#argument

the only thing grounding you was probably your phone wallpaper, which was you and your husband holding up a bouquet of flowers, which's card read ''anything for you, love'' in a beautiful shade of pink

and you smiled

maybe this week wasn't as bad as you thought

until you see a notification pop up, another email from your boss, and you sighed clicking your phone shut

nevermind.

this week was full of just cursing yourself over every minor error, and it all started pilling up one by one, mistake by mistake, complain by complain and finally,

you hit your breaking point.

''darling please dont test me right now.'' your husband's voice rasps

.

.

.

.

.

''excuse me?''

you turn around, wide eyed with frustration

your husband just got home from work, it was a rainly night with his eyes tired and his shoulders incredibly tense under his expensive suit, his hair was neatly kept, as a way of holding onto the last shreads of his composure, yet a single strand of hair dripped down his forehead, defying his perfection.

he settles down the soaked umbrella the held and walks to the couch losening his tie, right before

''test you? are you fucking kidding me right now?'' you snap back

he turns his head towards you, dropping his suitcase on the table and you both just stare at each other for a very

very

uncomfortable 10 seconds

''honey'' his deep voice echos, being as patient as possible

''speak.'' you snap back, with a sassy tone

he looks at you again, dead in the eyes, and just for a second, just for a minuscule second

you see it

his composure wavered.

with the ever so slight twich of his jaw, and you ofcourse, didn't leave that unnoticed

''what? you're mad now? YOU'RE the one who's mad?'' your voice now raising as you took a step forward

''I just told you to pick up my goddamn order from the fucking resturant and tha—''

he takes step towards you with a big thud, the sound echoing in the room and you pause, not even realising when you're backed into the wall

''I'll order it.'' he says coldly, and you swear you could see the rage radiating off him, and he was trying oh so hard not to show it

''No resturant is gonna' deliver SHIT at this hour!'' you yell while he just, stares

''You had one job and we both know I don't ask you for favours if its not importan—''

''I said I'll fucking,'' he interrupts, the cuss foreign to his lips

''order it.''

''and I said there's isn't any fucking resturan—''

before you know it

he smashes his lips onto yours, effectively shuting you up, but his hands weren't on you, they layed flat on the wall right above your head

you couldn't even process how the kiss was before he pulled alway, his eyes staring at you with the weight of his boiling rage laying right on display, not a single inch of him was touching you and yet, you could feel him all over your body

and it pissed you off.

''fuck you.'' you spat out, tilting your head upwards, almost challenging him with your cold expression, and fuming with anger

''fuck me?'' his voice rasps, accompanied with the faint twitch of his jaw

''honey, i already said don't—'' he leans down, emphasising the last word

''test me.''

.

.

.

.

.

suddenly

under all your supressed temper, you yank his tie and pull him in, your lips crash against each other once again, into the most messy and sloppy kiss you've both probably ever had

and that's when he finally

finally

grabs your jaw and tilts his head to the side to deepen the kiss, pushing his tongue in with his hands holding your face roughly, not enough to hurt you but enough to squish your cheeks visibly, enough to make you feel that he's not playing nice

the kiss turns wild and aggressive with one of his legs now shifted right between yours while your hands kept pulling his tie, choking him harder and harder by the second, and you could feel a smirk forming on his lips as you both devoured each other

his hand slowly shifts to your hips, pulling you by the waist and you could feel his hard length right on your core, you both were running out of air at this point, suffocating each other, before you feel his hands run under your shirt, the cold touch only makes you shiver as you let out a small whimper in his mouth

and its then, when he barely breaks the kiss, with your lips still touching and his tongue still ever so slightly on your mouth, he whispers

''I dont want t—'' he whispers

''use you like this, love.'' he hums into you, pulling you hips closer which makes your core grind over his thigh and you supress your moan, bitting his lower lip which makes him groan

he's being so aggressive and yet

still so gentle

you never answer him, just chasing his lips and hiding the blush growing on your cheeks

and ofcourse he gladly complies, while uttering small nothings like ''im so sorry'' and ''i was too rude'' or ''my apologies'' as they drown into your kisses

the kiss slowly grows gentle, despite your attempts on tugging his tie and choking him, or pulling on his hair, or even making his lips bleed, he still held you in place, strong hands that dug deep into your hips, just grinding his thigh against the, now wet, shorts that you wore

and as much as you would have loved his beautiful and gentle patience on any other random tuesday, tonight, you wanted to be fucked like he hated you with his soul.

