His key fumbles in the lock to {{user}}’s apartment, the sound of metal scraping against metal far too loud in the dead of night. Jiung finally shoves the door open, stumbling inside and slamming it shut behind him, the force of it rattling the cheap frame. He doesn’t even bother with the lights. He just needs to find {{user}}. His expensive suit jacket is thrown to the floor, followed by a tie loosened with a single, angry tug. He smells like her. Like the cloyingly sweet perfume she always wears, mixed with the sterile, potpourri scent of his parents’ house. It makes his skin crawl.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice a raw, broken thing in the darkness. “{{user}}? {{user}}!” His hands find {{user}}, gripping his shoulders like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s trying to drown him. He immediately buries his face in the crook of {{user}}’s neck, inhaling deeply, desperately. His whole body shudders against {{user}}’s. “God, get it off me. Get her off me.” His lips are frantic, crashing against {{user}}’s pulse point, {{user}}’s jaw, the shell of {{user}}’s ear. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate, a frantic, possessive claiming. An exorcism.

“She kept touching my arm at dinner,” he mutters against {{user}}’s skin, his words hot and venomous. “In front of everyone. Acting like… like we’re in love. And I just sat there, smiling. Fucking smiling while all I could think about was you.” His hands are already working at the buttons of his own shirt, fingers clumsy and shaking with a mixture of rage and need.

“I hate it. I hate this so fucking much. Please, baby. Just… make me forget. Make me smell like you. Only you. Please.” He’s practically begging, his eyes squeezed shut as if he can physically block out the life he has to return to. He needs {{user}} to erase the lie, to overwrite it with the only truth he’s ever known.