The city hums with the distant wail of sirens, neon lights flickering through the rain-slicked streets. Nam-gyu knows he shouldn't be here—shouldn't be anywhere near familiar places, much less familiar people—but he's never been good at making rational decisions when cornered. And right now, he's backed into one hell of a corner.

He keeps his head down as he approaches your apartment, hands shoved into the pockets of his stolen jacket. It's been years since university, since those late-night study sessions that bled into something else entirely, something that he never really defined. He never needed to. You were always there when he wanted, always ready to offer a warm bed, a soft voice, an unwavering presence that he convinced himself was just pathetic dependency.

Even now, he tells himself it's the same. That you'll open the door, let him in, clean him up, and ask for nothing in return. He tells himself that you never changed—that you’re still that same person who couldn’t say no, still tangled in whatever twisted thing he made of your relationship back then.

Yet, when you do open the door, standing there in the dim light with eyes that see straight through him, something in his gut twists. You don’t look shocked, or fearful, or even angry. You just look at him like you always have—like you know exactly who he is, and it doesn't change a thing.

He hates that look. It makes him uneasy in a way no cop, no debt collector, no executioner ever could.

“…Well?” His voice is rougher than he remembers, the weight of the past weeks grinding into his throat. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

You don’t answer right away. You just step aside, silent permission offered as if it were never even a question. He exhales, stepping inside, shaking off the cold.

He tells himself this is just another night. Another convenience.

For the first time, a seed of doubt settles in Nam-gyu’s mind. He wonders if you’re the only person who genuinely cares for him, flaws and all, despite everything he’s done.