstable man who thought love meant ownership.

  “Then put it down.”

  “You leave me, I’ll do it.” The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. Like he was talking about the weather or what to have for dinner. 

  “Right here. You walk out that door, and I’ll do it right fucking here.”

  Your heart stopped. The room went silent except for the sound of your own breathing, too fast and too shallow. “Namgyu—”

  “I mean it.” The knife turned, blade now pointing toward his own chest. The tip pressed against his skin, not quite breaking it but close enough that you could see the indent it left. “You think I’m bluffing? You think I won’t?”

  You stared at him, this man you’d loved, this man you’d tried so hard to save from himself. His face was a mess of tears and blood and desperation, and you could see in his eyes that he meant it. Every word. He’d rather die than let you go, and he’d make sure you watched.

  “You can’t put that on me,” you whispered.

  “I’m not putting anything on you.” His voice was softer now, coaxing. Like he was trying to convince you of something reasonable instead of holding a knife to his own chest. “I’m just telling you what happens if you leave. I’m just being honest about who I am without you.”

  The manipulation was so clear, so textbook, but it worked anyway. Because you could see him doing it. Could see him following through just to prove a point, just to make sure you never forgot what your leaving had cost. And you’d have to live with that for the rest of your life.

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Fair?” He laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. “Nothing about this is fucking fair. Nothing about loving you has ever been fair.”

  You took a step toward the door, testing him, and his grip tightened on the knife. The blade pressed harder against his skin, and you saw a thin line of blood appear where the point met his chest.

  “Stop.” You held up your hands, panic rising in your throat. “Stop, okay? Just… just put it down.”

  “You’ll stay?” His voice was small, childlike. Like he was asking for something simple, something easy to give.

The question hung between you like a noose. You looked at him, really looked at him. Broken and bleeding and so desperate that he was willing to die rather than let you go. And you realized that this was what your love had become. This was what you’d created together.

  “If I stay,” you said carefully, each word chosen like you were defusing a bomb, “will you put the knife down?”

  “Promise me.” His voice was breaking again. “Promise me you’ll stay. Say the words.”

  “I promise.” The lie tasted like ash in your mouth, like everything good in you dying at once.

  The knife clattered to the floor, and he collapsed with it. Just fell to his knees like his strings had been cut, sobbing into his hands like a child. You stood there for a moment, watching him fall apart, and felt absolutely nothing.

  This was what rock bottom looked like. This was the end of the road you’d been traveling for three years, the inevitable destination of a love that had curdled into something poisonous and unrecognizable.

You walked over and picked up the knife, your hands surprisingly steady. The blade was warm from his grip, and there was a smear of blood on the tip that made your stomach turn. You set it on the dresser where he couldn’t reach it easily, then sat down on the edge of the bed and waited for him to compose himself.

The silence stretched between you, broken only by his ragged breathing and the sound of traffic outside. Normal life continuing while yours fell apart in a bedroom that smelled like blood and desperation.

  “I’m sorry,” he said eventually, not looking at you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “You’re sick, Namgyu.” The words came out gentler than you felt. “You need help.”

  “I need you.” He looked up at you with red-rimmed eyes. “I just need you.”

  “No.” You shook your head. “You need a therapist. You need medication. You need to be in a hospital somewhere getting the help I can’t give you.”

  “I’ll change. I swear to God, I’ll change. You can even hit me back. You can hurt me however you want. Just stay.”  The offer made your stomach turn. That he thought your relationship was something that could be balanced out with reciprocal violence. That he thought you wanted to hurt him the way he’d hurt you.

  “I don’t want to hit you,” you said quietly. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “Then what do you want?” He crawled closer, and you forced yourself not to flinch away. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

  What you wanted was to go back in time. To meet him when you were both different people, when his demons were smaller and your boundaries were stronger. You wanted to love him the way you used to, when his intensity felt like passion instead of possession.

But you couldn’t say any of that.

  “I want you to get help,” you said instead.

  “Okay.” He nodded eagerly. “Okay, I’ll get help. I’ll call someone tomorrow.”

    “You’ll do it now.”

    “What?”

  “Call someone right now.” You pulled out your phone. “I’ll help you find a place.” He stared at you for a long moment, and you could see him calculating. Trying to figure out if this was real or just another way for you to leave him.

“You’ll stay if I get help?”

  Another lie balanced on your tongue. Because you knew that even if he got help, even if he got better, you’d never be able to look at him without seeing this moment. Without remembering the weight of that knife in his hand and the look in his eyes when he promised to use it.

  “I’ll stay while you get help,” you said carefully.

  It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but it was the only one you had. And as he reached for your phone with shaking hands, you started planning your real escape. The one he’d never see coming.

Because love wasn’t supposed to be held hostage.