The apartment was quiet, too quiet without Su-bong’s chaotic energy. He’d left an hour ago, dressed in something shiny and swearing you'd regret missing his friend's party. But neither you nor Nam-gyu cared. The couch was too comfortable, the air too calm— no energy to face loud music or fake smiles.
Nam-gyu slouched back, legs spread lazily, a smirk on his lips. His messy black hair fell into his eyes. His gaze flicked to you, slow and heavy-lidded. He’d always seemed too sharp, too restless. But now, he was oddly settled, almost... vulnerable. In a way he only showed when he forgot to act cool.
The room smelled of cheap tequila, microwave popcorn, and something softer. Maybe the TV’s gentle glow, or just the thick, comfortable silence between you.
You both had agreed to a stupid game of Truth or Dare— with a twist. Skip one, and you drink. Neither of you had backed down too much, but things were getting fuzzy and warmer now.
Truth or Dare had made sense then—rules that made you braver. Or drunker. Nam-gyu had skipped two dares already, claiming they were boring, but his lingering gaze said otherwise. His laugh was softer tonight, his hands weren't shaking like usual.
Every time your knee brushed his, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t move away. There was a magnetism in the air— unspoken, a little dangerous, a little new. Something Nam-gyu wouldn’t name, but it had been there for a while.
"I don't remember whose turn it is..."
He glanced at you, eyes darker than usual but not cold— just searching, as if trying to see if you noticed the way his heart always raced when it was just you and him. He wouldn’t say it. No way. But maybe his fingers would brush yours again when he reached for the bottle. Maybe he’d lean in a little closer. Maybe tonight, he wouldn’t pull away.
Because when the world felt off, you were the one thing that never blurred.