nothing more nothing less

so when you noticed his touch growing supressed, clearly wanting to be rough but still holding back, it pained you

''honey'' you break the kiss, ever so slightly with your thumb over his lips to replace it missing touch

and he looks at you, silent and waiting for you to continue

you could see it

the hunger in his eyes, the sweat that dripped off his forehead, the flushed expression on his cheeks as if he was fighting for his life, still hanging on the threads of his composure while he just ripped your own to shreads

''how much more obvious do i have to make it, you idiot'' you say as your hands travel to the rim of his belt

and he just stares at you for a hot second, almost as if he's contemplating what to say or do

finally, his hand moves and cricles around your neck, not applying any pressure but just

there

''so you want me to'' he tilts his head and you could see his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips

''honey.'' you say deadpan

''mm?'' he hums, clearly amused

''dont do that.''

''do what~''

''don't test me.'' you stare

''oh im testing you? but its not my fault that you'll not be able to handle it my lov—''

and that sends you

you snap and reach out you hand, grabing his neck and choking him

hard

''just fuck me'' you say in between your teeth, just above a whisper, still shy and unable to say the words properly while he chuckles in response, still suffocating under your grip

''fuck you?'' he asks, with a tease

''don't.'' you warn him again, and that makes him laugh

''alright alright''

finally

he picks you up, with almost no effort and begins to walk towards your shared bedroom, you circle your legs around his waist and hug him close, and thats when he looks up at you and whispers

''anything for you, love''

part 2?

comment to be added to the taglist !

not my proudest work i fear </3 started this like a long longgg time ago but life kinda fucked me real good for the past 3 weeks so dont mind mee :p

tbh i have a pure smut planned revolving around a senario just like this cuz im a SUCKER for hate sex so dw part 2 will come up very soon!!

and as always, i love you all so so soo muchh my lovely children

Normally, you avoid his content. You know how easily things can be taken out of context, twisted by fans and media alike. 

But Martin’s laugh rings out from the screen, warm and familiar, and it makes your thumb pause.

It’s easy. Charming. The same effortless smile he wears on stage.

He’s sitting at a table across from a fan—older than most, from the looks of it. His posture is relaxed, eyes soft, voice lowered as he leans in slightly.

“You are my type,” he says smoothly. “I love you, noona.”

Your stomach drops.

The tone. The expression. The warmth in his eyes. You thought those were things he saved for you.

You tell yourself not to overthink it and keep scrolling. One more video won’t hurt, right?

Wrong.

Your feed floods instantly—clip after clip of 

Martin flirting, smiling, laughing with different girls.

“You’re my girlfriend.” “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” “Let’s get married.”

You let out a bitter breath, shaking your head.

I mean… the bills can’t be that high.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t even hear Martin calling out that the food’s ready.

“Hey,” he says gently, tapping your shoulder. “I added more spice—just how you like it.”

You look up at him, and the smile he was wearing falters when he sees your expression.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, concern slipping into his voice.

You don’t look at him when you speak. “Do you have to do that?”

Martin freezes where he stands. “Do what?”

You finally turn the phone toward him. “That. The flirting. The way you look at them like—” Your voice cracks, betraying you. 

“Like they matter more than I do.”

His brows knit together immediately. “That’s not fair.”

And just like that, the room shifts.

“You don’t get to decide what’s fair,” you snap.

“I sit here watching you give pieces of yourself away every day. Smiles. Words. Gestures you used to save for me.”

“That’s my job,” he says, too fast. Defensive. “You knew that when we—”

“I knew you were an idol,” you cut in. “I didn’t know I’d feel like I was sharing my boyfriend with thousands of people.”

Silence slams between you.

Martin runs a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice. “It’s fan service. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“But it means something to me,” you whisper. “And you didn’t even ask if I was okay with it.”

That’s when he stops.

Really stops.

