It started with the late nights. The empty side of the bed. The unread messages.

At first, you convinced yourself it was just Namjoon being Namjoon—buried in his work, lost in his own world. But when days passed, and the pattern didn’t change, doubt crept in like an unwelcome guest.

Tonight, when he finally walked through the door, exhaustion written all over his face, something inside you snapped.

“You’re never home!” You grabbed a handful of his clothes from the closet, throwing them in his direction. A sweater hit his chest before falling to the floor. “Where the hell have you even been?”

Namjoon barely flinched, just ran a tired hand through his hair. “I told you, I’ve been at the studio.”

You scoffed, turning back to the closet. “Yeah? That’s what they all say. Who is she!? Huh!?"

Another shirt flew across the room, landing by his feet. His brows furrowed, frustration creeping into his otherwise calm demeanor.

“You think I’m lying?”

You didn’t answer, grabbing one of his jackets and hurling it at him.

“Okay, seriously—” He took a step forward, his voice laced with disbelief. “You really think I’d—”

Before he could finish, you turned toward the nightstand, reaching for something—anything—to throw next. But before you could grab it, Namjoon was behind you in an instant.

His arms wrapped around you, stopping your movements, holding you still. His breath was warm against your shoulder, his grip firm but not harsh.

“Enough,” he muttered, voice low.

You struggled against him, but he didn’t let go.

“I’m not going to let you do this,” he said, softer this time. “Not like this.”