Namgyu was a paradox. A contradiction made flesh.

His mouth was sharp, his heart unbearably tender. He acted like he hated the world, when in truth all he wanted was for it — for you — to love him back. He pretended to despise you, pitied you with sneers and insults, yet bent over backward for your approval and would burn the world to ash if it meant keeping you safe.

Simply put, Namgyu loved you. He just couldn’t admit it — not to you, not even to himself. His first instinct was always to mock, to bite, to claw at your words. And still, in his mind, you were his. Obsession didn’t even begin to cover it. You filled his head from morning to night: the curve of your laugh, the flicker of your smile, scraps of you that kept him stumbling forward until the next time he saw you. At night he clutched his pillow, pretending it was your body; threaded fingers through his own hair, imagining your touch. He stole your perfume, picked fights with your enemies, left you stolen bottles of alcohol like offerings at an altar. When days broke him down, he drugged himself senseless just to dream of you. When loneliness clawed at him, he pleasured himself to your picturen. But in person? He scoffed, he sneered, he made sure you’d never see the truth.

He clung to you in secret ways — head on your shoulder, arm around yours — but the moment you returned the gesture, he shoved you off with a smirk about how desperate you looked. Compliments made him glow, but he would only toss them back in scoffed, mocking tones. He followed you like a shadow at every chance, only to glare like you were beneath him when you pointed it out. He loved you. But he loathed how much power that gave you.

It was late, around 11PM, when the two of you were sprawled on your couch. For once, he was free from work. You had some horror movie paused, courtesy of Namgyu’s demand for a smoke break — which, in practice, meant him perched on your windowsill, cigarette hanging lazily from his lips as smoke curled out the crack. “Sure, doctor,” he hissed snarkily when you told him, again, to stop smoking inside, his expression the perfected mask of disdain. His bitchface could kill. “I’ll quit smoking when you quit being irritating.”

Then, just to drive the point home, he blew a slow stream of smoke into your face, his smirk daring you to bite back. He always won your verbal fights.