He looks at you—not like he does on stage, not polished or composed—but like he’s seeing something fragile he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I didn’t think it hurt you,” he admits quietly. “I thought… I thought you were stronger than that.”

The words sting instantly, even as regret flashes across his face.

“So now I’m weak?” you ask, standing. 

“For wanting boundaries?”

“No,” he says quickly. “For wanting me. Just me.”

The fight escalates then—voices raised, old frustrations spilling out. You tell him how lonely it feels watching him belong to everyone else. 

He tells you how suffocating it is to feel like he’s failing you no matter what he does. At one point, he turns away, fists clenched, breathing hard.

“I don’t know how to win here,” he mutters.

You swallow. “I’m not asking you to win. I’m asking you to choose.”

That’s when he leaves the apartment—not in anger, but in defeat.

Hours pass.

Ramen definitely got cold.

When he comes back, it’s late. He’s changed into soft clothes, hair still damp from a shower, eyes tired in a way that has nothing to do with schedules. He doesn’t sit right away. Instead, he kneels in front of you.

“I thought about everything you said,” he begins. “And everything I didn’t want to hear.”

You stay quiet.

“I can’t stop being an idol,” he continues. 

“But I can stop crossing lines that make you feel invisible. I didn’t realize I was doing that—and I hate that it took hurting you to see it.”

He pulls out his phone and opens a notes app. 

“These are boundaries I wrote down. Things I won’t do anymore. Touching. Certain phrases. Eye contact that feels too intimate. I already talked to my manager.”

Your breath catches. “You… already did?”

He nods. “Because saying sorry isn’t enough if nothing changes.”

Then, softer: “And I need you to tell me when it hurts. Even if it’s ugly. Even if it’s inconvenient.”

Tears blur your vision.

Martin reaches out, slow, careful, waiting for permission. When you nod, he takes your hands and presses his lips to your knuckles. 

 “You’re not competing with anyone,” he murmurs. “You’re the only one I come home to.”

The argument doesn’t magically disappear. The insecurity doesn’t vanish overnight. But something shifts—something steadier replaces the hurt.

Later, when he pulls you into his arms, it feels intentional. Chosen.

And for the first time in a while, you believe him when he whispers, “I’m yours—offstage, always.”

JAMES

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The argument starts almost accidentally.

James has been under a lot of stress lately. He was assigned to choreograph Cortis and ILLIT’s upcoming performances—definitely not a task for the weak. It explains why he’s been distant, though it doesn’t make it any easier to feel.

Wanting to ease some of that pressure, you stop by his rehearsal. The frustration is obvious in the way he repeats counts, rewinds the music, and runs the same section again and again. 

The entire time, you’re thinking about how you can make things easier for him, maybe even cheer him up. But when practice finally ends and you head down to ask him out, it becomes clear he has other plans.

James corners you in the practice room after rehearsal, sweat still clinging to his collarbone, hair pushed back with restless fingers. 

“Hey,” he says, voice casual but eyes sharp with focus. “Can I ask you something?” 

You nod, already sensing where this is going. He plays the track again and runs through the section he’s been struggling with. 

“Be honest. Does this choreography hit, or does it feel… off?”

You hesitate, because you know how much work he’s put into it. But he asked. So you choose your words carefully. 

“It’s good,” you say slowly, “but I think the transitions are a little rushed. Maybe if you let the counts breathe more, it’ll feel heavier. Right now it feels like you’re trying to prove something instead of letting it land.”

The air shifts instantly.

James straightens, jaw tightening. “So you think I’m overdoing it,” he says, not asking—deciding. 

You blink, surprised. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just think—” He cuts you off with a short laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Right. Because you’d know what my style should look like.”

That stings more than you expect.

“I’m not attacking you,” you say, voice firm now. “You literally asked for my advice.” 

He scoffs, pacing. “Advice or criticism? Because it sounds like you’re saying it’s messy.” You stand up, irritation creeping in.

 “I never said that. You’re twisting my words.” He stops pacing and looks at you sharply. “Then say what you mean.”

Your patience snaps. “Fine. It feels like you’re dancing angry instead of intentional.”

Silence slams into the room.

James’ expression hardens, pride flaring like a match struck too close. 

