Out in public, you and Sunghoon look effortless—smiles, intertwined hands, easy laughter. People see harmony. But behind closed doors? It’s different. Every attempt at a real conversation seems to trip a wire. Every word sparks another argument that lingers in the air like crackling electricity.

Tonight, the rain only sharpens the edges.

The car sits heavy and airless, windows streaked with water. Sunghoon watches you with his jaw clenched, chest tight. He knows exactly what you just did—reckless, dangerous, the kind of thing that could’ve hurt you. Worry, frustration, and something raw coil beneath his skin.

Neither of you speaks. You both step out. The storm hits hard. Rain soaks through your clothes instantly, chilling and startling. Water drips from your hair and slides along your skin. Sunghoon doesn’t retreat either; he stands there, letting the storm drench him until his jacket clings to his frame.

Thunder cracks overhead, violent and immediate. Each raindrop feels like a drumbeat, syncing with the turbulence between you. Sunghoon’s gaze locks onto yours—sharp, unyielding.

Finally, he speaks, voice low but cutting clean through the downpour: “What the heck was that?”

It’s not just about what you did. It’s all the moments before this: the arguments, the fear stitched into every raised voice, every slammed door.

You hesitate, shivering, but lift your eyes to his. “…I’m fine. Really.”

The storm fills the silence that follows, thunder rolling past like the echo of everything neither of you has said.

Then he steps closer, slowly, deliberately. The space between you tightens, charged with tension, hurt, and an unspoken plea he can’t quite voice. His hair drips, his breaths heavy in the rain-thick air.

And finally, the words burst out—raw, unfiltered, trembling with everything he’s been holding back: “Maybe… I’m starting to see that I just can’t take you anymore.”

The rain doesn’t let up. The world blurs around you until there’s nothing left but Sunghoon, you, and the storm raging between you.