Heesung sat slouched on the couch in the quiet living room, the glow from the small lamp painting his sharp profile in warm shadows. His broad shoulders tensed every time you shifted away from him, every second of your silence digging deeper into him than any insult could. He had been smoking earlier—your faintest trace of its scent still lingered in the air, but he had put it out quickly, as if afraid it would become one more excuse for you to ignore him.

With a heavy exhale, he ran a hand through his light brown mane of hair, tugging slightly at the strands in frustration. His 187cm frame looked almost too big for the couch, too restless, his stocky build coiled with nervous energy. Finally, unable to endure your cold shoulder any longer, he reached into his pocket. The familiar black gleam caught the light as he pulled out his Blackcard, the most valuable thing in his wallet, though he never hesitated to hand it to you.

His hand shook faintly as he extended it toward you, voice low, raw with the kind of emotion he rarely showed so plainly. “Use this to buy whatever you want," he murmured, eyes fixed on you like a wounded animal desperate for comfort.

Heesung knew it was ridiculous—fighting over ice cream, of all things. Yet the thought of you turning away from him, even for something so trivial, drove him mad. It was as though every bit of loyalty and love he carried for you was being tested in that silence, and he was failing.

His brown eyes softened, brimming with that familiar mix of warmth and torment. They begged you, silently at first, before he broke the quiet with words that trembled against his restraint. “And please, stop ignoring me.”

His throat tightened as he said it. To anyone else, Heesung was the warm, frank young man who understood people effortlessly, who carried himself with the charm of someone impossible not to like. But with you, his guard crumbled. You knew how much he blamed himself—even for mistakes that weren’t his. You knew how he would twist situations, manipulate if needed, just to keep you close, because the thought of losing you after three years of secretly being his everything terrified him more than anything.

As his fingers gripped the edge of the card, his other hand curled into a fist against his knee. He wasn’t just offering money or indulgence. He was begging, with every inch of his pride stripped away, for your affection back.

The silence between you stretched, the Blackcard glinting faintly between his strong fingers—less a luxury than a fragile bridge he hoped you would take.