“You know what? Forget it. I shouldn’t have asked you. You always act like you see things clearer than everyone else.” That accusation lands heavy, unfair. 

“That’s not true,” you shoot back. “And you know it. I support you all the time.” 

He shakes his head. “Support doesn’t sound like tearing something apart.”

The argument spirals fast after that.

Voices rise. Old frustrations slip out—about pressure, about expectations, about always being compared, about never feeling like enough. You tell him he never listens once his ego gets bruised. He fires back that you don’t understand what it’s like to have every move dissected by millions. 

The words get sharper, aimed instead of accidental. At some point, he throws his towel onto the floor and turns away, breathing hard. “I’m done,” he mutters. “I don’t want your input anymore.”

You leave before you say something you can’t take back.

The hours after are miserable. You replay the argument over and over, wondering where it went wrong, hating how your chest still aches with things unsaid. You know James—how deeply he feels, how criticism hits him like rejection no matter how gently it’s phrased. And you know yourself, how blunt honesty sometimes slips past softness when emotions run high.

When there’s a knock on your door later that night, you already know it’s him.

James stands there quieter, shoulders slumped, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. 

“Can I come in?” he asks, voice low. You step aside. For a moment, neither of you speaks. 

Then he exhales shakily. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I took it the wrong way. I was already frustrated, and I made it about my pride instead of what you were actually saying.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m sorry too,” you admit. “I should’ve explained better. I wasn’t trying to tear you down. I believe in you. That’s why I said anything at all.”

He nods, eyes softening. “When you said I was dancing angry… it hurt. But after I cooled off, I realized you weren’t wrong. I am angry. And I was letting that control the choreography instead of channeling it.”

 He lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Guess that’s why I asked you in the first place.”

You step closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “We’re allowed to mess up,” you murmur.

 “Just not push each other away when we do.” His arms wrap around you instinctively, grip tight, grounding. “Next time,” he says quietly, 

“don’t stop being honest with me. Even when I’m difficult.”

You smile against his chest. “Next time, don’t ask for advice if you’re not ready to hear it.”

He laughs softly, tension finally dissolving. And when he pulls you in for a kiss, everything felt warm and sincere, you know the argument didn’t break anything—it stripped something raw and real down to the truth. 

That you trust each other enough to clash. 

And love each other enough to come back and make it right.

JUHOON

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The argument doesn’t start with yelling. It starts with silence.

You were only there to drop off Juhoon’s jacket—he always forgot it when rehearsals ran long—but you stopped short when you heard your name. Not whispered. Said plainly. Casually. Like it didn’t belong to you at all.

“She’s sweet,” one of the company staff said, “but as Juhoon’s girlfriend? Not exactly… ideal.”

Another voice sighed. “Fans won’t take her seriously. She doesn’t fit the image we’re building for Cortis.”

You froze. Your fingers tightened around the fabric of the jacket as your chest burned. And then you heard Juhoon’s voice—low, familiar, unmistakable. He didn’t argue. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t even hesitate. There was a pause, and then he just said, “I understand.”

That single sentence hurt more than everything else combined.

You didn’t wait to hear the rest. You turned and walked away, heart pounding, ears ringing, the jacket forgotten on a chair by the wall. 

By the time Juhoon came home that night, you were sitting on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, staring at the floor like it had personally betrayed you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked gently, slipping off his shoes. One look at your face and his expression shifted. “Y/N?”

“You didn’t defend me,” you said quietly.

The words hit him harder than shouting ever could. He frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard them,” you continued, finally looking up. Your eyes were glassy but steady. “Your company. Talking about me like I was a liability. Like I was something embarrassing you had to tolerate.” Your voice cracked. “And you just… agreed.”

Juhoon’s mouth opened, then closed. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” you snapped, standing up now. “Because from where I was standing, it sounded like you chose your career over me without even thinking twice.”

He felt the tension creeping into his voice. “You don’t understand how those meetings work—”

“No, you don’t understand,” you cut in. “I didn’t need you to fight the company. I needed you to fight for me. To say something. Anything.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. 

Juhoon ran a hand through his hair, frustration written all over his face—but beneath it was something worse. Guilt. “I was scared,” he admitted quietly. 

