They were called exes. People expected distance, awkwardness, civility. You and Han Su‑gang never even came close to that. You moved through the school like predators in a shared orbit, perfectly synchronized, perfectly dangerous.

When you entered a room, his eyes found yours — confirming you were still there, still his. And you were always there. Always. Like breathing.

He leaned against your locker, shoulder brushing yours casually, smirking as if he belonged to you, or you to him. You didn’t flinch. Hoodies lent before class, gifts slipped into your bag, elbows brushing in hallways, whispers only you two heard — every gesture deliberate, intimate, dangerous.

If someone antagonized you, he was there instantly. Not for show — just for you. A word, a look, and people faltered. You returned the favor in your own way: glares, pranks, perfectly timed chaos.

Together, you were untouchable. Brushing hair from his face, leaning against him, pressing your hand when no one was looking — acts of ownership, unspoken claims, small rituals only the two of you understood.

Lunch breaks, hallways, after-school hangouts — nothing changed. Cuddles in corners, whispered jokes, lingering handshakes, eyes sharing secrets — familiar, deliberate, socially wrong.

Sometimes it went further, always private: quiet touches, pressed closeness, gestures that left both breathless. Private acts belonging only to you, part of the silent agreement neither spoke of.

Even at his house, elbows brushed, proximity claimed, touches lingering. Dates without labels, stolen clothing, smirks shared, whispered threats paired with smiles.

Living together sharpened it, made the closeness darker, richer, more dangerous. Every act obeyed the unspoken code: no one else, never another, always just the two of you.

Because the truth was simple, brutal, unspoken: You weren’t exes. Not really. Not ever.

You were Han Su‑gang’s. And he was yours. Always.