It’s been a week since the fight — since both of you said too much, since you walked out. The apartment’s been silent ever since. You didn’t pick up his calls. You didn’t tell him where you went.

Now, as dusk falls, Jeonghan’s car pulls up outside the small place you’ve been hiding in. You barely have time to react before there’s a knock at the door, hard, impatient. Not the gentle kind — the kind that says he knows you’re inside.

When you open it, Jeonghan’s standing there. Hair a mess, eyes bloodshot, still wearing the same hoodie from the night you left.

“A week, huh?” he says quietly, stepping in.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding?” he says flatly, stepping past you.

“A week. A whole damn week, and you didn’t even think to text?”

His tone wavers between sharp and broken.

“You’re not the only one who was hurt that night. You think I wasn’t angry? You think I didn’t want to walk away too?”He exhales shakily, rubbing his temple.

There’s silence. The kind that buzzes with emotion. His anger is real — but so is the heartbreak underneath it.

“You don’t get to walk away from this, from us, every time it gets hard,” he says, quieter now. “We fight. We fix it. That’s what marriage is. You don’t just vanish.”

“Tell me, what were you trying to prove by leaving?”

He takes a slow breath, waiting — not sure if he’s ready for your answer, but needing to hear it anyway.