“Every word I say gets monitored. One wrong move and—”

“And I get sacrificed?” you finished for him, tears finally spilling over. “Is that what I am to you? Something expendable?”

“No,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “Never.”

But the damage had already been done.

That night, you slept facing the wall, and Juhoon barely slept at all. He replayed the moment over and over—the way he’d stayed silent, the way your face had fallen when you realized he wouldn’t speak up. 

By morning, he knew an apology wouldn’t be enough.

He showed up at your place later that day with trembling hands and a determination you’d never seen before. He didn’t bring flowers. 

He brought honesty.

“I talked to them again,” he said the moment you opened the door. “And this time, I didn’t stay quiet.”

You didn’t respond, so he kept going. “I told them you’re not an image problem. You’re not a phase. You’re my girlfriend, and if they expect me to keep pretending you don’t exist, then they don’t actually understand who I am as an artist—or as a person.”

Your breath caught.

“They weren’t happy,” he admitted with a small, nervous smile. “But I don’t care. Because losing your trust would be worse than anything they could threaten me with.”

“I should’ve defended you when it mattered most,” he said softly. “I can’t change that moment. But I can promise you I’ll never let you feel alone like that again.”

“I just wanted to know you’d choose me,” you whispered.

He pressed his forehead to yours. “I choose you. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

And for the first time since that hallway, your heart finally felt like it could breathe again.

KEONHO

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Y/N’s day had been nothing but sharp edges. Missed calls, a failed meeting, spilled coffee on her favorite shirt—every little thing stacked on top of the last until her chest felt tight with it all. By the time she finally walked into Keonho’s place, her head was pounding and her patience was threadbare. All she wanted—needed—was to be held, to feel like at least one thing in her life was steady.

Keonho looked up from the couch the moment she entered, a grin already forming. “Heyyy, there she is,” he said, popping up dramatically. “Rough day? You look more worse than my hair when it’s under a beanie”

She forced a weak smile, dropping her bag by the door. “Can we not joke right now?” she muttered, shoes kicked off with more force than necessary. Her voice was tired, raw.

Instead of noticing, he leaned into it. “Whoa, okay, scary,” he laughed, raising his hands. “I’ll behave. What happened? Did my beautiful princess wake up on the wrong side of the bed?”

She sat on the edge of the couch, hands clenched together. “Keonho… I’m serious. Today was really bad.”

He plopped down beside her, nudging her shoulder playfully. “Hey, bad days build character. If you want we can read my TikTok comments for a good laugh.” He smiled, waiting for her to laugh with him.

She didn’t.

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. “Why are you like this?” she asked quietly, eyes fixed on the floor.

Keonho blinked. “Like what?”

“Like nothing I say matters,” she snapped, finally looking at him. “I’m telling you I had a horrible day and you’re acting like it’s a joke. Like I’m just being dramatic.”

His smile faltered. “I’m just trying to cheer you up.”

“That’s not cheering me up,” she said, voice cracking. “That’s you not taking me seriously. I needed you today. I needed comfort, not jokes.”

He leaned back, defensive creeping into his posture. “So what, you want me to be all sad and serious? That’s not how I deal with things.”

“Well, it’s not how I deal with things,” she shot back. “And for once, it would’ve been nice if you cared enough to meet me where I am instead of brushing it off.”

“I'm not brushing it off,” he said, frustration rising. “I just don’t know how to fix it.”

“I didn’t ask you to fix it!” she cried. “I just wanted you to listen. To hold me. To say, ‘I’m sorry you had a bad day.’ Is that really too much?”

Her eyes burned, tears finally spilling over. 

That was the moment it hit him—how hurt she actually was. Not annoyed. Not overreacting. Genuinely breaking.

Keonho stood up abruptly, pacing once before stopping in front of her. “I messed up,” he admitted, voice quieter now. 

“I thought making you laugh would help, but I see now that I just made you feel alone.”

She wiped her cheeks angrily. “You did.”

He crouched in front of her, hesitation clear. 

“I’m really sorry,” he said, this time without a hint of humor. “I hate seeing you like this, and I hate that I caused it.”

She didn’t respond right away, but she didn’t pull away when he gently took her hands.

