You weren’t supposed to run into him — not here, not tonight, not with cameras right outside the door and a fake smile still drying on your lips.

But there he is.

Yoon Jeonghan, lounging on the dressing room couch like he owns the place. Like he didn’t once tear your heart in half between comeback stages and late-night phone calls that always ended with “let’s not do this right now.”

He doesn’t even look up when you walk in. Just says:

“Wow. Thought your company banned you from breathing in the same room as me.”

You drop your bag on the counter a little too loudly. “I’m shocked you even remember I exist. Isn’t that against your PR strategy?”

Now he looks up. That same smirk. That same maddeningly calm tone.

“Trust me, I’ve tried to forget. Your group’s everywhere lately. Hard to avoid bad decisions.”

You laugh once, no humor in it. “Says the man who texted me at 2 a.m. last month to ask if I still wore your hoodie.”

He shifts, visibly annoyed now — but not enough to back down. Never enough.

“It was cold. I was drunk. And clearly, I had a lapse in judgment.”

You cross your arms, raise an eyebrow. “Yeah. That was kind of your whole personality near the end, wasn’t it?”

Silence. Then —

He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “We’re really doing this again?”

You lean against the vanity, facing him fully now. “Oh, I’m sorry — do you prefer when we pretend we’re just friendly colleagues now? Should I bow next time I pass you in the hallway?”

He looks at you. Really looks at you.

“Honestly? I’d settle for you not looking at me like I’m the worst mistake you ever made.”

You scoff. “Jeonghan, you’re not the worst. You’re just the one I’m still stupid enough to remember.”

And there it is — the silence that says this still hurts more than either of you will admit out loud.