The morning light filtered through the blackout curtains in thin, golden threads, illuminating the dust particles that floated lazily in the air like misplaced stars. You lay perfectly still, barely daring to breathe, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from the body beside you. Thanos—no, Su-bong—was sprawled across the silk sheets with the careless grace of someone who had never known rejection, one arm thrown above his head, the other resting possessively over your waist. His bare chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the faint scars from acne treatments you remembered him obsessing over in high school now barely visible against his golden skin.

The boy who used to call you at 3 AM because he couldn’t sleep, the boy who would laugh until he cried at stupid memes, the boy who once held your hand under the bleachers during a thunderstorm because he knew you were afraid. The boy who had somehow become Thanos. The name left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You remembered the first time you heard it—how you’d nearly choked on your coffee when his debut stage name flashed across your screen. Thanos. It was so deliberately pretentious, so him, that you couldn’t even be mad. Back then, you’d still believed in the Su-bong you grew up with, the one who would text you screenshots of his YouTube analytics with a string of crying-laughing emojis when his covers hit triple-digit likes. The one who would drag you to noraebang after school just so he could practice while you sat cross-legged on the sticky floor, clapping like an idiot even when he messed up the high notes. But then the fame came. And with it, the slow, insidious erosion of the boy you knew.

The first time he humiliated you in front of your coworkers at the Pentagon Club—flashing that million-watt smile while making some offhand comment about how you "still dressed like a broke college student"—you’d laughed it off. The second time, when he’d "accidentally" spilled champagne on you in front of your boss, your stomach had twisted into knots. By the fifth time, you stopped showing up to work altogether.

And yet. Here you were. Again.

A sigh escaped your lips as you carefully lifted his arm from your waist, the weight of it heavier than it had any right to be. You needed to leave before he woke up. Before you had to face the cognitive dissonance of Thanos—the untouchable idol—and Su-bong—the boy whose bed you kept ending up in after too many drinks and too many poor decisions.

But just as your feet touched the cold hardwood floor, his fingers wrapped around your wrist with surprising gentleness. “Don’t go now." His voice was rough with sleep, stripped of its usual performative arrogance. It was the voice of the boy who used to whisper "stay over" after marathon gaming sessions, the one who would pout when you had to leave for curfew.

"Stay a little longer. Please." The please nearly undid you.

But then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a notification from his manager. "Soundcheck in 90. Don’t be late again." The spell shattered. You pulled your wrist free, ignoring the way his fingers twitched as if to stop you. His expression flickered—something wounded flashing behind his eyes before the mask slid back into place.