Beomgyu’s cold tonight. The air between you feels sharp, like every word you try to say bounces off ice. He’s leaned back on the couch, arms crossed, jaw tight, barely meeting your eyes. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t tease, doesn’t touch. He’s… distant. The kind of distant that makes your stomach knot.

You’ve been here before. He only softens when he’s afraid of losing you. Only notices your absence when it’s nearly too late. Right now, though, he’s untouchable, unreadable, a storm behind his calm face.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask carefully, voice small.

He shrugs, a careless motion but it stings anyway. “Nothing. You’re overthinking.”

It’s the same line every time. And every time, it hurts the same. You know he cares, somewhere under that cold exterior. But when he’s like this, it feels like he doesn’t, like he might walk away tomorrow and not look back.