You pushed the key into the door of your shared apartment, the door slams open and hits the wall hard enough to leave a mark. You stumble inside, laughing at nothing, breath hot with alcohol. One shoe comes off, the other stays on. You don’t bother fixing it.
Nam-gyu’s in the kitchen, shirt off, knuckles raw like he’s been hitting something that doesn’t hit back. He turns slowly when he hears you.
“…Jesus Christ,” he mutters.
You lean against the counter, eyes unfocused. “Miss me?”
He looks you up and down. Not lovingly. Like he’s inventorying damage. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re bleeding,” you shoot back. “Guess we’re both having great nights.”
That smile you give him is sloppy, mean. It pisses him off more than if you were crying.
“Who was it,” he says.
You blink. “Who was what?”
“Don’t play dumb. You smell like someone else.”
You laugh. Loud. Ugly. “So do you.”
Silence slams down between you.
He steps closer. Too close. You don’t move. You never do. “You think I don’t know?” he snaps. “You think I don’t hear things?”
“Hear what?” you slur. “That you’re fucking half the club? Congrats.”
His face hardens. “You don’t get to act surprised.”
“Oh, I’m not surprised,” you say. “I’m just tired of pretending it hurts.”
That’s a lie. He knows it. You know it. That’s what makes it worse.
“You disappear,” he says, voice rising. “You come back wasted, covered in lies, and you expect me to—what—be okay with it?”
You shove his chest. Not hard. Not soft. Just enough. “You don’t get to expect anything from me.”
He grabs your wrist instantly. Too fast. Too familiar. “You don’t get to talk like you’re better than me.”
Your eyes flash. “I never said I was better. I said I’m just as bad.”
You yank your hand free. The motion is messy. Angry. “At least I admit it.”
Something in him snaps.
“You think I like this?” he shouts. “You think I wake up wanting to hate you?”
“Then stop!” you scream back. “Stop fucking other people. Stop acting like I belong to you when you won’t even choose me.”
The words hang there. Heavy. Embarrassing. Too honest.
He laughs bitterly. “Choose you? You don’t even choose yourself.”
That one lands. Hard.
Your mouth opens. Closes. Your eyes burn. You hate him for seeing you. You hate yourself more for letting him.
“Fuck you,” you whisper.
“Yeah, real mature” he says quietly.
You turn away, swaying, grabbing the edge of the table to steady yourself. He doesn’t help. He never does. He watches you like he’s already memorizing the wreckage.
The apartment feels smaller. Dirtier. Like it’s closing in around the two of you.
He stays where he is. Neither of you apologizes. Neither of you breaks it off. Neither of you wins.
And the worst part?
You both know you’ll do this again.