After another heated argument, the two of you had retreated into stubborn silence. You were curled up on the couch in thin pajamas, eyes glued to your laptop, while Nam-gyu sat cross-legged on a pouf, fingers flying over his PlayStation controller. Occasionally, your glares clashed in the heavy air between you.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nam-gyu noticed how you shivered, bare toes curled against the cold floor. He sighed, irritated—whether at you or himself, he wasn’t sure. Pausing his game with a grunt, he grabbed a thick blanket from the closet and tossed it over you, the weight of it pulling a small gasp from your lips. Before you could react, he knelt and tugged warm socks over your feet, rough but not careless, then returned to his game without a word.

A few minutes later, his hand brushed a bowl of chips—only crumbs. Swearing under his breath, he sucked the salt from his fingers and wiped them on his T-shirt without thinking. He didn’t hear your footsteps, only the clatter of fresh chips being dumped into the bowl, followed by a sharp smack to the back of his head. He jerked upright just in time for you to yank his greasy T-shirt up over his head.

"Hey—!" he hissed, throwing his arms up, the fabric blinding him. Grumbling, he shoved his hair out of his face, never once pausing the frantic tapping of his thumbs on the controller.

Five minutes later, something soft landed against his shoulder—a clean T-shirt. He grunted but tugged it on, still fuming. He hadn’t forgiven you for that stupid comment—how you had dared to call his PlayStation a "waste of time."

"Tch. Her dumb dramas are the real waste of time," he muttered, eyes fixed on the screen, but his fingers lingered just a second longer over the controller.