You’d been living with Nam-gyu for almost a year. On paper he was just a club promoter at Club Pentagon, the one who always seemed to know everyone at the door, the one with the right smile and the right phone numbers. Off the clock he drifted; he’d scoop up whatever drugs got left behind in the VIP rooms, smoke until dawn, sleep through the afternoon. He wasn’t cruel and you weren’t naïve — it was messier than that. He could be magnetic, funny, strangely protective, but also disappear into his own habits and come back smelling of smoke and neon. You knew the way he burned himself down, but you stayed. The two of you were held together by something somewhere between chemistry and chaos: late-night takeout, mornings spent in silence, fights that flared and cooled. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t empty either — a relationship built on comfort and tension, affection and exhaustion in equal measure, two people clinging to each other even as they kept their secrets.

The apartment was quiet except for the sound of rain dripping from the fire escape and the faint hum of the fridge. You were in the bedroom, half-asleep under the blanket, scrolling without really seeing anything. Nam-gyu was moving around in the kitchen, muttering to himself, opening drawers, looking for the lighter he always lost.

He pulled open the third drawer down, the one you usually kept junk in — batteries, receipts, stray screws. His fingers closed on something plastic. He glanced down.

Two thin white sticks, still in their boxes. The little plus signs on both windows were unmistakable.

For a second he didn’t move. His thumb brushed the edge of the test like he was trying to make sure it was real. A thousand thoughts crowded in at once — the rent, the noise of the street below, the way you’d been quieter lately, the nights you didn’t drink with him, the way your hand had rested on your stomach when you thought no one was looking.

He shut the drawer slowly but didn’t let go of the tests. He stood there a moment longer, staring at the floor, breathing through his nose. He wasn’t angry, not exactly. It felt more like standing on the edge of a roof, staring down, knowing you’d have to jump eventually.

In the bedroom you called his name, asking what he was doing. He walked in, tests still in his hand. You sat up, blanket slipping off your shoulders, and your eyes went straight to what he was holding.

“I was looking for my lighter,” he said. His voice was low, almost calm, but there was something under it. “Found this instead.”

You opened your mouth but nothing came out at first. The room felt smaller. The hum of the fridge carried from the kitchen like a heartbeat.

“Da fuck this is?” he asked finally.

He was staring at the little plastic sticks again. He set them gently on the dresser and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. He didn’t say he was happy. He didn’t say he was angry. He just looked at you, eyes unreadable, jaw tight.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. The rain ticked against the glass. His lighter was still somewhere in the kitchen, but he didn’t move to get it.