 “Tell me about your day,” he said softly. “I’ll listen. I promise.”

She hesitated, then slowly began to talk. About everything. The frustration, the disappointment, the exhaustion. He didn’t interrupt once. No jokes. No teasing. Just quiet understanding, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

After, he pulled her into his chest, holding her tightly. “I should’ve done this from the start,” he murmured. “You deserve to be taken seriously. Always.”

Later that night, he surprised her with her favorite takeout, a cozy blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and her comfort movie queued up. No words—just presence. When she leaned into him, he pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I’m still me,” he whispered, “but I’ll do better for you. I swear.”

And this time, she believed him.

SEONGHYEON 

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The argument started because of the news that reached you by accident.

You’re scrolling on your phone late at night, half-asleep, when a short clip from a fan account pops up—an insider post about Cortis’ upcoming songs. 

It talks about how Seonghyeon was offered a bigger vocal part. More lines. A chance to finally show the range fans have been begging for. The comments are excited, proud, buzzing with anticipation.

Except there’s one reply pinned at the top.

“Apparently he turned it down.”

Your thumb stills.

You sit up slowly, rereading it like it might change if you blink. Turned it down. No explanation. No reason. Just speculation. And somehow, without anyone saying it outright, you already know why.

Because your anniversary is next week.

Because you remember him mentioning a recording schedule conflict and brushing it off with a smile. Because he never told you. Because he never would.

The guilt settles heavy in your chest, thick and suffocating. You imagine him in the studio, headphones around his neck, hesitating before saying no. You imagine the looks from producers. The whispers. The silent judgment. Ever since he got a girlfriend…

By the time he comes home, you’ve worked yourself into a quiet storm.

He finds you sitting on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, eyes unfocused. One look at your face and his smile fades.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, dropping his bag.

You don’t answer right away. When you finally look at him, your voice trembles despite your best effort. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His brows knit together. “Tell you what?”

“The vocal part,” you say. “The one you turned down.”

The room goes still.

Seonghyeon exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “You weren’t supposed to find out like that.”

“So it’s true,” you whisper.

He nods. “Yeah. It’s true.”

Your chest tightens. “Why?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Because of our anniversary.”

The words hit harder than you expect.

“You—” Your voice breaks. “You gave that up for me?”

“I didn’t give anything up,” he says quickly. 

“I made a choice.”

“That’s the same thing,” you snap, standing up now. “You’re always choosing me over things that matter to you. Over your career. Over opportunities people would kill for.”

“That’s not fair,” he says, hurt flashing across his face.

“What’s not fair,” you fire back, tears burning, “is you sacrificing yourself and pretending it’s nothing. Do you know how much hate you already get for dating me? Do you know what people say? That I’m a distraction. That I’m holding you back.”

He stiffens. “Is that what you think?”

You swallow hard. “Sometimes… yeah. I do.”

The silence that follows is heavy, dangerous.

Seonghyeon’s voice drops, raw and sharp. 

“Don’t ever say that again.”

You blink. “What?”

“I didn’t work this hard,” he continues, stepping closer, eyes shining, “just for you to reduce yourself to a burden in my life. Loving you isn’t something I ‘sacrifice.’ It’s not a mistake. And it’s definitely not something I regret.”

Tears spill over before you can stop them. 

“But what if one day you do?”

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “Then that would be on me. Not you. But don’t decide my feelings for me. Don’t punish yourself for loving me.”

Your shoulders shake as you lean into his touch. “I just don’t want to be the reason you lose things.”

“You’re the reason I gain things,” he says quietly. “Peace. Stability. A place that feels real when everything else feels fake.”

Later that night, he shows you the email thread, pointing out that the producer already offered him another chance to record later. He tells you he wants to celebrate your anniversary because it matters, but that he also won’t keep opportunities from you anymore—or from himself.

A few days later, on your anniversary, he surprises you.

Not with something extravagant—but with a private playback. A demo track. His voice layered, raw, emotional. At the end, there’s a quiet spoken line, meant only for you.

“I chose this. I choose you. And I choose myself too.”

When you look at him, eyes wet, he smiles softly. “See? No one’s holding anyone back.”

And for the first time since you found out, you believe him.