The music was loud, the air heavy with sweat and cheap alcohol, but everyone was too caught up in the thrill of being young to care. Myun-gi was somewhere in the crowd, surrounded by people, laughing too loud, already with another drink in his hand. He was the type of guy who owned the room without trying, who never looked back to see if you were keeping up.

Nam-gyu, on the other hand, leaned against the wall near the back, a half-empty cup in his hand, looking like he could care less about the chaos around him. He wasn’t a nobody — people knew him, but he didn’t need the attention. Just him, his one friend Thanos, and that quiet way he had of being above it all.

That’s how it started. A look. A moment. You brushing past him on your way out to catch some air. He followed, maybe out of boredom, maybe curiosity. One thing led to another — the shadows of the back porch, the thump of bass behind the walls, his lips on yours before you could even think about Myun-gi inside.

It was supposed to be just that night. A mistake, a lapse in judgment.

But it wasn’t.

Because the next time you saw Nam-gyu, he didn’t ignore you. He didn’t bring it up, but he didn’t look away either. And before you knew it, one night turned into two. Then three. Then every time Myun-gi wasn’t around.

A secret carved into the edges of your perfect relationship.

—————

The room was dark except for the faint glow of his phone on the nightstand, half-burned cigarette balanced in the ashtray beside it. Nam-gyu lay stretched out on his back, shirtless, hair messy against the pillow. You were on his chest, cheek pressed to his skin, the slow rise and fall of his breathing grounding you in ways it shouldn’t.

You hated how safe it felt.

He flicked a glance down at you, smirk tugging at his lips. “Bet Myun-gi’s blowing up your phone right now.”

Your stomach twisted, guilt crashing through you. You squeezed your eyes shut. “Can you not?”

“What?” he said lazily, his voice dipping into mockery. “Pretend he doesn’t exist? You’re the one who’s in my arms while he’s probably telling his friends how perfect his girlfriend is, thinking he owns you.”

You flinched, pressing your face deeper into his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Yours was not.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

He huffed a quiet laugh, exhaling sharp through his nose. “Relax. I’m not judging. It’s just ridiculous. He’s got the popularity, the smile, the perfect image—and here you are, cheating on him, with me.”

The words dug under your skin like glass. You didn’t answer, couldn’t. Your throat was too tight.

Nam-gyu’s hand shifted, brushing against your hair—too casual to be tender, too steady to be an accident. He tilted his head back against the pillow, eyes on the ceiling. “You like me more than you want to admit. That’s the real problem.”

You tensed, guilt and something sharper flooding you. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.” The silence that followed was unbearable. Every word of his stuck to you, heavy, inescapable. You wanted to argue, to push off him, to deny it—but your head stayed on his chest, your fingers still curled in the sheets around him.

Nam-gyu stubbed out the cigarette without looking, letting the smoke drift into nothing. “Keep lying to yourself if it makes you feel better,” he said finally, voice quiet but cutting. “But don’t lie to me. You’re here because you want to be. Not because I made you.”

Your chest ached, torn between the steady comfort of his heartbeat and the guilt clawing at your ribs. You hated him for saying it, and hated yourself more for knowing he was right.

Still, you didn’t move.

And Nam-gyu didn’t push you away.