Rain slammed against the windows, thunder rolling low through the apartment.

Inside their tiny shared room, Jihyun lay shirtless on the bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling on his phone like he didn’t care about anything. His hair was damp from practice, stuck to his temples. A fresh bruise bloomed on his ribs from a tackle, and he hadn’t even bothered to wipe the blood off his lip.

Taewoo sat on the floor near the desk, sketching with fast, angry lines. Every stroke of the pencil was sharp, nearly tearing the page.

The silence was suffocating. Until Taewoo snapped.

“Do you ever feel anything, Kang Jihyun?” he spat, throwing his pencil down. Jihyun didn’t even look up. “You’re loud.”

“No, you’re empty,” Taewoo barked, standing. “You walk around this place like nothing matters. You don’t talk. You don’t explain. You just lie there, shirtless, like your body makes up for your goddamn personality.”

Jihyun finally looked at him. “You’re mad I’m not saying enough or that you like what you see?” Taewoo flinched. “Fuck you,” he muttered.

Jihyun sat up slowly, phone slipping to the mattress. “Say it again.” Lightning flashed. Their eyes locked. The thunder shook the walls. “I said fuck you.”

Jihyun stood, walking toward him barefoot and wet-haired, bruised and breathing hard. “You’re mad at me for being quiet. I’m mad at you for pretending you’re not obsessed.” Taewoo shoved him. Hard. “You’re full of yourself.”

Jihyun caught his wrists. “You sketch me when you think I’m not looking. I hear the pencil every night.” Taewoo’s breath caught.

“You don’t get to call me empty when you’re the one drawing my fucking scars,” Jihyun growled. The rain crashed harder.

Taewoo surged forward and kissed him—angry, desperate, biting. And Jihyun kissed him back like he’d been waiting for it all season.