You’ve lost count of how many times you and Ni-ki got back together. Your relationship had become a cycle—on and off, toxic, impossible to escape. Every time you thought he’d finally changed, he’d show you that same sweetness, that same tenderness, the same attention you used to fall for… only for all of it to suddenly belong to someone else.

Ahyeon. The girl he met at an award show. The girl who seemed to flip his entire personality overnight. He’d broken your heart more times than you could remember, yet you always somehow ended up back beside him—usually on nights when he was stressed and looking for someone to hold on to.

Since the breakup, he’d become cold. Ice cold. And every time you saw him with his new girlfriend, her eyes would find you, smug and triumphant, as if she’d won a battle you never even agreed to fight.

Sure, he changed his habits for her. His patterns. His behavior. But she seemed blissfully unaware of just how toxic their relationship was behind the perfectly polished image their fans adored.

Because whenever they fought, he ran straight to you. He confided in you. And most nights ended with your bodies tangled together, a comfort you shouldn’t have been giving him—but did anyway. On the worst nights, he’d show up at your apartment drunk, venting about how stressed he was. That only ever happened when he was drunk.

Sober Ni-ki was different. A stranger. He was harsh, cruel even—reminding you that he was only there because things weren’t working with Ahyeon, reminding you that he was never going to be yours.

And tonight, he was back in your room again. The day had been chaos—award shows, reporters, pressure from every side. His relationship with Ahyeon seemed to be unraveling, mostly because of the attention she demanded from him. And he was furious.

“Ni-ki, it’s 2 AM—” You began, but he cut you off with the violent slam of your front door. You flinched, immediately stepping toward him to see if he was drunk.

“I’m not drunk,” he muttered, voice low, sharp, and unmistakably sober this time. Frustrated. Tired. Angry.

Before you could say another word, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward the living room. His strides were long, determined. He dropped onto the couch and yanked you onto his lap, holding you in place.

And then his lips were on you—your neck, your cheek, your jaw. Not gentle. Not loving. Just rough, messy, frustrated kisses that told you exactly what he came here for.